Author: Raymond E. Feist
Date: 1988-01-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Horror; Fiction; Urban Fantasy; Paranormal; Science Fiction Fantasy; Dark Fantasy; Fae; Fairies; Magic
Description: Phil Hastings was a lucky man -- he had money, a growing reputation as a screenwriter, a happy, loving family with three kids, and he'd just moved into the house of his dreams in rural upstate New York. Life was wonderful, full of magic -- and about to be altered irrevocably by a magic more real than any he dared imagine. For with the Magic came the Bad Thing, and the Faerie, and then the Fool. . .and the resurrection of a primordial war with a forgotten people -- a war that not only the Hastings but the whole human race could lose. “A contemporary novel of masterful horror replete with magic,
Publisher: Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Company Inc.

Faerie Tale
by Raymond E. Feist

Version 1.0

#bw release

December 1, 2001

PROLOGUE

MAY

Barney Doyle sat at his cluttered workbench, attempting
to fix Olaf Andersen's ancient power mower for the
fourth time in seven years. He had the cylinder head off
and was judging the propriety of pronouncing last rites
on the machine—he expected the good fathers over at St.

Catherine's wouldn't approve. The head was cracked—
which was why Olaf couldn't get it started—and the cyl-
inder walls were almost paper-thin from wear and a pre-
vious rebore. The best thing Andersen could do would be
to invest in one of those new Toro grass cutters, with all
the fancy bells and whistles, and put this old machine out
to rust. Barney knew Olaf would raise Cain about having
to buy a new one, but that was Olaf's lookout. Barney
also knew getting a dime out of Andersen for making
such a judgment would be close to a miracle. It would be
to the benefit of all parties concerned if Barney could
coax one last summer's labor from the nearly terminal
machine. Barney absently took a sharpener to the blades
while he pondered. He could take one more crack at it.

An oversized cylinder ring might do the trick—and he
could weld the small crack; he'd get back most of the
compression. But if he didn't pull it off, he'd lose both the
time and the money spent on parts. No, he decided at
last, better tell Andersen to make plans for a funeral.

A hot, damp gust of wind rattled the half-open win-
dow. Barney absently pulled the sticky shirt away from
his chest. Meggie McCorly, he thought absently, a smile
coming to his lined face. She had been a vision of beauty
in simple cotton, the taut fabric stretched across ripe,
swaying hips and ample breasts as she walked home from
school each day. For a moment he was struck by a rush
of memories so vivid he felt an echo of lust rising in his

old loins. Barney took out a handkerchief and wiped his
brow. He savored the spring scents, the hot muggy night
smells, so much like those that blew through the
orchards and across the fields of County Wexford. Barney
thought of the night he and Meggie had fled from the
dance, from the crowded, stuffy hall, slipping away unno-
ticed as the town celebrated Paddy O'Shea and Mary

McMannah's wedding. The sultry memories caused Bar-
ney to dab again at his forehead as a stirring visited his
groin. Chuckling to himself, Barney thought, There's
some life yet in this old boyo.

Barney stayed lost in memories of half-forgotten pas-
sions for long minutes, then discovered he was still run-
ning the sharpener over a blade on Andersen's mower
and had brought the edge to a silvery gleam. He set the
sharpener down, wondering what had come over him. He
hadn't thought of Meggie McCorly since he'd immi-
grated to America, back in '38. Last he'd heard, she'd
married one of the Cammack lads over in Enniscorthy.

He couldn't remember which one, and that made him
feel sad.

Barney caught a flicker of movement through the
small window of his work shed. He put down the sharp-
ener and went to peer out into the evening's fading light.

Not making out what it was that had caught his atten-
tion, Barney moved back toward his workbench. Just as
his field of vision left the window, he again glimpsed
something from the corner of his eye. Barney opened the
door to his work shed and took a single step outside.

Then he stopped.

Old images, half-remembered tales, and songs from his
boyhood rushed forward to overwhelm him as he slowly
stepped backward into his shed. Feelings of joy and terror
so beautiful they brought tears to his eyes flowed through

Barney, breaking past every rational barrier. The imple-
ments of society left for his ministrations, broken toast-
ers, the mower, the blender with the burned-out motor,
his little television for the baseball games, all were van-
quished in an instant as a heritage so ancient it predated
man's society appeared just outside Barney's shed. Not

taking his eyes from what he beheld beyond the door, he
retreated slowly, half stumbling, until his back was
against the workbench. Reaching up and back, Barney
pulled a dusty bottle off the shelf. Twenty-two years be-
fore, when he had taken the pledge, Barney had placed
the bottle of Jameson's whiskey atop the shelf as a re-
minder and a challenge. In twenty-two years he had
come to ignore the presence of the bottle, had come to
shut out its siren call, until it had become simply another
feature of the little shed where he worked.

Slowly he pulled the cork, breaking the brittle paper of
the old federal tax stamp. Without moving his head,
without taking his gaze from the door, Barney lifted the
bottle to the side of his mouth and began to drink.

ERL KING

HILL

JUNE

1

"Stop it, you two!"

Gloria Hastings stood with hands on hips, delivering
the Look. Sean and Patrick stopped their bickering over
who was entitled to the baseball bat. Their large blue eyes
regarded their mother for a moment before, as one, they
judged it close to the point of no return where her pa-
tience was concerned. They reached an accord with their
peculiar, silent communication. Sean conceded custody
of the bat to Patrick and led the escape outside.

"Don't wander too far off!" Gloria shouted after them.

She listened to the sounds of eight-year-olds dashing
down the ancient front steps and for a moment consid-
ered the almost preternatural bond between her boys.

The old stories of twins and their empathic link had
seemed folktales to her before giving birth, but now she
conceded that there was something there out of the ordi-
nary, a closeness beyond what was expected of siblings.

Putting aside her musing, she looked at the mess the
movers had left and considered, not for the first time, the
wisdom of all this. She wandered aimlessly among the
opened crates of personal belongings and felt nearly over-
whelmed by the simple demands of sorting out the hun-
dreds of small things they had brought with them from

California. Just deciding where each item should go
seemed a Sisyphean task.

She glanced around the room, as if expecting it to have
somehow changed since her last inspection. Deep-grained
hardwood floors, freshly polished—which would need
polishing again as soon as the crates and boxes were
hauled outside—hinted at a style of living alien to Gloria.

She regarded the huge fireplace with its ancient hand-
carved facade as something from another planet, a stark

contrast to the rough brick and stone ranch-house-style
hearths of her California childhood. The stairs in the
hallway, with their polished maple banisters, and the slid-
ing doors to the den and dining room were relics of an-
other era, conjuring up images of William Powell as Clar-
ence Day or Clifton Webb in Cheaper by the Dozen. This
house called for—no, demanded, she amended—high
starched collars in an age of designer jeans. Gloria ab-
sently brushed back an errant strand of blond hair at-
tempting an escape from under the red kerchief tied
about her head, and fought back a nearly overwhelming
homesickness. Casting about for a place to start in the
seemingly endless mess, she threw her hands up in resig-
nation. "This is not what Oscar winners are supposed to
be doing! Phil!"

When no answer was forthcoming, she left the large
living room and shouted her husband's name up the
stairs. Again no reply. She walked back along the narrow
hallway to the kitchen and pushed open the swinging
door. The old house presented its kitchen to the east,
with hinged windows over the sink and drainboard ad-
mitting the morning light. It would be hot in the morn-
ings, come July, but it would be a pleasant place to sit in
the evenings, with the windows and large door to the
screened-in back porch left open, admitting the evening
breeze. At least, she hoped so. Southern California days
might be blast-furnace-hot at times, but it was dry heat
and the evenings were impossibly beautiful. God, she
wished to herself, what I'd give for an honest patio, and
about half this humidity. Fighting off a sudden bout of
regret over the move, she pulled her sticky blouse away
from herself and let some air cool her while she hollered
for her husband again.

An answering scrabbling sound under the table made
her jump, and she turned and uttered her favorite oath,

"Goddamnitall!" Beneath the kitchen table crouched Bad

Luck, the family's black Labrador retriever, a guilty ex-
pression on his visage as he hunkered down before a ten-
pound bag of Ken-L-Ration he had plundered. Crunchy

kernels rolled around the floor. "You!" she commanded.

"Out!"

Bad Luck knew the rules of the game as well as the
boys and at once bolted from under the table. He skidded
about the floor looking for a way out, suddenly con-
founded by discovering himself in new territory. Having
arrived only the day before, he hadn't yet learned the
local escape routes. He turned first one way, then an-
other, his tail half wagging, half lowered between his legs,
until Gloria held open the swinging door to the hallway.

Bad Luck bolted down the hall toward the front door.

She followed and opened it for him, and as he dashed
outside, she shouted, "Go find the boys!"

Turning, she spied the family's large, smoky tomcat
preening himself on the stairs. Philip had named the cat

Hemingway, but everyone else called him Ernie. Feeling
set upon, Gloria reached over, picked him up, and depos-
ited him outside. "You too!" she snapped, slamming the
door behind him.

Ernie was a scarred veteran of such family eruptions
and took it all with an unassailable dignity attained only
by British ambassadors, Episcopal bishops, and tomcats.

He glanced about the porch, decided upon a sunny patch,
turned about twice, and settled down for a nap.

Gloria returned to the kitchen, calling for her hus-
band. Ignoring Bad Luck's mess for the moment, she left
the kitchen and walked past the service porch. She cast a
suspicious sidelong glance at the ancient washer and
dryer. She had already decided a visit to the mall was in
order, for she knew with dread certainty those machines
were just waiting to devour any clothing she might be
foolish enough to place inside. New machines would take
only a few days to deliver, she hoped. She paused a mo-
ment as she regarded the faded, torn sofa that occupied
the large back porch, and silently added some appropri-
ate porch furniture to her Sears list.

Opening the screen door, she left the porch and
walked down the steps to the "backyard," a large bare
patch of earth defined by the house, a stand of old apple
trees off to the left, the dilapidated garage to the right,

and the equally run-down barn a good fifty yards away.

Over near the barn she caught sight of her husband,
speaking to his daughter. He still looked like an Ivy

League professor, she thought, with his greying hair re-
ceding upward slowly, his brown eyes intense. But he had
a smile to melt your heart, one that made him look like a
little boy. Then Gloria noticed that her stepdaughter,

Gabrielle, was in the midst of a rare but intense pout, and
debated turning around and leaving them alone. She
knew that Phil had just informed Gabbie she couldn't
have her horse for the summer.

Gabbie stood with arms crossed tight against her
chest, weight shifted to her left leg, a pose typical of teen-
age girls that Gloria and other actresses over twenty-five
had to dislocate joints to imitate. For a moment Gloria
was caught in open admiration of her stepdaughter.

When Gloria and Phil had married, his career was in
high gear, and Gabbie had been with her maternal grand-
mother, attending a private school in Arizona, seeing her
father and his new wife only at Christmas, at Easter, and
for two weeks in the summer. Since her grandmother had
died, Gabbie had come to live with them. Gloria liked

Gabbie, but they had never been able to communicate
easily, and these days Gloria saw a beautiful young
woman taking the place of a moody young girl. Gloria
felt an unexpected stab of guilt and worry that she and

Gabbie might never get closer. She put aside her momen-
tary uneasiness and approached them.

Phil said, "Look, honey, it will only take a week or
two more, then the barn will be fixed and we can see
about leasing some horses. Then you and the boys can go
riding whenever you want."

Gabbie tossed her long dark hair, and her brown eyes
narrowed. Gloria was struck by Gabbie's resemblance to
her mother, Corinne. "I still don't see why we can't ship

Bumper out from home, Father." She said "Father" in
that polysyllabic way young girls have of communicating
hopelessness over ever being understood. "You let the
boys bring that retarded dog and you brought Ernie.

Look, if it's the money, I'll pay for it. Why do we have to

rent some stupid farmer's horses when Bumper's back in

California with no one to ride him?"

Gloria decided to take a hand and entered the conver-
sation as she closed on them. "You know it's not money.

Ned Barlow called and said he had a jumper panic
aboard a flight last week, and they had to put him down
before he could endanger the crew and riders, and he
almost lost a second horse as well. The insurance com-
pany's shut him down until he resolves that mess. And
it's a week into June and Ned also said it would be four
or five weeks before he could get a reliable driver and
good trailer to bring Bumper here, then nearly a week to
move him, with all the stops he'd have to make. By the
time he got here, it would be almost time for you to head
back to UCLA. You'd have to ship him right back so
he'd be there to ride when you're at school. Want me to
go on? Look, Gabbie, Ned'll see Bump's worked and
cared for. He'll be fine and ready for you when you get
back."

"Oooh," answered Gabbie, a raw sound of pure aggra-
vation, "I don't know why you had to drag me out here
to this farm! I could have spent the summer with Ducky

Summers. Her parents said it was all right."

"Stop whining," Phil snapped, his expression showing
at once he regretted his tone. Like her mother, Gabbie
instinctively knew how to nettle him with hardly an ef-
fort. The difference was that Gabbie rarely did, while

Corinne had with regularity. "Look, honey, I'm sorry.

But I don't like Ducky and her fancy friends. They're
kids with too much money and time on their hands, and
not an ounce of common sense in the whole lot. And

Ducky's mom and dad are off somewhere in Europe." He
cast a knowing glance at his wife. "I doubt they have a
hint who's sleeping at their house these days."

"Look, I know Ducky's an airhead and has a new
boyfriend every twenty minutes, but I can take care of
myself."

"I know you can, hon," answered Phil, "but until
you've graduated, you'll have to put up with a father's
prerogatives." He reached out and touched her cheek.

"All too soon some young guy's going to steal you away,

Gabbie. We've never had a lot of time together. I thought
we could make it a family summer."

Gabbie sighed in resignation and allowed her father a
slight hug, but it was clear she wasn't pleased. Gloria
decided to change the subject. "I could use a hand, you
guys. The moving elves are out on strike and those boxes
aren't going to unload themselves."

Phil smiled at his wife and nodded as Gabbie gave out
a beleaguered sound and plodded toward the house.

When she was up the steps to the porch, Phil said, "I'm
probably selling her short, but I had visions of having to
fly back to bail her out of jail on a drug bust."

"Or to arrange for her first abortion?" queried Gloria.

"That too, I suppose. I mean, she's old enough."

Gloria shrugged. "For several years, sport. I hadn't
when I was her age, but I was raised with the fear of God
put in me by the nuns at St. Genevieve's."

"Well, I just hope she has some sense about it. I expect
it's too late for a father-daughter talk."

"From the way she fills her jeans, I'd say it was about
six or seven years too late. Besides, it's none of our busi-
ness, unless she asks for advice."

Phil laughed, a not altogether comfortable sound.

"Yes, I'd guess so."

"Sympathies, old son. Instant parent of teenager was
tough. But you've done a good job the last two years."

"It's no easier for you," he countered.

She grinned up at him. "Bets? I'm not her mother, and

I remember what it was to be a teenage girl. Look, Gab-
bie's not going to be the only one around here throwing
temper tantrums if I don't get some help with those
boxes. After combative twins, that clown in a dog suit,
and a smug alley cat, it comes down to you, me, and Miss

Equestrian of Encino."

Phil's face clouded over a little. His dark brown eyes
showed a flicker of concern as he said, "Having second
thoughts about the move?"

Gloria hesitated, wondering if she should share her
doubts with Phil. She decided the homesickness would

pass once they settled in and made new friends, so she
said, "No, not really. Just about unpacking." She
changed the subject. "I had a call from Tommy about an
hour ago."

"And what does Superagent allow? Another movie of-
fer?" he asked jokingly.

"No." She poked him in the ribs. Tommy Raymond
had been her agent when Gloria worked off-Broadway
and in Hollywood. She had quit acting when she and Phil
married, but over the years Tommy had stayed in touch,
and she counted him among her few close friends in the
business. "He called to say Janet White is opening a play
on Broadway in the fall. They're reviving Long Day's

Journey."

"Getting the itch again?"

She smiled. "Not since the last play I was in bombed
in Hartford." Phil laughed. She had never caught on in

New York or Hollywood, where she and Phil had met.

Phil had taken to calling her "the Oscar winner," and it
had become a family joke. She didn't regret her choice, as
she had little desire for fame, but she did occasionally
miss the theater, the challenge of the work and the cama-
raderie of other actors. "Anyway, we're invited to the
opening."

"Rented tux and all, I suppose."

She laughed. "I suppose. Assuming Janet can survive
the out-of-town run." Tugging on her husband's arm, she
said, "Come along, handsome. Give me a hand, and once
we get things under control, you can run out to McDon-
ald's or the Colonel's for dinner, and when the kids are in
bed, I'll scrub your back, then show you a few things I
didn't learn from the good sisters of St. Genevieve's."

Kissing her cheek, Phil said, "Just as I suspected.

Scratch a good Irish-Catholic schoolgirl and underneath
you'll find a dirty old woman."

"Complaints?"

"Never," he said as he kissed her on the neck. Giving
him a hug, Gloria put her arm through his and they
walked toward the old house that was their new home.

2

Sean and Patrick marched along the little stream, wend-
ing their way among the rocks as they followed the tiny
rivulets of water. The gully deepened and Sean, the more
cautious of the two, said, "We'd better go up there." He
pointed to where the bank began to rise on the right.

Just then Bad Luck came galloping down the creek
bed, red tongue lolling and tail wagging a furious greet-
ing. He circled around the boys, then began sniffing at the
ground.

"Why?" asked Patrick, contemptuous of anything re-
sembling caution.

" 'Cause we could get caught down there," Sean an-
swered, pointing to where the gully dropped rapidly into
a dell, his voice sounding thin and frail over the water's
merry gurgle. "Besides, Mom said not to go too far."

"That's dumb; she always says stuff like that," was

Patrick's answer as he tugged on Bad Luck's ear and set
off to follow the water. His catcher's mitt hung by a
thong from his belt and his Angels cap sat upon his head
at an aggressive angle. He carried his Louisville Slugger
over his shoulder as a soldier carries his rifle. Sean hesi-
tated a moment, then set out after his brother, struggling
to keep his beat-up old Padres cap on his head. Twins
they might be, but Sean just didn't seem to have Patrick's
natural confidence, and his timidity seemed to rob him of
grace, causing him to slip often on the loose gravel and
rocks.

Sean stumbled and landed hard on his rear. He pulled
himself upright, all his anger at the tumble directed at his
brother. He dusted himself off and began to negotiate the
steep drop of the gully. He half scrambled, half slid down
the incline, his baseball glove and ball held tightly in his
left hand. Reaching the bottom, he could see no sign of

Patrick. The gully made a sharp bend, vanishing off to
the right. "Patrick?" Sean yelled.

"Over here," came the reply. Sean hurried along,
rounding the bend to halt next to his brother.

In one of those moments the boys shared, they com-
municated without words. Silently they voiced agree-
ment, This is a scary place.

Before them squatted an ancient grey stone bridge,
spanning the gully so a trail barely more than a path
could continue uninterrupted as it rambled through the
woods. The very stones seemed beaten and battered as if
they had resisted being placed in this arrangement and
had yielded only to brutish force. Each stone was covered
in some sort of black-green moss, evidence of the pres-
ence of some evil so pernicious it infected the very rocks
around it with foul ooze. Overgrown with brush on both
sides above the high-water line on the banks, the opening
under the bridge yawned at the boys like a deep, black
maw. Nothing could be seen in the darkness under the
span except the smaller circle of light on the other side. It
was as if illumination stopped on one side of the bridge
and began again only after having passed beyond its
boundaries.

The boys knew the darkness was a lair. Something
waited in the gloom under the bridge. Something evil.

Bad Luck tensed and began to growl, his hackles com-
ing up. Patrick reached down and grabbed his collar as
he was about to charge under the bridge. "No!" he
shouted as the dog pulled him along, and Bad Luck
stopped, though he whined to be let loose.

"We better get back," said Sean. "It'll be dinner soon."

"Yeah, dinner," agreed Patrick, finding it difficult to
drag his eyes from the blackness under the bridge. Step
by step they backed away, Bad Luck reluctantly obeying

Patrick's command to come with them, whining with his
tail between his legs, then barking.

"Hey!" came a shout from behind, and both boys
jumped at the sound, their chests constricting with fright.

Patrick hung on to Bad Luck's collar and the Labrador

snarled and spun around to protect the boys, pulling Pat-
rick off balance.

Patrick stumbled forward and Sean fell upon the dog's
neck, helping to hold him back from attacking the man
who had come up behind them.

The man held out his hands to show he meant no
harm. Bad Luck struggled to be free. "Stop it," shouted

Sean and the dog backed away, growling at the stranger.

Both boys looked the man over. He was young,
though not recognized as such by the boys, for anyone
over the age of eighteen was a grown-up.

The stranger examined the two boys. Both had curly
brown hair protruding from under baseball caps, deep-set
large blue eyes, and round faces. Had they been girls,
they would have been considered pretty. When older,
they would likely be counted handsome. The stranger
smiled, and said, "Sorry to have scared you boys and
your dog. It's my own damn fault. I shouldn't have
shouted. I should've known the dog'd be jumpy." He
spoke with a soft, musical voice, different from what the
boys were used to hearing.

Seeing no immediate threat to the boys, Bad Luck
stopped his growling and reserved judgment on this
stranger. The boys exchanged glances.

"Look, I'm sorry I startled you guys, okay?"

The boys nodded as one. Patrick said, "What did you
mean about Bad Luck being jumpy, mister?"

The man laughed, and the boys relaxed. "Bad Luck,
huh?"

Hearing his name, the dog gave a tentative wag of his
tail. The man slowly reached out and let the Labrador
sniff his hand, then patted him on the head. After a mo-
ment the tail wagging became emphatic. "Going to be
friends, right, boy?" said the man. Leaning forward, with
hands on knees, he said, "Who are you guys? I didn't
know there were any big leaguers around here."

Sean grinned at the reference to their caps and equip-
ment. "We just moved here from California. We live on a
farm."

"Philip Hastings your father?" Both brothers nodded.

"I heard he'd be moving in at the Old Kessler Place. I
didn't know he was here already. Well, I guess I'd better
introduce myself. I'm Jack Cole." He held out his hand,
not in the manner of a grown-up making fun of kids but
as if they were just like anyone else he'd met. The boys
said their names in turn, shook hands, and silently
judged Jack Cole an acceptable human being, even if he
was old.

"What'd you mean about Bad Luck being jumpy?"

Patrick repeated.

"There's this bull raccoon that's been hanging around
this part of the woods for the last month, and likely as
not that's what your dog smelled under the bridge. If so,
it's a good thing he didn't get loose. That coon has torn
up most of the cats and half the dogs in the area."

The boys looked unconvinced. Jack Cole laughed.

"Look, take my word for it. This isn't some little critter
from a cartoon show. This coon is almost as big as your
hound and he's old, tough, and mean. And this is his
turf, clear?"

The boys exchanged glances and nodded. Jack faced
back up the gully. "This isn't a good place to play, any-
way. We get some pretty sudden showers in the hills near
the lake, and if we get a big one, this gully could flood
pretty fast. I mean, it can hit you without warning. I'd
stay clear of this creek in future, okay?" They nodded.

"Come on, I'll walk back to your house with you. Must
be close to your dinnertime. Besides, I'd like to meet your
dad."

The boys tugged at Bad Luck's collar and began to
hike back up the gully. As they rounded the corner, Sean
cast a backward look toward the bridge and for an in-
stant felt as if he was being watched by someone ... or
something . . . deep within the gloom beneath the
rocky arch.

3

Gloria regarded the grotesque carvings cut into the roof
lintel over the front porch and shook her head in dismay.

She gazed at the odd-looking creatures who squatted be-
low the eaves of the roof and muttered, "Just what every
girl dreams of, living in Notre Dame." Upon first seeing
the house, she had inquired into her husband's mental
health, only partially joking. It was all the good things he
saw, sturdy turn-of-the-century construction, hardwoods
used throughout, and every joint dovetailed and pegged,
with nails only an afterthought. It was made of materials
a modern builder could only dream of: ash, oak, and
spruce now rock-hard with age, marble and slate, teak
floors, and copper wires and pipes throughout. But Phil
couldn't see that it was also a living exercise in graceless-
ness, a testimony to Herman Kessler's father's knowing
what he liked without the benefit of taste. The first Kess-
ler had built an architectural hodgepodge. A gazebo,
stripped from some antebellum plantation and shipped
north to this gentleman's farm, sat off to the left of the
house, under the sightless gaze of Gothic windows. Re-
gency furniture clashed headlong with Colonial, while a
stuffed tiger's head hung upon the wall of what was going
to be Phil's study, looking balefully down upon the ugli-
est Persian rug Gloria had ever seen. All in all, Gloria
decided it would be a good year's work fixing up Old

Man Kessler's place.

She entered the house and moved quickly toward the
back door, expecting to have to shout for the boys for ten
minutes before they'd put in an appearance. But just as
she was about to open the screen door Patrick's voice cut
through the late afternoon air. "Maaa!"

She pushed open the door, a half-smile on her lips as
she watched her twins approach from the woods behind
the house. Bad Luck loped alongside the boys and a

young man walked behind. He was dressed in jeans and a
flannel shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, and practical-
looking boots.

When the boys were within shouting distance, Patrick
yelled, "This is Jack, Mom. What's for dinner?"

Gloria glanced at her watch and realized it was getting
on toward five. "Hamburgers or chicken. Whatever your
father brings back from town. Hello, Jack."

"Hello, Mrs. Hastings," answered the young man with
a grin and a decidedly southern lilt to his voice.

"How did you manage to cross paths with Heckle and

Jeckle here?"

"I noticed the boys were wandering down a gully.

Spring floods can come quickly if you don't know the
signs." Seeing a tightening around Gloria's eyes, he
quickly added, "Nothing to fret about, Mrs. Hastings.

There's been no rain in the hills for a couple of weeks, so
there's no chance of a flash flood. But it's not a good
place for the boys to play. Thought I'd mention it to
them." Gloria fixed a disapproving eye upon her boys,
who decided it was time to vanish into the house in a
clatter of sneaker-clad feet on the porch steps, punc-
tuated by a slamming screen door.

Looking briefly heavenward, Gloria turned her atten-
tion to Jack. "Thanks, Mr. . . ."

"Cole, Jack Cole. And it's no trouble, ma'am. I hope
you don't mind my being in your woods?"

"My woods?" asked Gloria.

"Your family's, I mean. Your property line runs back a
half mile beyond the creek bridge."

"A half mile. We own property for a half mile from
the house?"

"More than that. The bridge is almost a quarter mile
from here, ma'am."

"Gloria."

For a moment he looked embarrassed, then he said,

"Excuse my discomfort, ma'am, but I haven't met a lot
of actresses."

Gloria laughed. "God! What are you? A fan, out here
in the wilderness, after all these years?"

"Well, I've never seen you onstage, ma'am, but I've
read about your husband, and they mentioned your ca-
reer in passing."

"Fame, so fleeting," Gloria said with mock sorrow.

"Anyway, just the fact you knew of my humble career
calls for a drink, assuming the refrigerator is still working
and you'd like a beer?"

"With deep appreciation," he answered with a smile.

"I'd been hoping to meet you and your husband."

"Then come inside and I'll scare up a beer for you.

Phil should be back with the food shortly."

Leading the young man into the kitchen, Gloria pulled
the kerchief from her head, letting her ash-blond hair fall
freely. Suddenly she was aware of a desire to primp, feel-
ing both amused and alarmed by it. She hadn't been in
front of the cameras since before the twins were born,
and had lost a lot of the automatic checking of appear-
ance that was almost second nature to young actresses
in the film jungles. Now this young man, little older
than Gabbie from his appearance, made her wish for a
mirror and a washcloth. Feeling suddenly silly, she told
herself she wasn't going to apologize for her appearance.

Still, he was handsome in a way Gloria liked: unselfcon-
scious, dark good looks, athletic but not overly muscular.

Gloria smiled inwardly in anticipation of Gabbie's reac-
tion to the young man. He really was cute. Turning to-
ward Jack, she said, "We're still uncrating around here."

Jack looked concerned. "I'm sorry if this is an inop-
portune time, ma'am. I can visit another day."

She shook her head as she opened the refrigerator.

"No, I just mean pardon the mess." She handed him a
beer. "And it's 'Gloria,' not 'ma'am.' "

Jack's eyebrows went up as he regarded the white bot-
tle. "Royal Holland Brand," he said approvingly.

"Phil is that rarest of all birds, a well-paid writer. He
buys it by the case."

Jack sipped the beer and made an expression of satis-
faction. "I can imagine, considering the success of his
films. Still, I've often wondered why he hasn't written
another book."

"You've read one of Phil's books?" Gloria asked, sud-
denly interested in the young man.

"All of them. And all the short stories he's published.

They should be put in an anthology."

"You've read all three of Phil's books," she said, sit-
ting down.

"Four," Jack corrected. "He wrote that romance pa-
perback under the name Abigail Cook."

"God! You've done your homework."

Jack smiled, a boyish grin on a man's face. "That's
exactly what it is, homework. I'm a graduate student up
at Fredonia State—"

Conversation was interrupted by an explosion through
the door in the form of the twins and Bad Luck. "Dad's
here!" yelled Patrick, with Sean echoing his cry.

"Hold it down to a dull roar, kids," commanded Glo-
ria. As expected, she was ignored. The unpacking was a
constant pain for Gloria, but the boys thought food from
the local fast-food emporiums two nights running a treat.

Phil came through the hall door carrying two barrels
of the Colonel's best. Setting them down, he kissed Glo-
ria on the cheek and said, "Hello! What is this? Cheating
on me already?"

Gloria ignored the remark. "Phil, this is Jack Cole, a
neighbor. He's a fan of yours."

Phil extended his hand and they shook. "Not many
people pay attention to who writes a movie, Jack."

"He's read your books, Phil. All of them."

Phil looked flattered and said, "Well then, Jack, there
are fewer people still who've read my . . . Did Gloria
say all of them?"

Jack grinned. "Even Winds of Dark Passion by Abigail

Cook."

"Well, I'll be go to hell. Look, why don't you join us
for supper. We've both original and extra crispy, and
there's another bottle of beer where that one came from."

Jack appeared about to beg off when Gabbie entered
the kitchen carrying paper bags filled with rolls, potatoes,
and other accompaniments for the chicken. She was on
the verge of some comment when she caught sight of

Jack. For a brief moment the two young people stood
facing each other in an obviously appraising fashion, and
equally obviously both approving of what they saw.

Jack's face slowly relaxed into his biggest smile so far as

Gloria said, "Jack Cole, this is Gabrielle."

Jack and Gabbie exchanged nods, while Phil ordered
the twins to wash up. Gloria fought off the urge to giggle.

Gabbie absently touched her collar, her cheek, and a
strand of dark hair, and Gloria knew she was dying for a
mirror, comb, and clean blouse. And Jack seemed sud-
denly unable to sit comfortably. Gloria glanced from

Jack to Gabbie and said, "Right, one more for dinner."

4

Dinner was relaxed. Phil and Gloria, Jack and Gabbie sat
around the kitchen table while the twins ate sitting on a
crate before the television in the parlor. Jack had spoken
little, for his questions had coaxed Phil into explaining
the family's move from California.

"So then," said Phil, "with Star Pirates and Star Pi-
rates II being such tremendous hits, and with me getting
an honest piece of the box office, as well as a creator's
royalty on Pirates III, IV, and however many more they
can grind out, I have what I like to call 'go to hell'

money."

" 'Go to hell money'?" asked Jack.

Gabbie said, "Dad means that he got enough money
to tell every producer in Hollywood to go to hell." Gab-
bie had managed to find a mirror, comb, washcloth, and
clean blouse and had barely taken her eyes off Jack
throughout the evening.

"That's it. Now I can go back to what I did first, and
best: write novels."

Jack Cole finished eating and sat back from the table.

"You'll get no arguments from me. Still, most of your
films were pretty good. The Pirates films had darn good

writing compared to most others in the genre; I liked that
sly humor a lot—made those characters seem real. And
the plots made sense—well, sort of."

"Thank you, but even so, film's more of a director's
medium. Even with an editor's input, a book's a single
person's product. And it's been too many years since I've
been able to write without story editors, directors, pro-
ducers, other writers, even actors, all screaming for
changes in the script. In films the writing's done by com-
mittee. You've never lived until you've been through a
story conference." There was a half-serious, half-mocking
tone to his voice. "Torquemada would have loved them.

Some idiot from a multinational conglomerate who needs
to have every line of Dick and Jane explained to him is
telling you how to rewrite scenes, so the chairman of the
board's wife won't be offended. Or some agent is demand-
ing changes in a beautifully thought out script because
the character's actions might be bad for the star's image.

There are agents who would have demanded a rewrite of

Shakespeare—have Othello divorce Desdemona because
his client's fans wouldn't accept him as a wife murderer.

Or the studio wants a little more skin showing on the
actress so they can get a PG-13 rather than a G, 'cause
they think teenagers won't go to a G. It's a regular Alice

Through the Looking Glass out there."

"Is it really that bad?" Jack asked.

Gabbie rose and began gathering up the paper plates
and napkins. "If the volume of Dad's yelling is any indi-
cation, it's that bad."

Phil looked wounded. "I don't yell."

Gloria said, "Yes you do. Several times I thought
you'd smash the phone slamming it down after speaking
to someone at the studio." She turned to Jack. "You've
been doing most of the listening, Jack. We haven't given
you a chance to tell us anything about yourself."

Jack grinned as Gabbie replaced his empty bottle of
beer with a fresh one, indicating he should stay a little
longer. "Not too much to tell, really. I'm just a good old
boy from Durham, North Carolina, who got a B.A. in

English from UNC and wandered up north to study at

SUNY Fredonia. I had my choice of a couple of different
grad programs, including a tempting one in San Diego,
but I wanted Agatha Grant as an adviser, so I pulled
some strings and got her, and here I am."

Phil's eyes widened. "Aggie Grant! She's an old family
friend! She was also my adviser when I got my M.A. in
modern lit. at Cornell. She's at Fredonia?"

"Emeritus. She retired last year. That's what I meant
by pulling strings. I'm her last grad student. I'm after a
doctorate in literature. In a few more months I'll be tak-
ing orals to see if I get to continue, and an M.A. in pass-
ing. I'm doing my work on novelists who became film
writers, on how work in films affects a writer's work in
print. I'm looking at writers who did both, like Fitzger-
ald, Runyon, William Goldman, Faulkner, and Clavell.

And of course yourself. Though mostly I'm working on

Fitzgerald. When I figure out the thrust of my disserta-
tion, I'll probably concentrate on him."

Phil smiled. "You put me in some fine company,

Jack."

"It's all pretty technical and probably pretty boring."

He looked embarrassed. "When the local papers printed
the word you'd bought this place, I thought I might im-
pose and get an interview with you."

Phil said, "Well, I'll help if I can. But I don't have
much in common with Fitzgerald. I don't drink as much;

I'm not having an affair with another writer; and my
wife's not crazy . . . most of the time."

"Thanks," said Gloria, dryly.

"I was going to call Aggie, and take a weekend and
drive up to Ithaca. I had no idea she'd moved. First
chance I have, I'll get up to Fredonia and see her. God,
it's been years."

"Actually, you don't have to go to Fredonia. She lives
on the other side of the woods now, right at the edge of

Pittsville. That's part of the deal. I double as something
of a groundskeeper, general factotum, and occasional
cook, though she prefers to putter in the kitchen most of
the time. She only runs up to the university when she has

to, commencements, a colloquium, guest lecture, the oc-
casional alumni function, that sort of thing."

"Tell Aggie I'll be over in the next day or two."

"She's at NYU for the next two weeks. She's editing a
collection of papers for a symposium in Brussels. But she
should be back right after. She wouldn't miss the Fourth
of July celebration in Pittsville."

"Well then, as soon as she returns, have her give us a
call."

"She'll be glad to know you're back home. She'll whip
up something special for the occasion, I expect." Jack
finished his beer and rose. "Well, I want to thank you all

—for the hospitality and the dinner. It's truly been a
pleasure." The last was not too subtly directed at Gabbie.

"I hope we'll be seeing you soon, Jack," said Gloria.

"If it's not an imposition. I hike this area when I'm
thinking around a problem in my thesis, or sometimes I
go riding through the woods."

"Riding?" asked Gloria, a calculating expression
crossing her face. Jack's presence had lightened Gabbie's
mood for the first time since they'd arrived, and Gloria
was anxious to keep her diverted from any black furies.

"There's a farm a couple of miles down the highway
where they raise horses. Mr. Laudermilch's a friend of

Aggie's, so I can borrow one sometimes. Do you ride?"

"Infrequently," answered Phil, "but Gabbie here rides
every chance she gets."

"Oh?"

"Bumper—that's my horse—he's a champion Blanket

Appaloosa. Best gymkhana horse in Southern California,
and one of the best cross-country horses at Highridge

Stables."

"Never ridden an Appaloosa; they tend to be a little
thick-skinned, I understand. But I guess they're good
working stock. Champion, huh? Pretty expensive, I
guess."

"Well, he's a good one. . . ." Gabbie shrugged, indi-
cating money was not an issue. Gloria and Phil smiled.

Jack said, "Back home I had a Tennessee Walker. Per-

haps you'd care to go riding some afternoon, after you're
settled in?"

"Sure, anytime."

"I'm going down to visit my folks in Durham, day
after tomorrow. I'll be there two weeks. When I get
back?"

Gabbie shrugged. "Okay."

"Well then. As I said, it's been a pleasure. I do look
forward to the next time."

Phil rose and shook Jack's hand. "Don't be a
stranger," offered Gloria as Jack left through the back
door. Returning to her husband's side, she said, "So,

Gabbie. Things don't seem quite so bad, do they?"

Gabbie sighed. "Oh, he's definitely a hunk; Ducky

Summers would say, 'He's got buns worth dying for.' But
how am I going to keep from losing my lunch when he
shows up with some retard rockhead, cold-blood farm
horse? Ugh!"

Gloria smiled. "Let's unpack another crate, then I'll
chase the boys to bed."

Gabbie nodded resigned agreement, and Phil led her
out of the kitchen. Gloria followed, but as she started to
leave the kitchen she was struck by a sudden feeling of
being watched, as if unfriendly eyes had fastened upon
her. She turned abruptly and for an instant thought she
saw something at one of the windows. Moving her head,
she saw flickering changes in the light of the kitchen bulb
as it reflected off imperfections in the glass. With a slight
sense of uneasiness, Gloria left the kitchen.

5

Sean tried to settle deeply into the bunk bed. The smells
were new to him. Old feather pillows had been dug out of
a closet when it was discovered the boy's familiar ones
hadn't been where they were expected to be, and despite
the clean pillowcases, they had an ancient, musty odor.

And the house made strange sounds. Creaks and groans
could be faintly heard; odd chitters and whispers made
by creatures of darkness had Sean burrowing deeply be-
low the heavy comforter, peeking out over the edge,
afraid to relax his vigil for an instant.

"Patrick?" he whispered, to be answered by his broth-
er's deep breathing. Patrick didn't share Sean's fear of the
dark. The first night Patrick had tried to bully his brother
out of the top bunk—they had both wanted the novel
experience of sleeping that high off the ground—but

Mom had prevented a fight and Sean had picked the
number closer to the one she had been thinking. Now

Sean wondered at the whim of chance that put him in the
top bed. Everything looked weird from up high.

The moon's glow came through the window, and the
light level rose and fell as clouds crawled slowly across
the sky, alternately plunging the room into deep gloom
and lightening to what seemed almost daylight. The
dancing shadows had an odd pattern Sean had come to
recognize.

Outside, an old elm tree rose beside the bedroom, its
branches swaying gently in the breeze. When the moon
was not obscured, the tree shadows became more dis-
tinct, making their own display. The thick leaves rustled
in the night wind, casting fluttering shadows that shifted
and moved around the room, shapes of ebon and grey
that capered in mad abandon, filling the night with men-
ace.

Sean watched the play of shadows with a thrill of dan-
ger that was almost delicious, a sweaty-palm-and-neck-
hairs-standing sort of feeling. Then something changed.

In the blackest part of the gloom, deep in the far corner,
something moved. Sean felt his chest tighten as cold
gripped his stomach. Moving in the wrong rhythm,
against the flow of greys and blacks, it was coming to-
ward the boys' bunk beds.

"Patrick," Sean repeated loudly. His brother stirred
and made a sleepy sound as the shape began to slither
along the floor. It would move a beat, weaving its way
across the carpet, then pause, and Sean strained his eyes

to see it, for when it was still, it would vanish. For long,
agonizing moments he couldn't see any hint of motion,
then just when he finally relaxed, thinking it gone or an
illusion, it would stir again. The maddeningly indistinct
shape approached the bed slowly, at last disappearing
below the foot of the bunks, out of Sean's view.

"Patrick!" Sean said, scooting backward to the corner
of the bunk farthest from the creeping shadow. Then he
heard a sound of claws upon wood, as something climbed
the old bedpost. Sean held his breath. Two clawlike
shapes, dark and terrible in their deformity, appeared be-
yond the end of the bunks, as if reaching up blindly for
something, followed an instant later by a misshapen mask
of terror and hate, a black, twisted visage with impossible
eyes, black opal irises surrounded by a yellow that
seemed to glow in the gloom. Sean screamed.

Suddenly Patrick was awake and shouting and an in-
stant later Gloria was standing in the door turning on the
lights.

Phil was a moment behind, and Gabbie's voice came
through the door of her room. "What's going on?"

Gloria reached up and hugged Sean. "What is it,
honey?"

"Something. . . ." began Sean. Unable to continue,
he pointed. Phil made a display of investigating the room
while Gloria calmed the frightened boy. Gabbie stuck her
head in the room and said, "What's going on?" She wore
the oversized UCLA T-shirt she used as a nightgown.

With a mixture of contempt and relief in his voice,

Patrick said, "Sean's had a nightmare."

His brother's tone of disdain caused Sean to react. "It
wasn't a dream! There was something in the room!"

"Well," said Phil, "whatever it was, it's gone."

"Honey, it was just a bad dream."

"It was not," said Sean, halfway between frustrated
tears at not being believed and a fervent hope they were
right.

"You just go back to sleep and I'll stay here until you
do. Okay?"

Sean seemed unconvinced, but said, " 'Kay." He set-

tled in and began to accept the idea he had been dream-
ing. With his mother nearby and the light on, the black
face seemed a nightmare design, not a thing of solid exis-
tence.

"Broth-er," said Patrick in disgust. He rolled over and
made a display of needing no such reassurance.

Gabbie's grumbling followed her back into her own
room as Phil flipped off the light Gloria remained, stand-
ing patiently next to Sean's bunk until he fell asleep.

Outside the boys' bedroom window, something dark
and alien slithered down the drainpipe and swung onto
the nearest tree branch. It leaped and spun from branch
to branch as it descended, dropping the last ten feet to
the ground. It moved with an unnaturally quick, rolling
gait, a stooped-over apelike shape. It paused near the ga-
zebo, looking back over its shoulder with opalescent dark
eyes toward the boys' window. Another movement, in
the woods, caused it to duck down, as if fearing discov-
ery. Bright twinkling lights flashed for an instant, darting
between boles, and vanished from view. The dark crea-
ture hesitated, waiting until the lights were gone, then
scampered off toward the woods, making odd whispering
sounds.

6

The house became a home, slowly, with resistance, but
soon the odd corners had been explored and the ancient
odors had become commonplace. The idiosyncrasies of
the house—the strange little storage area beneath the
stairs next to the cellar door, the odd shed in the back,
the way the pipes upstairs rattled—all these things be-
came familiar. Gloria considered her family: Gabbie
wasn't happy but had ceased brooding, and the twins
shared their secret world, seemingly content wherever
their family was. Gloria had been most concerned over
their reaction to the move, but they had shown the least

difficulty in adapting. The most positive aspect of the
move had been in Phil's attitude. He was writing every
day and seemed transported. He refused to show Gloria
any of his work so far, saying he felt superstitious. She
knew that was so much bullshit, for she had talked out
story ideas into the night with him before. She knew he
was simply afraid she wouldn't like what he was writing
and the bubble would burst. All in good time, she
thought, all in good time.

Seventeen days after Jack Cole's visit, a note was de-
livered by the mailman. It was addressed to "Philip Has-
tings and Family." Gloria opened it while Phil scanned a
letter from his literary agent. ". . . look forward to pre-
senting your newest work. Several publishers already
have expressed interest. ..." Phil read aloud.

"Read this," Gloria instructed as she handed him the
note.

He scanned the envelope and frowned. One of his pet
quirks was about Gloria's opening letters addressed to
him, something she loved to do. "It said, 'and Family.'

That's me," she said with mock challenge in her tone.

Phil sighed. "Defeated before I begin." He read aloud.

" 'Mrs. Agatha Grant invites Mr. Philip Hastings and
family to dinner, Sunday, June 24. Cocktails at 5 P.M.

Regrets only.'"

"What does that mean?"

"It means R.S.V.P. only if you can't come, you Cali-
fornia barbarian."

Gloria playfully kicked her husband. "Barbarian! Who
was it who called the town 'La Jawl-lah' the first time he
propositioned me?"

"I did?"

"You most certainly did. It was at Harv Moran's
house, at the wrap party for Bridesdale. You came sliding
up to me while my date was over getting drinks—Robbie

Tedesco, that was who I was with. You and I had just
met at the studio the day before and you said, 'I've got an
invitation to spend the weekend at a friend's beach house
in La Jawl-lah. Do you think you could get away for a

couple of days?" She spoke the lines with a deep voice,
mimicking his speech patterns.

Phil looked only mildly embarrassed. "I remember. I
still can't believe I did that. I had never asked a near
stranger to spend the weekend with me before." Then he
smiled. "Well, you did come with me."

Gloria laughed. "I did, didn't I? I guess I just figured
someone was going to grab up this eastern square and it
might as well be me." She playfully grabbed a handful of
his greying hair and pulled his head down, kissing him
quickly. "And La Jolla was beautiful."

"So were you ... as you still are," he said, kissing
her deeply. He felt her respond. Playfully nipping at her
neck, he whispered, "We haven't pulled a nooner in
years, kiddo."

Then the phone rang, and Gabbie shouted from up-
stairs, "I'll get it!"

Instantly they heard the sound of the screen door
slamming as the boys tromped into the kitchen. "Maaa!"

shouted Patrick.

"What's for lunch?" inquired Sean in counterpoint.

Passion fled. Leaning against her husband, Gloria
shook her head. "Such are the prices of parenthood."

With a quick kiss, she said, "Hold that last thought for
tonight, lover."

Gabbie came running partway down the stairs, hold-
ing the phone at the limit of the cord's ability to stretch.

"It's Jack. He's back. We're going riding this afternoon,
then getting a bite and a movie. So I won't be home for
dinner. Okay?"

Phil said, "Sure," as the boys came marching in from
the kitchen. Gabbie dashed back up the stairs.

"Mom," said Patrick. "What's for lunch?"

"We're hungry," agreed Sean.

Gloria shrugged regretfully toward her husband. Put-
ting her hands on her sons' shoulders, she turned them
around and said, "With me, troops." Suddenly she was
gone, heading for the kitchen to feed her small brood.

Phil could still smell her clean scent in the hall air and
felt the deep stirrings that contact with her always

brought quickly into existence. With a sigh of regret at
the moment's being gone, he returned to reading the mail
as he walked back toward his study.

7

Gabbie stood in mute and pleasant surprise. At last she
said, "All right!" slowly drawing out the exclamation.

Jack smiled as he motioned for her to come take the
reins of the bay mare he had led. It was a beautiful, well-
cared-for animal. Gabby took the reins. "They're ter-
rific."

"Mr. Laudermilch raises Thoroughbreds and warm-
blood crosses. He's a friend of Aggie's and I've helped
out around his farm, so he lets me borrow one every so
often. He used to race Thoroughbreds, but now he's into
jumpers."

Gabbie admired the animals, noting the curve of the
neck and the way the tail rose up, and the slightly for-
ward-facing ears. "These have some Arabian in them,"

she declared, as she took the reins from Jack.

Jack nodded with a grin. "And quarter horse. These
don't compete. They're what Mr. Laudermilch calls 'rid-
ing-around stock.' Yours is called My Dandelion and this
is John Adams."

She hugged the mare's neck and patted it. "Hi, baby,"

she crooned. "We're going to be buddies, aren't we?" She
quickly mounted. Settling into the unusual position of the

English saddle, she said, "God, this feels weird."

Jack said, "I'm sorry. I thought you rode English."

Gabbie shook her head as she spurred her mount for-
ward. "Nope, cowgirl. I've ridden English before. It's just
been a long time." She waved at her foot. "Acme cowboy
boots. I'll pick up some proper breeches and high top
boots in town. My knees will be a little bruised tomor-
row, is all."

They rode out toward the woods, Gabbie letting Jack

take the lead. "Watch out for low branches," he said over
his shoulder. "These paths aren't cleared like riding
trails."

She nodded and studied his face as he turned back
toward the path. She smiled to herself at the way his back
moved as he reined his horse. Definitely a fox, she
thought to herself, then wondered if there was a girl-
friend back at the college.

The trail widened and she moved up beside him, say-
ing, "These woods are pretty. I'm more used to the hills
around the Valley."

"Valley?"

"San Fernando Valley." She made a face. "Ya know,
fer sher, like a Valley girl, totally tubular, man. I mean,
like bitchin', barf out, and all that shit." She looked irri-
tated at the notion. "I grew up in Arizona. That image
grosses me out." Suddenly she laughed at the slip and
was joined by Jack. "L.A.'s just reclaimed desert. Turn
off the garden hose and all the green goes away. It's all
chaparral—scrub, you know—on the hills north of the
valley. Some stands of trees around streams. A lot of
eucalyptus—nothing like these woods. It's mostly hot
and dry, and real dusty. But I'm used to it."

He smiled, and she decided she liked the way his
mouth turned up. "I've never been west of the Missis-
sippi, myself. Thought I'd get out to Los Angeles once a
few years back, but I broke my leg sailing and that shot
the whole summer."

"How'd you manage that?"

"Fell off the boat and hit a patch of hard water."

For a moment she paused in consideration, for he had
answered with a straight face, then she groaned. "You
bullshitter. You're as bad as my dad."

"I take that as a compliment," he answered with a
grin. "Actually, some fool who thought he could sail put
the boat around in a jibe without warning any of us, and I
caught the boom and got knocked overboard. Smashed
my leg all up. I spent the next day and a half with a
paddle for a splint while we headed back to Tampa.

Spent nine weeks in a cast, then six more in a walking

cast. The surgeon was great, but my leg's not a hundred
percent. When it gets cold, I limp a little. And I can't run
worth spit. So I walk a lot."

They rode in silence for a while, enjoying the warm
spring day in the woods. Suddenly there was an awkward
moment, as each waited for the other to speak. At last

Jack said, "What are you studying?"

Gabbie shrugged. "I haven't decided. I'm only a few
units into my sophomore year, really. I'm sort of hung up
between psychology and lit."

"I don't know much about psych." She looked at him
quizzically. "I mean, what you would do when you grad-
uated? But either means grad school if you want to use
them."

She shrugged again. "Like I said, I'm barely a sopho-
more. I've got a while." She was quiet for a long time,
then blurted, "What I'd like to do is write."

He nodded. "Considering your parents, that's not sur-
prising."

What was surprising, thought Gabbie, was that she
had said that. She had never told anyone, not even Jill

Moran, her best friend. "That's the trouble, I guess. Ev-
eryone will expect it to be brilliant. What if it's no good?"

Jack looked at her with a serious expression on his
face. "Then it'll be no good."

She reined in, trying to read his mood. He looked
away, thoughtfully, his profile lit from behind by the sun
shining through the trees. "I tried to write for a long time
before I gave up. A historical novel, Durham County,

About my neck of the woods at the turn of the century.

There were parts of it that I thought were fine." He
paused. "It was pretty awful. It was difficult admitting it
at the end, because enough of my friends kept encourag-
ing me that I thought it was good for a long time. I don't
know. You just have to do it, I guess."

She sighed as she patted the horse's neck. Her dark
hair fell down, hiding her face, as she said, "Still, you
don't have two writers for parents. My mother's won a

Pulitzer and my father was nominated for an Oscar. All

I've managed is some dumb poetry."

He nodded, then turned his mount and began riding
along the trail. After a long silence he said, "I still think
you just have to do it."

"Maybe you're right," she answered. "Look, did you
keep any of the stuff your friends told you was great?"

With an embarrassed smile, he said, "All of it. The
whole damn half novel."

"I'll make you a deal. You let me see yours and I'll let
you see mine." Jack laughed hard at the school-yard
phrase and shook his head. "What's the matter? 'Fraid?"

"No," Jack barely managed to croak as he continued
to laugh uncontrollably.

"Scaredy-cat," Gabbie mimicked, plunging Jack into
deeper hilarity.

Jack finally said, "Okay, I give up. I'll let you read my
stuff . . . maybe."

"Maybe!"

The argument continued as they crested a small rise
and vanished behind it. From deep within the woods a
pair of light blue eyes watched their passing. A figure
emerged from the underbrush, a lithe, youthful figure
who moved lightly on bare feet to the top of the path.

From behind a bole he watched Gabbie as she moved
down the trail. His eyes caressed her young back, drink-
ing in the sight of her long dark hair, her slender waist,
and the rounded buttocks as she held a good seat on the
horse's back. The youth's laughter was high-pitched and
musical. It was an alien sound, childlike and ancient,
holding a hint of savage songs, primitive revelries, and
music-filled hot nights. His curly red-brown hair sur-
rounded a face conceived by Michelangelo or a Pre-

Raphaelite painter. "Pretty," the young man said to the
tree, patting the ancient bark as if it understood. "Very
pretty." Then, nearby, a bird sounded a call, and the
youth looked up. His voice shrilled with inhuman tones,
a whistling whisper, as if a mockingbird imitated the call.

The little bird darted about, seeking the intruder in its
territory. The youth shrieked in glee at the harmless jest,
as the bird continued to search for the trespasser. Then

the youth sighed as he considered the beautiful girl who
had passed.

High above, among the leaves, a thing of blackness
clung tenaciously to the underside of a branch. It had
watched the two riders with as much interest as the
youth. But its thoughts were neither merry nor playful.

An urgent need arose within, halfway between lust and
hunger. Beauty affected it as much as the youth. But its
desires were different, for, while lust was the youth's driv-
ing motivation, to the black thing under the tree branch
beauty was only a beginning, a point of departure. And
only the destruction of beauty allowed one to understand
it. The fullness of Gabbie's beauty could be realized only
by a slow journey through pain and anguish, torment and
hopelessness, ending with blood and death. And if the
pain was artful, as the master had taught, such torment
could be made to last for ages.

As it contemplated its alien dark thoughts, musing on
the simple wonder of suffering, the black thing realized a
truth. Whatever pleasure the girl's destruction could pro-
duce would be nothing compared to the elation that
could result from the destruction of the two boys. Such
wonderful children, still innocent, still pure. They were
the prize. Lingering terror and pain given to such as they
would. . . . The creature shuddered in dark anticipa-
tion at the image, then stilled itself, lest the one below
take notice and make the black thing feel just such pain
in turn. The youth stood another moment, one hand
upon the tree, the other absently clutching at his groin as
he held the image of the lovely human girl who had rid-
den past. Then, with a move like a spinning dance, the
man-boy leaped back into the green vegetation, vanishing
from mortal sight, leaving the small clearing empty save
for the reverberations of impish laughter.

The black thing waited motionless after the youth van-
ished into the woods, for despite his youthful appearance,
he was one to be feared, one who could cause great harm.

When it was satisfied he was gone, and not playing one of
his cruel tricks, it sprang with a powerful leap away from

the tree. Its movements through the branches were alien,
the articulation of its joints nothing of this world, as it
hurried on its own errand of dark purpose.

8

"What's your mother doing?" asked Jack.

"I don't know. Last I heard she was off someplace in

Central or South America, writing about another civil
war or revolution." Gabbie sighed. "I don't hear from
her a lot, maybe three letters in the last five years. She
and my dad split up when I was less than five. That's
when she got caught up doing the book on the fall of

Saigon."

"I read it. It was brilliant."

Gabbie nodded. "Mom is a brilliant writer. But as a
mother she's a totally lost cause."

"Look, if you'd rather not talk about it. . . ."

"That's okay. Most of it's public record. Mom tried
writing a couple of novels before she and my father
moved to California. Neither of my folks made much
money from writing, but Mom hated Dad's getting criti-
cal notice while she was getting rejection slips. Dad said
she never showed much resentment, but it had to be one
of the first strains on their marriage. Then Dad got the
offer to adapt his second book, All the Fine Promises, and
they moved to Hollywood. Dad wrote screenplays and
made some solid money, and Mom had me. Then she got
politically active in the antiwar movement, like, in '68,
right after the Tet Offensive. She wrote articles and pam-
phlets and then a publisher asked her to do a book, you
know, Why We Resist.

"It was pretty good, if a little heavy on polemics."

Gabbie steered her horse around a fallen dead tree
surrounded by brush. "Well, she might have written bad
fiction, but her nonfiction was dynamite. She got her crit-
ical notice. And a lot of money. Things were never very

good for them, but that's when trouble really began and
it got worse, fast. She'd get so involved in writing about
the antiwar movement, then later the end of the war, that
she'd leave him hanging all the time. Poor Dad, he'd
have some studio dinner to go to or something and she'd
not come home, or she'd show up in a flannel shirt and
jeans at a formal reception, that sort of stuff. She became
pretty radical. I was too young to remember any of it, but
from what my grandmother told me, both of them acted
pretty badly. But most folks say the breakup was Mom's
fault. She can get real bitchy and she's stubborn. Even
her own mother put most of the blame on her.

"Anyway, Dad came home one night and found her
packing. She'd just gotten special permission from the

Swiss Government to take a Red Cross flight to Vietnam,
to cover the fall of Saigon. But she had to leave that
night. Things hadn't been going well and Dad told her
not to bother coming back if she left. So she didn't."

Jack nodded. "I don't mean to judge, but it seemed a
pretty special opportunity for your mother, I mean with

Saigon about to fall, and all." He left unsaid the implica-
tion that her father had been unreasonable in his demand
his wife remain at home.

"Ya. But I was in the hospital with meningitis at the
time. I almost died, they tell me." Gabbie looked
thoughtful for a while. "I can hardly remember what she
looks like, except for pictures of her, and that's not the
same. Anyway, she became the radicals' darling, and by
the time the war was over she'd become a pretty well-
respected political writer. Now she's the grande dame of
the Left, the spokesperson for populist causes all over the
world. The only journalist allowed to interview Colonel

Zamora when the rebels held him captive, and all that
junk. You know all the rest."

"Must have been rough."

"I guess. I never knew it any different. Dad had put in
pretty rugged hours at the studio and travel on location
and the rest, so he left me with my grandmother. Any-
way, she raised me until I was about twelve, then I went
to private school in Arizona. My father wanted me to

come live with him when he married Gloria, but my
grandmother wouldn't allow it. I don't know, but I think
he tried to get me back and she threatened him." She
fixed Jack with a narrow gaze. "The Larkers are an old
family with old money, I mean, serious old money. Like

Learjets and international corporations. And lawyers,
maybe dozens all on retainer, and political clout, lots of
it. I think Grandma Larker owned a couple of judges in

Phoenix. Anyway, she could blow away any court action

Dad could bring, even if he had some money by most
people's standards. So I stayed with her. Grandma was a
little to the right of Attila the Hun, you know? Nig-grows,
bleeding hearts, and 'Communist outside agitators'? She
thought Reagan was a liberal, Goldwater soft on commu-
nism, and the Birchers a terrific bunch of guys and gals.

So even if she considered Mom a Commie flake,

Grandma didn't want me living with 'that writer,' as she
called Dad. She blamed Dad for Mom becoming a Com-
mie flake, I guess. Anyway, Grandma Larker died two
years ago, and I went to live with Dad. I lived with the
family my last year in high school and my first year at

UCLA. That's it."

Jack nodded, and Gabbie was surprised at what ap-
peared to be genuine concern in his expression. She felt
troubled by that, somehow as if she was under inspection.

She felt suddenly self-conscious at what she was certain
was babbling. Urging her horse forward, she said, "What
about you?"

Jack caught up with the walking horse, and said, "Not
much. Old North Carolina family. A many-greats-grand-
father who chose raising horses instead of tobacco. Un-
fortunately, he bred slow racehorses, so all his neighbors
got rich while he barely avoided bankruptcy. My family
never had a lot of money, but we've got loads of genteel
history"—he laughed—"and slow horses. We're big on
tradition. No brothers or sisters. My father does research

—physics—and teaches at UNC, which is why I went
there as an undergraduate. My mother's an old-fashioned
housewife. My upbringing was pretty normal, I'm
afraid."

Gabbie sighed. "That sounds wonderful." Then, with
a lightening tone, she said, "Come on, let's put on some
speed." She made to kick My Dandelion.

Before she could, Jack shouted, "No!"

The tone of his voice caused Gabbie to jump, and she
swung around to face him, color rising in her cheeks. She
felt caught between embarrassment and anger. She didn't
like his tone.

"Sorry to yell," he said, "but there's a nasty bit of a
turn in the trail ahead and a deadfall, then you hit the
bridge, and that's tricky. Like I said, this isn't a riding
trail."

"Sorry." Gabbie turned forward, lapsing into silence.

Something awkward had come between them and neither
seemed sure of how to repair the damage.

Finally Jack said, "Look, I'm really sorry."

Petulantly Gabbie responded, "I said I was sorry."

With a fierce expression, Jack raised his voice slightly.

"Well, I'm sorrier than you are."

Gabbie made a face and shouted, "Ya! Well, I'm sor-
rier than you'll ever be!"

They both continued the mock argument for a mo-
ment, then rode past the deadfall and discovered the
bridge. Gabbie's horse shied and attempted to turn
around. "Hey!" She put her leg to My Dandelion as the
mare attempted to jig sideways. As the horse began to
toss her head, Gabbie took firm rein and said, "Stop
that!" The horse obeyed. Looking at Jack, Gabbie said,

"What?"

"That's the Troll Bridge."

She groaned at the pun. "That's retarded."

"Well, that's what the kids call it. I don't think there's
a troll waiting under it for billy goats, but for some rea-
son the horses don't like to cross." To demonstrate the
point, he had to use a firm rein and some vigorous kicks
to get John Adams across the bridge. Gabbie followed
suit and found My Dandelion reluctant to step upon the
ancient stones, until Gabbie put her heels hard into her
horse's sides. But as soon as the mare was halfway across,
she nearly bolted forward, as if anxious to be off.

"That's pretty weird."

Jack nodded. "I don't know. Horses can be pretty
funny. Maybe they smell something. Anyway, these
woods are supposed to be haunted—"

"Haunted!" interrupted Gabbie, with a note of deri-
sion.

"I didn't say I believed, but some pretty strange things
have gone on around here."

She rode forward, saying, "Like what?"

"Lights in the woods, you know? Like fox fire, but
there's no marsh nearby. Maybe St. Elmo's fire. Anyway,
some folks say they've heard music deep in the woods,
and there's a story about some kids disappearing."

"Kidnapping?"

"No one knows. It happened almost a hundred years
ago. Seems some folks went out for a Fourth of July
picnic one time, and a couple of kids got lost in the
woods."

"Sounds like a movie I once saw."

Jack grinned. "Yes, it was the same sort of thing.

These woods can get you pretty turned around, and it
was a heck of a lot rougher back then. No highway a mile
to the west, just wagon roads. Pittsville was about a tenth
the size it is today. No developments, or malls, only a few
spread-out farms and a lot of woods. Anyway, they
searched a long time and came up with nothing. No bod-
ies, nothing. Some think the Indians killed them."

"Indians?"

"There was a reservation nearby. A small band of Cat-
taraugus, Alleganies, or some such. They shut it down a
long time ago. But anyway, a bunch of farmers marched
over there and were ready to start shooting. The Indians
said it was spirits got the kids. And the funny thing was
the farmers just turned round and went home. There's
been a lot of other stuff like that over the years. These
woods have a fair reputation for odd goings-on."

"For a southern boy you know a lot about these
woods."

"Aggie," he said with an affectionate smile. "She's
something of an expert. It's sort of a hobby with her.

You'll see what I mean when you meet her. You're going
next Sunday, aren't you?"

She smiled at his barely hidden interest. "I guess."

They cleared a thick stand of trees, then suddenly
found themselves facing a large bald hillock. It rose to a
height of twenty-five feet, dominating the clearing. Not a
single plant save grasses grew on it, no tree or bush.

"A fairy mound!" said Gabbie with obvious delight.

"Erlkonighugel."

"What?"

"Erlkonighugel. Erl King Hill, literally. Hill of the Elf

King, in German; it's what Old Man Kessler's father
called it. Erl King Hill is what the farm is officially called
in the title deeds, though everyone hereabouts calls it the

Old Kessler Place."

"Far out. Is there a story?"

Moving his horse in a lazy circle about the hill, Jack
said, "Usually is about such things. But I don't know
any. Just that the locals have called this place the Fairy

Woods since Pittsville was founded in 1820.I guess that's
where Old Man Kessler's father got the notion when he
showed up eighty-odd years ago. They've got fairy myths
in Germany. Anyway, 'Der Erlkonig' is a poem by Goe-
the. It's pretty scary stuff."

They left the hill behind and moved down a slight
grade toward a path leading back to the farm. As they
left, Gabbie cast a rearward glance at the hillock. For
some reason she was left with the feeling the place was
waiting. Brushing aside the strange notion, she turned
her thoughts to how she was going to get Jack to call her
again.

9

Agatha Grant's farm was a sea of green bordered by a
shoreline of condos. Most of the surrounding land had
been sold off over the years, and a new housing develop-

ment, Colonial Woodlands, loomed up less than a hun-
dred yards behind her barn. Only a large rambling
meadow to the north of the house and the woods to the
south protected the farm from the encroaching urban
sprawl. She literally lived on the edge of Pittsville. The
house was another turn-of-the-century marvel, though
from the outside it appeared that considerably more
thought had gone into its decor, mused Gloria.

Agatha stood waiting for them upon the front stoop, a
bright-eyed elderly woman who appeared fit and upright
despite the ivory-topped cane she held in her left hand.

She greeted Philip warmly and bestowed polite kisses on

Gloria's and Gabbie's cheeks. She ushered everyone into
the large parlor, where Jack Cole waited, and invited
them to take seats. The boys, as one, chose a love seat,
fascinated by the strange two-way facing design. Gabbie
and Gloria took comfortable stuffed chairs, while Aggie
sat beside Phil on a large sofa, his hand held in hers.

Jack opened a breakfront, revealing a fine assortment
of liquor, asked people their pleasure, and began pouring
drinks. He handed a glass to Phil, who sipped and was
pleased to discover a pungent, single-malt scotch.

"Glenfiddich?"

"Glenfiddich."

"Thank you, sir," observed Phil with deep apprecia-
tion.

Agatha said, "Have you something for the boys?"

Jack presented a pair of tumblers. "Coke. Okay?"

The boys took the offered pair of glasses. Jack passed
around the other drinks, then remained at Agatha's side.

After a moment Agatha said, "Jack, quit hovering over
me. Go sit by that pretty girl over there, that's a good
boy." Jack obeyed with a grin, settling upon the arm of

Gabbie's chair. Agatha smiled, and Gloria now under-
stood why her husband held her in such deep affection.

She was a person of warmth, able to put strangers quickly
at ease. She said to Phil, "When Malcolm Bishop ran
that little piece in the Pittsville Herald saying you'd come
home, I could scarcely believe it. What brought you back
here?"

Phil laughed, glancing at Gloria. "I decided to return
to writing novels."

"No, I mean why William Pitt County?" There was
something in her manner of looking at Phil that caused

Gloria a moment of discomfort. Somehow this elderly
woman still held Phil accountable, as if he were still her
student, and from Phil's expression he still felt somewhat
accountable to her.

"It's my home. The old family house is small, only
two bedrooms, and in a section of town that's pretty run-
down now. So I looked around for something bigger and
found the Old Kessler Place." He shrugged. "I don't
know. I was sick of Los Angeles and the film business. I
remember the fields and fishing at Doak's Pond. I re-
member the stories told about the Fairy Woods being
haunted, and how we dared each other to go through
them on Halloween and none of us ever did. I can re-
member the sandlot baseball games and riding my beat-
up old bike down dusty roads during the summer. The
dumb jokes the kids from Charlestown High used to
make about Pits-ville High and how we used to get so
mad at them and then say the same things ourselves. I
remember ... a home."

She nodded. "Well, you'll find it's changed a lot in
twenty-five years." Then she smiled and suddenly the
tension vanished. "But there's a lot that hasn't changed."

Noticing that the boys had finished their drinks, she said,

"Why don't you two run outside and play? We've some
new additions in the barn. Our cat's had kittens."

The boys glanced at their mother, who nodded, and
quickly made good their escape. Phil laughed. "I used to
hate 'grown-up' talk when I was their age."

Agatha indicated agreement. "As did we all. Now, are
you writing?"

"Yes, though it's tougher than I remember."

"It always is."

Jack laughed at the remark. "I say the same thing
when I'm trying to organize her papers."

"This boy is almost as big an oaf as you were, which
means he's a slightly better graduate assistant." Phil

seemed unconcerned with the comparison. "Though, of
my students, you have done better than most. I am glad
you've returned to books. Those films were less than art."

Talk turned to the differences between screenplays and
novels, and they settled in for a while, enjoying the redis-
covered friendship between Agatha and Phil, and the
new friendship between Jack and Gabbie. Gloria re-
mained distant, observing her husband. Phil responded to

Aggie's questions, and in a way her prodding produced
more revelations about his work in minutes than Gloria
had managed to extract in weeks. Not sure of her own
reaction, Gloria settled in, considering.

She regretted Phil hadn't volunteered as much to her
as to Aggie, but then Aggie was a special person to him.

After his parents had died in a car crash, Phil had been
raised by his aunt Jane Hastings. But Aggie Grant, Jane's
best friend from college, and her husband, Henry, had
been frequent visitors. When Phil had graduated from the

University of Buffalo he had gone to Cornell to study
with Aggie. And Aggie had secured the fellowship that
had allowed Phil to attend the university. Gloria con-
ceded that Aggie had been the single biggest influence in

Phil's career. She had been a courtesy aunt, but, more
than family, she was his mentor, then his graduate ad-
viser, and remained the one person he held in unswerving
professional regard. Gloria had read two of Agatha's
books on literary criticism, and they had been a revela-
tion. The woman's mind was a wonder, with her ability
almost to intuit the author's thought processes at the
time of writing from the finished work. She had never
gained wide recognition outside of academia and she had
her critics, but even the most vociferous conceded that
her opinions were worthy of consideration. Somehow Ag-
gie Grant posited theories about dead authors that just
felt right. Still, in the field of literature, Gloria was simply
a reader, not a critic, and some of what had been covered
in Aggie's books seemed rites reserved for the initiates of
the inner temple. No, if Agatha could get Phil talking
about his work, and his problems, Gloria was thankful.

Still, she felt a little left out.

Suddenly Agatha was addressing her. "And what do
you think of all this?"

Gloria improvised, her actress's training coming to the
fore. Somehow she didn't wish it known she had been
musing, not following the conversation. "The work? Or
the move?"

Agatha regarded her with a penetrating look, then
smiled. "I meant the move. It must be something of a
change for you, after Hollywood and all."

"Well, the East isn't new to me. I'm a California girl,
but I lived in New York City for several years while I
worked in theater. Still, this is my first stint as a farmer's
wife."

"Hardly a farmer's wife, my dear. Herman Kessler
kept only enough livestock to qualify for federal tax ex-
emptions: a dozen sheep and lots of ducks and chickens.

That farm has never been worked. Herman's father,

Fredrick Kessler, never allowed it, nor did Herman. The
meadows have not known the plow or the woodlands the
ax for over a century. And this area was never as heavily
harvested as others nearby to begin with. The woods be-
hind your home may not be the forest primeval, but they
are some of the densest in ten thousand square miles,
perhaps the only such parcel of uncleared lowland woods
in the entire state of New York."

Phil said, "I was meaning to ask you: When we were
at Cornell you were firmly established up in Ithaca. Now
you show up in my old hometown. Why?"

She rose and went over to a sliding door. "A mo-
ment." She moved the door aside and vanished from
view, reappearing almost immediately with a large blue
three-ring binder. She returned to the couch and handed
the binder to Phil as she sat down.

He opened it and read the first page. " 'On the Migra-
tion of Irish Folk Myth and Legend to America in the

Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. A critical study by

Agatha Grant.' " He closed it. "I thought you'd retired."

"I'm retired, not dead. This has been a hobby piece of
mine for more years than I can recall." She seemed to
consider. "I began it shortly after my Henry died. I was

working on it when I was your adviser; I just never told
you about it. Aarne and Thompson did some fine classifi-
cation that came out in 1961. What I'm doing is using
their motif index in following up on the work of Reidar

Christiansen. He compared and studied Seandinavian
and Irish folklore. I'm trying to do something like that
with the older Celtic myths and the Irish folktales which
have come to America."

She addressed Gloria and Gabbie as well as Phil.

"When I was a girl, growing up at East Hampton, we had
a lovely governess, an Irish woman named Colleen

O'Mara. Miss O'Mara would tell my brother and me the
most wonderful tales of elves and fairies, leprechauns and
brownies. All my life I've been fascinated by folk myth.

My formal education was in classics and contemporary
literature, but I read Yeats's fairy tales as readily as his
poetry—perhaps with more enthusiasm. In any event,
that is my work now. There were many immigrations
from Ireland—besides the famous 'potato famine' one—
and thousands of poor, rural Irish came to America.

Now, most of those who came settled in the big cities or
went west to work the railroads. But Pittsville was one of
the few rural communities to capture several waves of
these Irish immigrants, many of whom remained farmers.

This area is almost a 'little Ireland.' I'm no stranger to
the area, having visited my darling Jane many times over
the years." She shared a fond look with Phil at the men-
tion of his late aunt. "When I was offered the chair at

Fredonia, I didn't pause a moment in deciding where to
live. I like Pittsville. We're only a half hour from the
campus here. And there were unexpected bonuses."

Phil showed he didn't understand, and Jack offered,

"Marcus Blackman lives nearby." He pointed absently
toward the west.

"The occult guy?" asked Phil, with obvious interest.

Jack said, "That's him."

"Who's Blackman?" asked Gabbie.

Jack said, "Blackman's a writer, a scholar, a bit of
everything. He's something of a character and pretty con-
troversial. He's written a lot of odd books about magic

and the occult that have gotten the academic community
upset. And he's Aggie's favorite debating opponent."

Agatha said, "Mark Blackman's a bit of a rogue in
research and full of indefensible opinions, but he's abso-
lutely charming. You'll meet him shortly. He'll join us for
dinner."

"Wonderful," said Phil.

"He's also a fund of information on just the sort of
things I'm digging into," said Agatha. "In his library he
has some very rare books—a first edition of Thomas

Crofton Croker's Fairy Legends and Traditions of the

South of Ireland, if you can believe—and an amazing
number of personal journals and diaries. His help has
been invaluable."

"What is Blackman doing in Pittsville?"

"You can ask him. I've gotten nothing like a reason-
able answer, though he's very amusing in his avoidance.

He has ventured he is working on a new book, though the
subject matter is unknown to me. That is all." Agatha
paused as she considered. "I find the man fascinating, but
also a little irritating with his secrecy."

Phil laughed. "Agatha believes in spreading ideas
around." He made the remark to the others over

Agatha's protests. "When I began writing fiction on the
side, as a grad student, she couldn't understand why I
wouldn't show it to her until it was done."

To Gabbie, Agatha said, "Child, your father doesn't
write. He brews magic in a cave and woe unto him who
breaks the spell before it's done."

Phil joined in the general laughter, and the talk turned
to old friends and colleagues from their days together at

Cornell.

10

Patrick and Sean hovered over the box in the barn. The
cat regarded the boys with indifference as they petted and
played with her kittens. Her babies were at that awkward
stage just after their eyes had opened, their clumsy antics
provoking laughter from the boys.

Patrick picked up a kitten, who mewed slightly. He
petted it and said, "Pretty neat, huh?"

Sean nodded as he reached out and stroked another. A
scurrying in the hay near the darkest corner of the barn
caught his attention. "What's that?"

"What?"

"Over there—something moving in the hay." He
pointed. Patrick put down the kitten and rose. He walked
purposefully toward the dark corner as Sean said,

"Don't!"

Patrick hesitated and turned to face his brother.

"Why!" he demanded.

Sean reluctantly came over to stand by his brother.

"Maybe it's a rat or something."

"Oh brother!" said Patrick. "You're such a baby." He
glanced around and saw an old rusty pitchfork by the
door. He fetched it from the wall, barely able to balance
the long tool. Slowly he moved toward the corner and
began poking at the old straw. For a long moment there
was no hint that anything but straw rested beneath the
rusty tines Patrick waved before him. Gingerly he poked
the fork deeper into the straw, moving it aside.

Then something appeared from under the straw. It
stood less than two feet tall, regarding the boys with
large, blinking eyes. It was a little man. From head to
foot it was dressed in odd-looking garments: a tall hat, a
green coat, tightly cut breeches, and shoes with tiny
golden buckles.

The boys stood motionless, as if unable even to

breathe. The little man tipped his hat and, with a wild,
piercing laugh, leaped from the straw, jumping high be-
tween the boys and landing at a scampering run across
the barn floor. Patrick echoed Sean's yelp of fright as he
dropped the pitchfork and spun around, his eyes never
leaving the diminutive creature who leaped high up on
the opposite wall, vanishing through a crack between
loose boards.

The boys stood silently rooted, their eyes wide with
wonder as they attempted to sort out the flashing kaleido-
scope of images they had witnessed. Both were shaking,
terrified by the vision. Slowly they turned to face one
another and each saw mirrored in his twin his own fright.

Wide blue eyes, frozen smiles, and rigid posture suddenly
gave way to motion as they dashed for the door.

They sped outside, looking back into the barn. Then a
shadow loomed before them and they were enfolded in a
pair of powerful arms. The boys shrieked in terror as they
were tightly held. An odd odor stung their noses and a
deep, scratchy voice rumbled, "Here, then! What's it all
about, lads?"

The boys were let go and retreated a step; they saw the
shadow take shape in the form of an old man. He was
broad of shoulder and tall, his grey hair unkempt and his
unshaven face seamed and leathery. Red-shot eyes re-
garded them, but he was smiling in a friendly way.

Patrick's heart slowed its thundering beat and he cast
a glance at Sean. A thought passed between them, for
they recognized the odor that hovered about the man like
a musky nimbus. The man smelled of whiskey.

"Easy, then, what is it?"

"Something back there," ventured Patrick, pointing at
the barn. "In the hay."

The man passed the boys into the barn, then waited
while they indicated the corner. He walked purposefully
to where the pitchfork lay and made a display of poking
about in the straw. "It's gone now," said Sean. The man
knelt and moved some straw about, then stood and used
the fork to put the straw back in a semblance of order.

He turned a smiling, good-humored face toward the
boys. "What was it, then? A barn rat?"

Patrick glanced at Sean and gave him an almost im-
perceptible head shake, warning him to say nothing.

"Maybe," said Patrick. "But it was pretty big." His voice
was strident, and he fought to regain control of himself.

The man turned where he stood, looking down on the
earnest little faces. "Big, you say? Well, if there were
chickens or ducks here, which there aren't, and if it were
night, which it isn't, I'd suspect a weasel or fox. What-
ever it was, it's vanished like yesterday's promises." The
man returned the pitchfork to its place on the wall. He
looked hard at the boys. "Now, lads, which one of you
wants to be the first to tell me just what you saw?"

Patrick remained silent, but Sean finally said, "It was
big and it had teeth." His voice still shook, so he sounded
convincing.

Instantly the man's expression changed. In two strides
he stood before them, hands upon knees as he lowered his
face to the boys' level. "How big?"

Patrick held his hands about two feet apart. "Like
this."

The man slowly stood up, rubbing at his whiskery
chin. "By the saints. It could have been that big old ban-
dit come looking for a kitten dinner," he said quietly.

"What bandit?" asked Patrick, not understanding why
anyone would wish to eat kittens.

The man's attention returned from his musing. "Why,
he's a raccoon. An old tyrant of a coon who lives in the
woods to the east of here. He's been killing chickens and
ducks for a month or so and occasionally chews up cats
and dogs." Almost to himself, he added, "Though if it
were himself, mama cat here would have been raising a
right royal fuss."

Sean nodded, and Patrick said, "Jack said he lived
under a bridge."

"He did, did he now? Jack Cole is a fine enough lad,
but he's a foreigner, hailing from North Carolina as he
does. Still, grown-ups always have to come up with an
answer, even if they're wrong." The boys agreed to that.

"If the farmers knew where the bandit hid out, they'd
have had him out weeks ago.

"Now, lads, I don't think Miss Grant will take kindly
to the news a bull coon's poking about her barn and
menacing her barn cat's brood. Are we agreed?"

The boys shrugged and said yes. The man rubbed his
chin again. "Well, we have your word. So there's an end
to it." Changing the subject, he said, "Now, what are you
boys doing in Miss Agatha's barn?"

"She said we could play with the kittens."

"Well then," offered the man, "if she did, she did. But
they're tiny ones and like all babies need their rest. Why
don't we go outside and see the new lambs in the
meadow." He gently but firmly ushered them outside.

"And who might you boys be?"

The boys offered their names, and the man said, "Pat-
rick and Sean? Sure and those are fine Irish names."

Patrick grinned. "Our mother's Irish. Her name was

O'Brien."

"O'Brien!" the man exclaimed. "She wouldn't be an

O'Brien from Ballyhack, now would she?"

"She's from Glendale," observed Sean.

"Sure, there's a fair number of O'Briens about and
that's a fact." He halted outside the barn. "Well, Sean
and Patrick, they call me Barney Doyle, which is as it
should be, for that's my name. Pleased to make your
acquaintance." He shook hands solemnly with the boys.

"Now let's go look at lambs."

As they made their way across the backyard, the
screen door opened and Agatha Grant looked out. "Bar-
ney Doyle! Where are you going with those boys?"

"To show the lads the new lambs, Miss Agatha."

"And what about my pump? I need water for dinner."

"All fixed and working like new, which, had you
turned the faucet, you would have known. I was, this
very moment, going to stop off on our way and tell you
just that."

Her expression indicated a limited willingness for be-
lief, but she only nodded. "Dinner will be in an hour, so
have them back in time to clean up."

"Yes, Miss Agatha."

After she returned inside, Barney said, "A fine lady,
even if she isn't Irish. Come now and we can see the
lambs."

As they walked down the path toward the meadow
south of the house, a car turned up the drive from the
road and headed toward the house. The boys ran ahead
and Barney reached up to scratch his head. That there
was something in the barn two feet long and with big
teeth he doubted, for the barn cat would have been haul-
ing her kittens out if a predator had lurked nearby. But
that something had frightened the boys there was no
doubt. He offered a short prayer to St. Patrick and St.

Jude that it was only noises and shadows that had fright-
ened the boys and not what he feared, then hurried after
the boys.

11

Two men got out of the car as Agatha watched from her
porch. Philip stood beside her, observing the pair. The
driver was a tall man, his stride quick and purposeful.

His hair was black save for streaks of grey at the temples,
combed straight back from a high forehead, but his close-
cut beard was black. His age was indeterminate: some-
where between thirty and fifty. He wore a white turtle-
neck and brown corduroy jacket, despite the warm
weather, above brown slacks. As he came up the steps,
smiling in greeting at Agatha, Philip noted his eyes were
so dark as to be close to black.

"Mark, this is Philip Hastings."

The man shook hands and said, "I've read your books,

Mr. Hastings. I'm something of a fan."

"Phil, please."

"And this is Gary Thieus," said Agatha. Philip ex-
tended his hand.

"Call me Gary," offered the man with a wide grin that

revealed an improbable amount of teeth. His hair was cut
very short, nearly a crew cut, and his ears stuck out and
were almost pointed.

Mark said, "He's my assistant and is the best cook
around—present company excluded."

"Come inside and have a drink. Dinner is cooking and
we can all get acquainted." Agatha allowed Philip to
hold open the door as she led the others inside.

Philip followed last, behind Gary. Blackman's assis-
tant moved with a loose-gaited walk that suggested a bas-
ketball player to Philip, or at least some sort of athletic
background.

Jack offered drinks to Mark and Gary, while Agatha
removed herself to the kitchen to finish dinner. Jack re-
turned to Gabbie's side; Gloria was smiling at Mark's
comment that he had seen her once in a play. When he
commented upon a small problem during the second act,
she grinned. "You did see the play!" She reached out and
squeezed his hand. "In my former calling, you hear a lot
of empty flattery."

"No, I did see the play and remember your perfor-
mance quite well."

Gary said, "Jack, how about a game of tennis tomor-
row?"

Jack groaned. "You mean how about you administer-
ing another thrashing?" He said to Gabbie, "He knows

I've a gimpy leg and delights in embarrassing me."

"Do you play?" Gary inquired of Gabbie.

"A little," the girl answered.

"Good, I'll call Ellen and we can play some doubles."

Gabbie shrugged. Jack said, "At least we'll go down
together. Gary's girlfriend is as good a tennis player as he
is—which is very good. I hope you can cover a lot of
court."

Gabbie smiled slightly, and Gloria grinned behind her
glass as she sipped her drink. Mark leaned close and said,

"She plays well?"

"Gabbie plays tennis like it's war," whispered Gloria.

"Gary's pretty good; so is Ellen."

"It should be a good match," offered Phil, coming
over to sit beside his wife.

"You've purchased the Old Kessler Place," com-
mented Mark. "That's one of the most interesting pieces
of land around here. I tried to rent it myself when I first
moved here."

Gloria and Phil exchanged glances and Phil said, "It
was just a matter of luck I inquired the week it came on
the market. It was a steal at the price. But Kessler died
only a month before I called the broker. So you must
have tried to rent it from the old man himself."

"Not really. When I came to this area, Kessler was in

Germany and the house empty for almost a year, but I
couldn't find anyone who could tell me how to reach
him. Perhaps he was visiting relatives, or friends of his
father. That's where he died, you know."

Phil nodded. "That was mentioned. Why'd you want
to rent the farm?"

Mark smiled. "There's a lot of history about that
place." He paused, then said, "I'm working on a new
book myself, and while I'm reluctant to discuss it, let's
say that the history of the Kessler family has no small
bearing upon the subject matter. Herman's father, Fred-
rick Kessler, was something of a mystery man. He ar-
rived from somewhere in the south of Germany, or per-
haps Austria, in 1905, with a lot of money. It appears
that when the First World War broke out there was some
minor problem with his citizenship, but other than that
he was a model member of the community. He married a
girl named Helga Dorfmann and had one son. He built a
furniture factory, competing with the larger manufactur-
ers over in Jamestown. His furniture was sturdy and
cheap, and he made a lot of money. One of the more
interesting stories is that he had a fortune in gold buried
somewhere on the property."

Gloria laughed in delight. "Buried treasure! Let's start
digging!"

Gary grinned his toothy grin. "You've a lot of prop-
erty. It could take some time. Besides, it's only a story."

"My interest," commented Blackman, "was in the

Kessler library and any other oddities lying about, the
ephemerides of the days of Fredrick Kessler's youth, so
to speak."

Gloria glanced at Phil, who said, "I've only glanced at
the books in the library. The broker had no idea what
was in the house. When Kessler died, he owed a lot of
back taxes, and the state was in a hurry to sell it. The
court appointed Kessler's bank executor. I got the im-
pression things were left a little informal. The loan officer

I dealt with was pretty obviously in a rush to unload it;
they'd halted the foreclosure and hurried the sale. Any-
way, he said there was no family, so he tossed everything
into the deal, including old clothes, dishes, the furniture
and books. I don't know a tenth of what's there. You're
welcome to drop in and borrow anything you'd like."

"I was hoping you'd invite me. Perhaps in a few days.

I'll tell you what: If you don't mind Gary and me prowl-
ing about for a while, we'll catalog the library as we go,
so you'll have a full inventory when we're through. And
if anything strikes my fancy, give me first chance to buy."

"You've got it."

Gloria said, "There's a bunch of old trunks in the attic
and basement, too."

Gary's eyes almost lit up. "Wonderful. Who knows
what odd bits of treasure lurk in the dark!"

Gabbie laughed. "Jack said the woods are haunted;
now buried treasure. You sure know how to pick 'em,

Dad."

Agatha reappeared and demanded assistance, so Jack
drafted Gabbie and the two went off to set the table.

Gary mentioned a film of Phil's and the talk turned to
stories of Hollywood and the frustrations of filmmaking.

Gloria settled back, letting the conversation slip by her.

For some reason the talk of buried treasure and haunted
woods had made her uncomfortable. And for some unex-
plained reason she wondered how the boys were.

12

Dinner was superb. True to Jack's promise, Agatha

Grant was an exceptional cook. She produced an elegant
meal, each dish prepared with an attention to detail guar-
anteed to make it a treat. Even the twins, who tended to
be fussy eaters, finished their food with no complaint.

Gloria had noticed they seemed somewhere else, and
occasionally caught them glancing at each other, as if
sharing something between themselves. She inquired if
they had enjoyed themselves, and they agreed Aggie's
farm was pretty neat. "Barney showed us the lambs,"

ventured Sean.

Phil said, "Who's Barney?"

"He's a man," said Sean. "He was fixing the plumb-
ing."

"Ya, and he smells like Uncle Steve," said Patrick as
he impaled a broccoli spear with his fork. "Uncle" Steve

Owinski was another screenwriter and a close friend of

Phil's, and he was a chronic drinker.

Jack rose and quickly cleared away the dinner plates,
carrying them to the kitchen. Agatha said, "Barney

Doyle. He's the local handyman." Seeing a small look of
concern on Gloria's face, she added, "He's a bit of a
tippler, but completely harmless. From what I hear, he
was a ripsnorter as a young man, but swore off drinking
years ago. Suddenly he's drinking again. I can't imagine
why."

Gary said, "Well, you know what they say about al-
coholics never being truly recovered." Gloria nodded.

"Anyway," said Agatha, "he's a fine fix-it man, and if
you have any problems, give him a call. The service men
from the mall stores take forever, want to take everything
back to the shop, then keep whatever for months. Bar-
ney's reliable and cheap. He has a work shed, little more
than a shack, on the other side of my property, right at

the end of Williams Avenue. You can cut through the
woods from your home." Agatha smiled fondly. "Barney
fits my longing for simpler times, when all you had was
the local fix-it shop. He's a living American artifact. Be-
sides, I have him around as much for research as the need
for repairs. The man was born in Ireland and has an
astonishing wealth of Irish oral tradition. In comparing
what he knows with what the second-, third-, and fourth-
generation Irish here know, I can begin to gauge how
much change the myths have undergone in Ireland and

America."

Jack stuck his head through the door. "Coffee?" He
took stock of who indicated yes, and vanished back into
the kitchen.

Gabbie rose. "I think I'll give Jack a hand."

Mark said, "Aggie's picked a tough one. Irish lore,
like most in Europe, has been 'frozen' by the printing
press. Children now read fairy tales rather than listen at
their mother's knee—if they read them at all."

"So you don't think she'll find much variation?" asked

Phil.

Mark shook his head in the negative, while Agatha
smiled indulgently. "We've had this argument before,"

she ventured. "Mark is something of a homegrown social
anthropologist and claims there is no true oral tradition
in Europe or America anymore."

"Well, maybe among the older American Indians and
rural folk up in the Appalachians, but nowhere else. Not
when you can pick up a book and read the same story in

England and America. No, if you're researching myths
about cluricaunes, you'll find the same story in William

Pitt County as you would in County Cork."

"What are cluricaunes?" asked Phil.

Agatha said, "Leprechauns. They're called lurikeen,
lurigandaun, and luricans in different parts of Ireland."

Gloria sat back. There was something passing between
the boys, she could sense it. And it worried her. She
silently wondered why the talk was making her tense.

Agatha glanced at the boys and asked, "Do you boys
know what a leprechaun is?"

"Little men in green coats?" said Patrick, an odd ex-
pression on his face.

Sean's eyes widened at Patrick's answer, then sud-
denly his face became animated as he blurted, "Darby

O'Gill!"

Phil laughed. "Just so."

Mark said, "Who's Darby O'Gill?"

"It's a Disney film, Darby O'Gill and the Little People.

The boys saw it before we left California."

"Yeah," said Sean with a pout. "We had the Disney

Channel on cable."

"I rest my case," offered Mark. "The boys are getting
their folk myths from television."

Gloria said, "They've been disconsolate there's no
cable available out at the farm." She roughed Sean's hair.

"Now you'll just have to make do with three channels,
like normal people."

Phil said, "I was saving it as a surprise, boys, but I've
ordered a satellite dish installed next week."

The two boys' eyes widened. "We'll get hundreds of
channels!" shouted Patrick.

Over the laughter in the dining room, Gloria ordered
the boys to stifle their enthusiasm. Sean said, "Barry Wal-
ter's father has the channel with naked ladies on it."

Gloria said, "We'll talk about this when we get home."

Phil laughed. "It's all right. I got the one with the lock
switch. The boys won't be watching any X-rated movies
for a few more years."

Jack and Gabbie returned with cake and coffee.

"Speaking of fairy myths, does anyone know what
night this is?" Gary asked.

Mark and Agatha looked at each other and laughed,
but it was Gloria who answered. "Midsummer's Night."

"Like in Shakespeare?" said Jack.

Phil said, "I thought the solstice was three days ago."

"On the calendar of the Church, it's the twenty-
fourth," said Gloria. "The nativity of St. John the Bap-
tist."

Phil said, "I've read A Midsummer Night's Dream. I

thought it was just ... a night in the middle of sum-
mer."

Agatha said, "There are three days supposedly special
to fairies: May first, June twenty-fourth, and November
first. This is a night of power and celebration according
to legend."

"What are the other two days? I know the first of

November is All Saints', but what about the first of

May?"

"May Day," ventured Gary. "Fairies are Marxists."

Over the groans of the others, Agatha said, "It's the
day after Walpurgis Night, just as All Saints' follows Hal-
loween. Both are Moving Days."

When the others looked uncomprehending, Mark

Blackman said, "In the Irish tradition, the fairies move
from place to place on those two days. We're speaking of
the Trooping Fairies. Shakespeare had them staying for-
ever in the night:

" 'And we fairies, that do run

By the triple Hecate's team,

From the presence of the sun,

Following darkness like a dream.'

"But he's alone in that view. According to tradition,
the fairies live for six months in a stand of woods, then
move to another, perhaps on the other side of the world.

And they make the move in one night."

Mark again quoted Shakespeare:

" 'We the globe can compass soon,

Swifter than the wandering moon.' "

"It's why fairy stories abound everywhere. Over the
ages the fairies have lived in every part of the world,"

said Aggie. "If you believe in them."

"And tonight's a special night for them?" ventured

Gabbie with a laugh.

"According to legend," agreed Agatha. "They'll be
throwing a grand party tonight."

Turning to Jack, Gabbie said, "Let's go out to that
fairy mound we saw the other day. Maybe we'll see the
party."

"I wouldn't," said Mark. All eyes turned to regard
him. "Those woods are pretty dangerous in the dark."

Gloria looked alarmed. "How do you mean, danger-
ous?"

Gabbie made a face. "Ghosts? Indian spirits?"

"Gabbie, let him answer," snapped Gloria. Gabbie
flushed and was about to retort when she saw Jack shak-
ing his head and indicating the boys, who sat in rapt
attention. Suddenly she understood Gloria's worry, and
she felt silly. "Why are the woods dangerous, Mark?

Wild animals?"

Mark smiled and tried to look reassuring. "No, noth-
ing like that. No bears or wolves in ages. Nothing much
bigger than a weasel or fox since the turn of the century.

Just, it's easy to get lost there and there are a lot
more woods than you'd think and they're pretty dense
in places." Mark turned to Aggie. "Remember Reno

McManus? He got lost taking a shortcut in the dark, fell
down an embankment, and broke his hip. It was two days
before anyone found him. Died of exposure. And he'd
lived all his life in the area. It's just a bad idea to be
poking about in the woods after dark, that's all I meant."

Agatha said, "Reno McManus was a drunk, and he
could have gotten lost in his own bathtub. If Jack and

Gabbie take a light and stay to the path, they should have
no trouble." Her eyes were merry as she cast a glance at
the youngsters, indicating Mark was being obtuse in not
seeing they wanted some time alone together.

Mark said, "Well, that's true." He let the conversation
fall off.

Agatha rose. "Let's retire to the parlor, like civilized
folk, and we can continue this lovely evening." She
glanced at Jack. "Fetch the brandy, won't you?"

They left the dining room and were soon all settled
comfortably in the parlor, where the talk turned to other
topics. Gloria, sitting next to Phil, glanced at the boys,
who were being considerably less obstreperous than

usual. There was something she had meant to ask them
earlier at the table, but she couldn't remember what it
was. She let the thought slip away.

13

Gabbie and Jack walked slowly along the path as the
circle of light swept along before them, revealing the
twigs and other impediments to easy passage. Gabbie had
insisted Jack walk in the woods with her, in search of the
fairy party. The flashlight flickered, then dimmed for a
minute. "Shit!" he said. "Damn batteries are weak."

"I declare," she said with a broad southern accent,

"such language! And you a gentleman, sir!" Jack grinned,
half-seen in the gloom. "It's okay, Lancelot. I've heard a
few Anglo-Saxon expletives in my day. I'm a liberated
girl."

Jack laughed quietly. "So I've noticed. And something
special, too."

Gabbie turned silent as they walked, then said,

"You're not just saying that, are you?"

He stopped, letting the flashlight point down. In the
light reflected back from the path they studied each
other. He said nothing, but leaned forward and kissed her
gently. She froze a moment, then stepped in to him, let-
ting his arms wrap around her. She could feel the
strength in his body, and her heart pounded with a rush
of excitement. After a time, she gently pushed herself
away, softly saying, "Ah . . . that was a pretty good
answer."

He smiled. "I guess." Slipping his arm around her
waist, he resumed walking slowly, Gabbie matching his
pace. "I do think you're special, Gabbie. You've been
through a lot, I know, but it's made you thoughtful. Most
of the girls your age I've known are a lot younger."

She leaned her head against his arm. "I try to hide it
sometimes. You. ... I guess I trust you."

"Thanks."

She let a moment go by where the only sounds were
their feet on the path and the breeze through the trees.

The evening was warm and damp and the moon hung
nearly full in the night, giving the woods a little illumina-
tion. Finally she said, "I. . . . You seeing anyone spe-
cial?"

"No one special," he answered without hesitation. He
paused, then added, "I had a girlfriend, back at Chapel

Hill, Ginger Colfield. We met standing in line at junior
registration, Cole, Colfield. We were sort of serious. At
least, Ginger was serious. But when I came here it got
kind of hard to hold things together, you know? Ginger's
down in Atlanta now, working for Coca-Cola, in adver-
tising. I think she's engaged. Since last year, nothing
worth talking about. You?"

"Just a high school boyfriend, two years ago in Ari-
zona. Nothing since then. Just dating around."

Jack said, "Never do much of that. I tend to land in a
relationship and stay there a long time." He paused.

"The last one sort of left me a little beat up, you know?"

Gabbie felt both comforted by the revelation and trou-
bled. She liked Jack a lot, as much as any boy she'd met
in a long time, but she was also worried things might get
out of hand. "You don't think much of long-distance ro-
mance, huh?"

He stopped and said, "You're going back to California
in September, right?"

She turned to face him. "Yes." Suddenly she was an-
gry at herself for rushing. "Look, I don't mean to make a
big thing out of this, okay?"

He looked away, as if seeking something in the night,
then said, "Maybe it is a big thing."

She tensed as if not knowing what to do next. Her
feelings were surging up from some deep place, surprising
her with their intensity. She was suddenly very scared of

Jack Cole and the effect he was having on her. But she
also knew that what was said in the next few minutes
would have a major impact on her for at least the rest of
the summer, and perhaps for a great deal longer than

that. With a sigh, a releasing of that sudden energy, she
leaned forward, resting her head on his shoulder. "Man

. . . what are you doing to me?"

He held her, saying nothing. She felt as if her heart
were trying to burst out of her rib cage, as if she couldn't
get a breath of air. Softly he spoke into her ear. "You
could transfer to Fredonia. I might still be able to get
accepted into the program at UC San Diego. We could
run off to Paris and live in a garret—except my French
stinks." She giggled. "But why don't we just wait and see
if you still feel like talking to me tomorrow, okay?"

She smiled up at him, put at ease by his answer. She
saw something sweet and caring in his eyes, evident de-
spite the murk of the night. With a sudden surge of
warmth through her body, she said, "I could develop a
serious case of like for you, Jack Cole."

For an answer, he kissed her. After they separated, she
added in husky tones, "Maybe more."

They kissed again. Gabbie was suddenly aware that
for the first time since she'd started dating she was with a
man who could take her somewhere and make love to her
and she would go willingly, without protest or hesitation.

Her blood drummed in her ears, and her breath was deep
and quick. In an odd detached moment, she wondered,

Am I falling in love with this man?

Suddenly Jack stiffened, breaking the mood. She said,

"What?"

"Listen," he said softly.

She strained and heard nothing at first, then a faint,
unfamiliar sound. It hung just under the masking noise of
the branches rustling in the night breeze, a hint of some-
thing different, maddeningly close to being recognizable,
but just beyond comprehension.

Then there was something else in the air, a terrifyingly
sad yet wonderful quality. Something hovered at the lim-
its of understanding, reaching past the conscious mind to
touch a more primitive and basic element of their emo-
tions. With a quickening pulse, Gabbie found tears well-
ing in her eyes, and she whispered, "What's happening?"

Holding her close, Jack whispered back, "I don't

know, Gabbie. I don't know." He breathed deeply, as if
reaching to take control of the alien and powerful emo-
tions that swept through him. Another deep breath, and
he said, "Something strange is going on." He looked
around. "I think over there."

With those words, the spell was somehow broken.

Whatever those astonishing and strange feelings were,
they fled as he moved. She also breathed deeply, forcing
herself to calm, and followed him.

Cautiously they moved through the woods toward the
source of the sensations. As they climbed over a fallen
tree trunk, Jack said, "I know where we are."

Gabbie looked about and hadn't the faintest notion
where they were. Her attention had been riveted to Jack,
and she suddenly felt concern that if anything happened
to him she'd not have a hint on how to find help. "Where
are we?"

He pointed with the dimming flashlight and softly
said, "The Troll Bridge is over there, just beyond that
other rise. From there the path goes straight to your back
door."

She nodded, relieved to know. Jack moved forward,
like a soldier on patrol, slightly hunched over, body
tensed, as if expecting an ambush. He worked his way
through the trees, climbing a small rise. Near the top, he
swore. "What is it?" Gabbie asked.

"Damn flashlight went out." She could hear him hit-
ting it against the palm of one hand, but no light was
forthcoming. After a futile attempt at wishing it back
into life, Jack put the light in his back pocket. He glanced
about, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. "Come to
me," he whispered.

Gabbie climbed up and could see him in the dark.

"There's a little moonlight," he offered, "but be careful.

You get to where you think you can see and you can still
fall and break a leg."

"Should we go back?"

"It's safer if we finish going up, then get the path on
the other side of Erl King Hill. Come on." He held her
hand and led her the rest of the way to the top of the rise.

Abruptly his body tensed. Gabbie squeezed his hand.

"What?"

Jack's eyes were wide with astonishment. He could
only point. For an instant Gabbie couldn't see what had
caused him to halt, then in the gloom she saw it. Across
the bald top of Erl King Hill something moved. It was as
if a cloud had passed before the moon, making shadows
dance. Gabbie glanced up; the sky was clear, without
stars because of the bright moon overhead. Slowly her
eyes adapted to the light and she began to perceive some-
thing moving across the top of the hill. Shapes, suggestive
of human form, seemed to be moving in rhythm, a sway-
ing, orderly pavane to an unheard song. On the breeze
came a faint tinkling, almost chimes, almost music. And
a scent graced the air, a blending of spices and wild-
flowers, something alien yet familiar.

Jack rubbed at his eyes with his free hand, as if fearing
that some affliction was responsible for the vision. Gabbie
was about to speak when Jack pulled her back behind a
tree. Something was approaching. Jack held Gabbie tight,
and for some reason she was terribly afraid.

Something came through the night and it plunged

Gabbie into a primitive emotional state, a childlike dread
as some unknown terror approached in the dark. She
clung to Jack. He stood firm, a rock to shelter under, her
protector. In that instant something happened within

Gabbie and she understood Jack would defend her. And
in that instant her concern shifted from herself to Jack.

Suddenly she was afraid of losing him.

The dread rose up within, and Gabbie knew some-
thing powerful and wicked loomed close at hand. What-
ever it was came within touching distance. Gabbie buried
her face against Jack's chest and held her breath, over-
whelmed by inexplicable fear. She felt a presence mani-
fest itself nearby, then around them, and whatever it was
knew they were hiding behind the tree and was about to
reach for them, and if it touched them they would both
be lost: Primitive recognition came into focus, and a
scream rose in Gabbie's throat.

Then the presence vanished. Gabbie checked the urge

to shriek and run, swallowing her own fear. She felt Jack
rock-hard with tension, breathing in rapid, shallow
rhythm. Whatever had been approaching had turned
away, and the sense of dread had turned away with it.

Gabbie dug her fingers into Jack's shirt and listened, but
the evil presence, the thing of nameless horror, had gone.

In the dark they heard only the sounds of the night,
the breeze moving the ancient branches, the rustle of
leaves blowing through the woods. A scampering sound
here and there would alert them to the passage of a night
creature, perhaps a red squirrel fleeing the approach of an
owl, or a raccoon foraging nearby.

Gabbie gasped a deep breath, a feeling of relief surging
through her. She felt Jack slowly relax. He whispered,

"You okay?"

She whispered back, "Yes. What the hell was all
that?"

"I don't know." He led her away from the bole of the
tree and glanced over the rise. Whatever they had seen
before seemed to have vanished without a trace. After a
silent moment Jack said, "What did you see there?"

Gabbie hesitated, not certain. "Something. Vague
shapes. Maybe that light you talked about when we were
riding. You know, St. Elmo's fire. Anyway, it was pretty
dim."

Jack remained silent for a long time. At last he said,

"Yes, that must have been it."

"Why? What did you see?"

Jack looked at her, his face white in the moonlight.

"You're going to think I'm crazy, but I could have sworn
for the first moment that I saw a bunch of people dancing
across the top of the hill, all dressed up in robes and
gowns. Then suddenly it was like looking through a fog."

Without conviction she said, "Too much brandy?"

"Maybe. But one thing is certain, it was weird." He
took her by the hand and led her over the rise, down
toward the path home. "From now on, when I hear
strange stories about these woods I think I'll take them a
little more seriously."

Resuming their walk, Gabbie reviewed what had hap-

pened. As they left Erl King Hill, the memory of the
figures on the hill became faint, less distinct, until she
was certain she had only imagined recognizable shapes,
and the terror had been some unreasoning fear in the
dark. As they crossed the Troll Bridge and made their
way toward home, Gabbie became more and more cer-
tain she had been the victim of her own imagination.

"Jack?"

"What?"

"This is going to sound dumb, but . . . what did we
see on the hill back there?"

Jack faltered a moment, as if the question surprised
him, then fell back into step. "What . . . ? Some-
thing. ... I don't know. I think it was a trick of the
light. Why? Worried?"

She said not, then fell silent. She couldn't imagine why
she had been so worked up over a few strange movements
in the distance. She was certain what she and Jack had
seen was but shadows and moonlight playing across the
bald hill. And her mind was quickly losing its fascination
with mysteries in the dark woods. It was turning to the
question of her feelings for Jack, and that was enough of
a mystery for her.

Behind them, in the gloom, he stepped out from be-
hind a tree, while the sound of the dancers carried past
him on the wind. He was black and featureless as he hid
from mortal eyes. Then he willed the mask changed and
suddenly he was stunning in his beauty, a figure of awe-
some perfection. His eyes were blue, like the ice of a
frozen lake in a winterscape never seen by mortals, and
his movements were supple, and he seemed to flow across
the landscape without sound. His form was encased in a
faint glow, and around him hovered the scent of spices
and wildflowers. He was light and beauty and he was evil.

He watched until Jack and Gabbie vanished from his
sight, then he turned to face in the direction of the other.

Her presence so near had halted him as he had thought
to trouble the two mortals passing by. Only she could
challenge his will. Only she had enough power to possi-
bly balk him. With anger mixed with a hint of fear, he

laughed, and the night's blackness was rent by the sound.

With a smile that held no humor, he bowed in the direc-
tion of the Queen's court and vanished.

Upon the distant hillock the Queen's court paused in
their dance, for the music halted. The musicians turned
as one, looking past the dancers into the night. All shiv-
ered, for they knew he was again upon the night, taking
unto himself that which he desired, and save for the

Queen's protection, all were at his mercy. They were
afraid, for to hear the sound of his laughter was to hear
madness.

14

Gloria jumped slightly at the sound of the kitchen door
slamming. For just an instant she heard another sound in
the distance, the sound of laughter. She put aside her
discomfort as she heard Gabbie's and Jack's voices. Glo-
ria thought she'd see how they were doing, then decided
the intimate, low tones of conversation indicated any in-
terruption would be unwelcome. Given Gabbie's obvious
attraction to the young man from North Carolina, Gloria
decided to let things lie.

She glanced over to where Phil sat studying some
notes for the next day's work. Then she heard Patrick's
voice shouting from the boys' room. "Mom! Dad!" She
was out of her chair and moving toward the stairs with-
out thought. The boy's tone had been excited, not
alarmed, but Phil followed his wife with an expression of
concern on his face, wondering why she was so jumpy.

They entered the boys' room to find both of them
seated upon their toy chest, gazing out the window with
rapt expressions on their faces. Sean said, "Wow!" draw-
ing out the exclamation. Patrick echoed his brother.

Out by the barn, a dozen tiny lights hung in the night
air, pinpoints of blue-green glow, moving through the
murk, blinking on and off. "Neat!" said Patrick.

Phil laughed. "Fireflies, boys. You think this is some-
thing? One good rain and there'll be thousands of them
out there. We'll get a mason jar and catch some." To his
wife he said, "You know, I completely forgot about light-
ning bugs. It's the sort of thing you take for granted
when you grow up with them. I didn't think about how
the kids would feel seeing them for the first time."

Gloria smiled. Something was making her jumpy and
she felt foolish at her alarm. Still, she was the mother.

"Okay, back to bed."

"Aw, Mom," both boys said as one.

"Can't we watch a little longer?" asked Sean, his voice
pleading.

"Well, for a while. But I'm coming back in ten min-
utes, and if you're not in bed, I'll. . . ."

Both boys grinned. This was not a real threat. "We'll
go right to bed," assured Patrick. Everyone knew the
boys would be under the covers only as soon as they
heard their mother's footfalls upon the stairs.

"Okay, then. Ten minutes."

Phil put his arm around his wife's waist. "Next year
you'll hear the peepers."

"What's peepers?" asked Sean.

"Spring peepers," answered their father. "Little frogs,
about the size of a pencil eraser; they make the loudest
sound. It's fun."

"Neat," said Patrick.

"Good night, boys," said Phil, and the adults left.

Patrick and Sean were as good as their word and went
straight to bed a moment before Gloria entered the room.

After she had tucked them in and returned downstairs,

Patrick fell quickly asleep. But Sean felt a strange rest-
lessness and, after ten minutes of trying hard, gave up
and crept back toward the window.

He settled comfortably atop the toy chest and watched
as the tiny blue-green lights wove their dance. He was
fascinated by the sight. In California's desert climate,
fireflies were unknown, and this was as good as anything
he'd seen at Disneyland. Then several of the lights moved
toward the house and Sean craned his neck to watch

them as they vanished below the eaves beneath his gabled
window.

He could see a hint of illumination and knew the fire-
flies were just below where he could see them. Putting his
face as close to the screen as he could, he could barely
make out their presence.

Then suddenly one came shooting up next to the
screen, causing Sean to jump back a little. His eyes
opened wide as he saw that before him was nothing that
could be called an insect.

Hanging in the night air was a tiny creature of light. A
tiny woman, nude and perfectly formed, no bigger than

Sean's thumb, hovered like a hummingbird on faintly
seen, glowing wings. Eyes that were enormous for her
small face regarded Sean with merry amusement for a
moment, then the creature sped off.

Sean sat stunned. He glanced to where Patrick lay
sleeping, and turned to face the door to the hall, left open
a crack so his parents could check up on the twins with-
out making a sound. He was uncertain what to do.

After a long moment of sitting with his heart pound-
ing, Sean returned to bed. Sleep was a long time in com-
ing.

JULY

1

The band struck up "The Stars and Stripes Forever," and
while there seemed scant agreement among the brass and
woodwinds as to the key, the crowd applauded. The

Pittsville High School Cougars Marching Band led the
procession down Central Avenue, past the offices of the

Pittsville Herald, where it would turn onto State Street
and make its way toward the municipal park. The annual

Pittsville Fourth of July parade was under way.

The boys sat on the curb, below the press of adults,
granted a clear view by virtue of their diminutive size.

Each held a tiny American flag in his right hand and
waved it vigorously. While the televised Rose Parade
might hold little interest for them, this celebration of
high school band, homemade floats, and local celebrities
in cars from the nearby Buick agency fascinated them.

There was a raw exuberance, a joyous, genuine feeling of
festival, neither had experienced before.

Patrick elbowed his brother. Nearly any excuse was
good enough for a sibling brawl and Sean made ready for
a scuffle. But he halted when Patrick said, "There's Gab-
bie!"

Phil and Gloria stood behind their sons and waved as

Gabbie and Jack rode into view. A group of local horse
breeders and fanciers had organized a mounted company,
all decked out in Revolutionary period costumes. Jack sat
on John Adams, dressed in a woodsman's outfit, com-
plete with a coonskin hat and a flintlock rifle from some-
one's attic. Gabbie wore a fine gown, which probably
should have been in a museum, rescued from someone's
family trunk for the occasion. It was of rich silk brocade,
tight at the waist and low-cut, showing her figure to good
advantage and displaying an ample portion of bosom.

Her appearance was greeted by several loud whistles
from the older boys in the crowd. She blushed and Jack
looked irritated. Spying her father and stepmother and
the boys, she waved. As she passed, she mouthed the
word "sidesaddle" and rolled her eyes heavenward, as if
in despair. Gloria laughed and nodded, indicating she
understood Gabbie's discomfort.

As the riders passed, Gloria said, "Isn't she lovely?"

Phil nodded, his expression revealing his deep love for
and pride in his daughter. Gloria smiled to herself as she
said, "Jack certainly looked handsome, too."

Phil shrugged as a group of children from the William

Pitt Middle School came by, marching with a determina-
tion worthy of a military honor guard. "I guess," he said
absently. Gloria laughed. "What?" he asked.

"Just your overprotective fatherly instincts coming
out again, that's all."

"Me?"

Gloria watched as Jack and Gabbie turned down State

Street, out of sight. "I may be wrong, but it looks like
things might be getting a bit serious between those two."

Phil looked incredulous. "What? They're just kids."

"Not according to the state of New York, lover. Both
can vote and do most of the other things restricted to
supposedly responsible adults."

"Well, they're pretty young, any way you look at it."

Gloria laughed again, and her husband looked irritated.

"I'm being funny, huh?" Gloria only nodded as she
sought to stem her amusement. Finally Phil smiled at
her. "You think it's getting serious?"

From below, Sean said, "Well, they sure kiss a lot."

Both parents looked down and Gloria said, "Have you
been spying on your sister?"

Patrick sounded impatient as he looked up at his
mother. "Cripes, they say good night under our win-
dow." He puckered up and pantomimed kissing Sean,
who laughed and pushed him away. "Kissy, kissy."

"Hey!" commanded Phil, trying to sound stern. "Lay
off Gabbie." But he saw his wife's amusement, a reflec-
tion of his own.

At last Gloria said, "Cut her some slack, guys. It's not
too many years down the road before you'll be doing
plenty of the same thing. And if God's got a sense of
humor, your girlfriends will have little brothers."

Both boys made faces, as the suggestion was worthy of
a place alongside eating liver and visits to the dentist.

"Ugh!" was Sean's comment, while Patrick shook his
head.

The parade continued, and when the last of the home-
made floats was past, Phil said, "Let's get over to the
park." He glanced at his watch. "We've got an hour be-
fore all the ceremonies are over, so we can set up the
picnic and have the fire going when Gabbie and Jack find
us. Then we can take it easy until the fireworks."

A boy appeared as if by magic next to the Hastings
family. He looked down at the twins, who returned his
appraising look. "You guys play?" he said, pounding his
small fist into a beat-up outfielder's mitt. Both boys, as
one, raised mitts from where they had lain on the curb.

"There's a game at the park. You want to play?"

The boys sprang up, their movement the only agree-
ment necessary. They darted ahead of their parents, only
slightly restrained by Gloria's shout to stay close.

2

Gabbie came toward the family picnic site, holding her
skirts defiantly above her ankles as she led My Dande-
lion. Gloria caught sight of her advancing stepdaughter
and said, "Oh shit, they've had a fight."

Phil looked up from the charcoal he was poking and
nodded. "Yup. She looks just like her mother did when
she was going to rip off my head about something. Batten
down the hatches."

Gabbie managed somehow to land atop the large blan-
ket with a swirl of silks and linen petticoats about her

while still maintaining her angry aspect. "Hello, Gab-
bie," Gloria said softly.

"Hi, honey," added her father while he arranged
coals.

Her answer was something close to a grunt. She
looked around and noticed the twins were off playing a
ragged game of sandlot baseball with the town kids and
everyone else was busy fixing dinners. After several min-
utes of silence, Gabbie asked, "All right, why don't you
say something?"

Gloria took the long barbecue fork from Phil's hand
and indicated with a tilt of her head he should go talk to
his daughter. Phil hunkered down beside Gabbie and
said, "Okay, what's the problem?"

"Oh! A cheerleader. A freckle-faced high school air-
head with big tits."

"Jack?" asked Phil, suddenly wishing he'd restricted
himself to sons.

"Yes," she snapped. "We were resting the horses be-
fore taking them back and this little bitch comes over to
talk to him about 'something personal' "—she mimicked
a breathy voice—"and he tells me to go on ahead, he'll
only be a few minutes. Well, if his taste runs to children,
that's fine with me."

Phil glanced at Gloria, his expression begging help.

Gloria dropped the pretense of tending the fire and came
to her stepdaughter's side. "Maybe you're being a little
tough on him, Gabbie."

Gabbie's eyes flashed and she stood up. "I've got to
get My Dandelion back to Mr. Laudermilch's stable."

Phil said, "If you're hacking her over to Lauder-
milch's, how will you get back here?"

Her anger barely contained, she said, "There's a ride
for us."

Gloria shook her head as Gabbie hiked her skirts and,
in most unladylike fashion, mounted the horse. She kept
her skirts pulled up around her waist, revealing her cut-
off blue jeans and bare legs, one of which she hooked
between the two saddle horns. "God damn, I hate riding

sidesaddle!" She reined the mare around and used her
riding crop to get her trotting off.

Gloria turned to Phil. "Yes, I'd say things are getting
serious."

"At least on one side," he agreed as he rose. "I sort of
understood when she got so crazy after her breakup with

Danny last year. . . . They'd been going together
awhile. But she's known Jack a month. I've never seen
her like this with a boy before."

Gloria said, "That's because she's fallen in love with a
man, boyo. A young one, but a man. The first one's al-
ways the toughest."

Phil said nothing, glancing to where his sons played.

"Maybe it'll get better," he said.

Gloria laughed and kissed his cheek. "We can only
hope."

A short time later, Jack came up leading John Adams.

"Hi," he said cheerily. Phil and Gloria exchanged
glances as Jack looked around. "Where's Gabbie?"

"She said she had to get the horse back to the stable,"

answered Gloria.

Jack said, "That's right. But I didn't pass her."

Gloria said, "She rode off that way."

"Oh, damn," said Jack, then he quickly added,

"Sorry."

Phil said, "There a problem between you two?"

"Not that I know of. It's just that way you hook along

Williams Avenue. She's taking the shortcut through the
woods behind your place. She's only ridden those trails a
couple of times and could get herself lost. I'd better get
after her."

Gloria considered staying silent, but said, "Gabbie
seemed pretty upset about something."

Jack mounted. "She was?"

"Something about a cheerleader."

Jack's expression turned incredulous. "She said that?"

"In pretty certain terms," said Phil.

Jack shook his head in wonder. "That's Sheila Riley.

She's decided to apply to Cornell and wants Aggie to
write a letter of recommendation. She asked me to ask

Aggie. She just a little shy about Aggie, is all. Besides,
she's dating a guy down at Penn." Jack looked hard at

Gloria. "Gabbie really got ticked?"

"Royally pissed," observed Gloria.

"Phil, no disrespect intended, but have you noticed
your daughter can get a little headstrong and opinionated
from time to time? Not to mention fly off the handle?"

"So I have noticed, Jack, so I have noticed."

Jack glanced at the sky. "I better go after her. There's
only an hour or so's light left. If she's not through those
woods quickly, it could be a pain finding her."

Without further word, he put heels to John Adams,
heading toward Williams Avenue. Phil began to laugh,
and Gloria said, "What?"

"Just I think I like that guy."

Gloria said, "Me too."

"Hey, look there." Phil pointed.

Glancing over to where the boys were still playing,

Gloria said, "What?"

Phil chuckled. "Just that Patrick made a hell of a
throw to second to get the runner. Kid's got quite an
arm."

Gloria smiled at Phil's proud-father act. "Well, let us
commence with the victuals, sir. It's the bottom of the
ninth and Mighty Casey's at bat and, win or lose, we're
about to have some hungry boys descend upon us."

Phil laughed and put some hot dogs on the fire.

3

Gabbie rode past the shack. Above the door a neatly
painted sign proclaimed Doyle's Appliance Repair. She
urged My Dandelion up over the dirt curb and past the
shack. She knew that a few feet into the woods she would
be on the corner of Aggie Grant's property. She had
never entered this way, but had ridden nearby with Jack
a few times. She roughly knew where the path that ran to

her own farm was, and from there how to get to the

Laudermilch farm. Besides, she didn't want to chance
meeting Jack by riding through town, and hacking My

Dandelion back to Laudermilch's place was giving her
time to think.

Gabbie's anger was fading, being rapidly replaced by a
sense of loss. She'd never been this jealous in her life and
the strange hollow pain in her stomach was something
alien to her. Her only other serious relationship had
ended badly, but even then she had felt outrage at being
lied to rather than this terrible emptiness. Her cheeks
were burning and her eyes seemed to tear without reason.

She felt miserable. How could he? she asked herself.

Easy, she answered. The little redheaded bitch was a
knockout, big breasts without being chunky and legs that
took a week to get to the ground. Tears gathered in Gab-
bie's eyes and she descended into a thoroughly black de-
spair.

Abruptly Gabbie became aware of an odd plopping
sound and knew that one of My Dandelion's shoes had
worked loose. Before she could rein in, the horse faltered
and her walking rhythm shifted. She was limping.

Gabbie was instantly off the horse, inspecting the left
front hoof. A bent horseshoe dangled by one nail. Gabbie
swore as she pulled it free from the hoof. Holding it up,
she saw that the clench on two of the nails had pulled
through the hoof, working the shoe loose. My Dandelion
had then stepped on the back of the flopping shoe with
her left rear hoof, ripping it away. Ignoring the smear of
mud My Dandelion's leg had left on the brocade of the
dress, Gabbie inspected the hoof. There was one big
crack where one of the nails had twisted away, and sev-
eral small holes where the nails had pulled through. Gab-
bie swore again and considered the likelihood of a bruise.

If the crack didn't go too deep, it could be cross-filed or
held together with a metal staple. Otherwise it would
continue to split up to the coronet. "Ah, damn!" shouted

Gabbie in frustration. "This is one shitty day, world.

Thank you very much."

She held the shoe in her right hand and grabbed the

reins with her left. She'd have to lead the animal, for to
ride her on this rocky path was to risk further damage to
the hoof. She looked back and was relieved to see the
horse was not favoring her left front leg. At least there
was no sign of damage at this point. Still, the path was
hard, rocky dirt, and she'd have to be careful where she
led the horse. She considered returning to the park, but
taking the horse over concrete would be as bad as or
worse than over the dirt.

There was a stony rise, which normally she would
have ridden over, to reach the path to Aggie's. Now she
had to find a way around it. "Which way?" she said to
herself.

Picking the left, she began circling. It shouldn't be
difficult to find the path, she judged. It just wasn't that
far around the rise.

A short time later, Gabbie began to feel the first hints
of concern. The rise had been circled, she was certain, but
nothing looked familiar. And night was falling unexpect-
edly fast.

She attempted to judge where the last early evening
light was coming from. It was lighter to her right, which
she figured had to be the last rays of the sunset and there-
fore west. She needed to continue south, so she was head-
ing in pretty much the right direction. But there was a
gully ahead she'd never seen before.

She led the horse slowly down into the gully and dis-
covered a small rill of water gurgling over the stones.

Gabbie halted while she thought. If she followed the
gully, she'd be certain to find her way to the Troll Bridge,
and from there home was a snap.

She led My Dandelion up the other side of the gully
and began to follow it. Soon the shadows of the woods
were turning opaque, and Gabbie felt her worry deepen-
ing with them. It was taking too long to find the bridge,
she was certain.

Then she heard the sound. It struck at her, startling
her. It was a clear, familiar ringing sound, one she
couldn't put a name to. It came from ahead.

She halted. The sound repeated several times in suc-

cession, and she knew what she was hearing was impossi-
ble. It must be something else, she concluded.

She led the horse forward and followed the gully
around a leisurely curve, past a sheltering stand of trees,
so tightly placed they formed a screen. Beyond the trees a
large wagon stood, with an old dapple-grey horse tied to
one of the large front wheels. In the back a portable forge
burned brightly while a tall man inspected a piece of met-
alwork he held before him with large tongs. He judged it
near ready and plunged it back into the fire. He turned it
in the coals and stepped upon something. The forge burst
into bright light, and Gabbie saw that he had a foot-
powered bellows connected to the bottom of the forge.

He pumped the bellows until the coals burned white-hot.

After a moment he pulled out his work, placed it upon an
anvil resting behind the wagon, and began hitting it with
his hammer.

Gabbie couldn't believe her eyes. A farrier stood
working in the middle of the clearing. She watched in
fascination as he quickly turned the metal, a heavy pin of
some sort. Gabbie regarded the horseshoe she held and
wondered if she was going crazy.

She approached the blacksmith and he glanced at her.

She faltered when she saw his eyes. They were so blue
they were almost electric. The man was brawny but
young-looking and, under the soot and smoke smudge,
strikingly handsome. He stood easily six feet two or
more, and his arms were heavily muscled. His beard was
black, as was the hair that hung below a broad-brimmed
hat. He wore an old-style linen shirt, with the long
sleeves rolled up over his biceps. Black tufts of hair
peeked over the top of his shirt and covered the backs of
his arms. His trousers were held up by black suspenders.

Suddenly Gabbie understood. There were Amish living
over in Cattaraugus County. She'd seen a couple of them
at one of the stores in town. They didn't believe in cars or
something, but she knew they still practiced arts and
crafts like their forebears. And this portable smithy was
something out of the nineteenth century.

The man inspected his handiwork and plunged it into

a barrel of water. Putting aside the tongs, he came over to

Gabbie. He raised his forefinger to his hat and said,

"G'day, miss. You havin' some trouble, 'tseems." Gabbie
was also surprised by his accent. It was almost Scottish
or from the north of England in tone and pronunciation,
and she had thought Amish to be German or Dutch.

The man smiled, but Gabbie was struck by something
powerful in his eyes. He glanced her over, in a cursory
manner, but his gaze was almost a caress.

Gabbie flushed, suddenly wishing the gown's decolle-
tage wasn't so deep. She could feel the blush going all the
way down to her breasts. "Ah . . . yes," she answered.

"My . . ." Gabbie pulled her gaze from his blue eyes
and looked at the horseshoe. "My horse lost a shoe." She
held it out. The farrier took it, inspected it, and then took
the horse's leg and examined the hoof.

"It's little, though you did well t'lead the beastie.

Many a lady would've ridden her regardless, and then
complained t'the groom of a lame animal the next morn.

We'll have her right in a bit."

"Thank you." Gabbie followed after as he led My

Dandelion to the forge and tied her to a rear wheel,
slightly confused by the smith's odd remark about a
groom. "But what of your own work?"

" 'Tis done, lass. I sheared a linchpin in the wagon
tongue and had t'fashion a new one. Soon as we fixed
your problem, I'll be on m'way."

Gabbie sat on a fallen trunk watching as the man ex-
pertly inspected the hoof again. "We'll need file a bit,
t'keep the hoof from cleavin'," he said.

"Staple?"

"Think not, though were it a bit deeper, I'd do so." He
looked up from the hoof and smiled at Gabbie, and she
felt a hot flush run through her. "You know horses, then,
miss. Not many ladies do. Usually they leave such con-
cerns t'their stable men."

He put Gabbie on edge. She found her mind wander-
ing unexpectedly. He was very good-looking in a brutish
way, like a handsome wrestler or football lineman. Gen-
erally not her type. But damn it, he was sexy. She put her

hand to her forehead and it came away damp. Must be
from the heat of the forge, and the day was muggy. She
took a deep breath. There was something very odd about
this blacksmith. "Excuse me for asking, but are you

Amish?"

The man laughed and a chill ran down Gabbie's back.

The sound was both playful and threatening. "No, lass.

I've not the honor t'member m'self with those fine folk.

But they're a lot t'understand and respect the old ways,
keepin' themselves plain as they do."

The man stuck the shoe into the forge and moved to
the horse. He took a large rasp and began to dress the
hoof. "The shoe's but a little bent. I'll make it right in a

jiffy."

Gabbie shivered again, not knowing why. The woods
were darker than she thought they should be by now, and
she didn't know where she was. Pushing down her uneas-
iness, she said, "I didn't know there were itinerant farri-
ers in this area, Mr. . . . ?"

With a quick smile that brought gooseflesh to her
arms and breasts, he said, "Smith, Wayland Smith. And
there are a few of us about, though I've not always been

—how'd you say, miss—itinerant? I'd a forge in White

Horse, and for many a year I'd be known for being the
fairest smith about, but times change and one must go
where there's work. That's truth."

She tried to gauge his age. He could have been in his
late twenties or early thirties, but his manner made her
think he was much older. And there was an aura of
power surrounding him, basic, almost primitive, and very
sexual.

"I'd have stayed in White Horse, I'm thinkin', t'this
day, but my master came for me. ... I'd fled his service
and not followed him. . . ."

His words seemed to fade and Gabbie wasn't making
sense of them anyway. Master? Service? He spoke as if he
had been some sort of bondsman or servant. Still, what-
ever curiosity Gabbie felt was fleeting as she watched the
smith.

Dropping the horse's leg, he recovered the shoe from

the forge. He inspected it, turning it as if reading some-
thing in the dull glow. With a grin that made Gabbie
shudder, he plunged the glowing shoe into the coals, and
began to pump the bellows. He said something to her, but
she failed to understand the words. She merely nodded.

He pumped up and down in a rhythm, his eyes seeing
what only he knew in the burning fire. Then, like a mod-
ern Vulcan, he pulled the shoe from the fire and purpose-
fully turned toward the anvil. His right hand seized his
hammer and he raised it high, bringing it down on the
shoe with a ring that caused Gabbie to jump a little with
the sound. Up and down the hammer went, and Gabbie
found herself mesmerized by the sight and sound of it.

The muscles of Wayland Smith's arms bunched and
flexed as he hammered and Gabbie found the sight fasci-
nating. With each exertion he made a slight exhalation,
almost a grunt, and Gabbie was reminded of the sounds

Jack made when they kissed deeply. The smith grinned,
as if amused, and his teeth shone bright and clean against
his beard. He hummed a nameless tune and seemed to
time the rhythm with his hammer blows, as if beating
time to an unknown dance. Gabbie felt the rhythm seep
into her soul and she became aware of a moist heat build-
ing deep inside her body. Her eyes half closed, as if in
dreaming, and she saw that the smith was almost beauti-
ful in his raw power. Images of his body, his skin covered
in a sheen of sweat that reflected the firelight as he arched
and moved above her, flooded her mind and she gasped.

She shook her head, and a distant thought came to her:

What's wrong with me? It fled as it had come, quickly,
and was barely remembered. She watched the smith.

Sweat gathered below the brim of his hat and ran
down his cheeks. His shirt became damp and clung. Gab-
bie could not think of any man she had seen who had
looked this strong. She was sure that he was stronger
than any of the football types and weight lifters she'd
seen on television. And this man's strength was more
basic, more primitive and natural, than that manifested
by those who spend hours in the gym. A fleeting image of

Nautilus machines and free weights crossed her mind.

She made a comparison that made her giggle. Pumping
iron was nothing next to forging iron.

The man looked up at the sound of the giggle and
smiled at Gabbie. She almost gasped at the force of his
gaze. She felt her entire body flush and shudder. A tin-
gling, hot awareness swept through her and coherent
thought was elusive. She was becoming aroused as she
watched Wayland Smith beat hot iron against the anvil.

In a distracted way, she wondered if she was losing her
mind. It only took a minute to hammer a shoe; she'd
watched farriers since she was a child. But it seemed
she'd been watching this man for hours. And with each
pump of the bellows, each strike of his hammer, Gabbie
felt her mind slip away and a primitive, urgent need rise
up within.

Wayland plunged the horseshoe deep into the water
barrel, and Gabbie gasped aloud, her eyes watering with
tears of sudden sadness, as if her body rather than the hot
iron had been plunged into the cold water. A cool breeze
filled the glade and she shivered, all at once chilled.

God! What is wrong with me? she wondered. Smith took
the shoe to the horse, fitted it, and began filing the hoof.

The rasp smoothed the cracked hoof, and the smith care-
fully measured each stroke, so the angle of the shoe
would be proper. Pulling nails from his shirt pocket, he
began fastening the shoe to the hoof.

Gabbie stood up, in anticipation of leaving, and her
knees were weak. She took a step and found her legs
rubbery. There was something wrong here, and she was
confused and a little afraid. A scent of flowers blew by on
the breeze, and Gabbie felt her head swim. There was an
odd spicy quality to it that made her blood pound . . .

like the rhythm of the anvil, she thought absently.

Then the man rose and said, " 'Tis done, missy."

Gabbie felt perspiration running down her cheek, and
the man seemed to be speaking from a long distance
away. "Thank you," she said weakly.

She stepped around to take the reins from him. Then
she felt his hands upon her waist. Her breath caught in
her throat and her body burned as a tremble of excite-

ment rushed through her. She turned, half expecting the
man to embrace her. A small, detached part of her mind
was frantic, but she was caught up in a hazy cloud of heat
and odors. She could smell the salt sweat of him, masked
by smoke, mixed with the flowers and spices. Spices? she
wondered. Her eyes closed and her lips parted in antici-
pation. Then the man was lifting her to the saddle, as
easily as if she were an infant. She blinked, trying to clear
her watery vision. He stood holding up the reins for her.

She took them as he said, "Make 'long the gully, Miss

Hastin's. You'll find the bridge in no time. From there
t'your home is but a few minutes. And go quickly. The
light fails and the woods aren't safe after dark."

He swatted My Dandelion on the rump and the horse
was moving, taking Gabbie from the circle of light
around the wagon. Her head swam and she breathed
deeply, trying to catch her breath. She found herself cry-
ing, feeling a profound sadness, and not knowing why.

Then slowly her vision cleared.

She looked around and found she knew where she
was. It was also lighter than she would have thought.

She'd easily spent a half hour or more with the smith,
and it should have been dark.

What had gone on? She'd almost had an orgasm when
he touched her, and that unnerved her in a way she
couldn't understand. It was too frightening to contem-
plate any man having that much sexual power over her.

For that was what it had been, a raw, basic sexual power.

Embarrassment made her eyes water again and she defi-
antly wiped them. Damn, I'm no child to be afraid be-
cause a guy turns me on. But another voice said that
what she had been through was something different from
simple arousal. Jack could turn her on. This Wayland

Smith could turn her inside out. Suddenly she was afraid.

She looked behind and saw no hint of the smith and his
wagon. Then she thought, I didn't offer to pay him! On
the heels of that thought came the realization that he
knew where she lived, and if he wanted payment, knew
where to find her. But how did he know who I was! And
the thought of his coming to find her both thrilled and

terrified her. She looked around as her vision cleared
some more. How far had she come in that dreamlike
state?

The sound of another horse came to her and she won-
dered if Wayland Smith had decided to follow her. Half
fearfully, half excited, she turned and waited and then,
with a flood of relief, saw Jack coming down the trail.

Jack reined in beside her, began to speak, and saw
something in her face. "Are you okay?"

Gabbie touched her cheeks and found tears running
down them. She only nodded. "Gabbie, what is it? It's
not Sheila Riley, is it? She's just a kid."

Gabbie looked at him with confusion in her expres-
sion. "Sheila Riley?" she asked softly. "No." She leaned
across the gap between the horses and kissed Jack, her
tongue darting into his mouth. In her hunger, she almost
fell from the saddle.

Jack reached out, steadying her as he reluctantly
pushed her away, then touched her face. "Christ al-
mighty. You're burning up! Come on, let's get you
home."

Gabbie nodded dully. She allowed Jack to take My

Dandelion's reins while she held on to the saddle. Images
of fires and the smell of spices were fogging her mind and
she couldn't understand why she was so confused.

4

Gloria looked up from doing the laundry and saw Jack
standing at the back porch door. "Hi. Come on in."

"How's Gabbie?"

"Tired, but otherwise fine. Her temp was normal this
morning and the doctor said not to bother bringing her in
unless it went back up. He thinks she just caught some
bug."

Jack's expression betrayed disagreement. "She was in

a pretty ragged frame of mind, Gloria. I'm no expert, but

I'm pretty sure she was hallucinating."

Gloria stopped folding towels. "What makes you say
that?"

Jack crossed his arms and leaned against the door-
jamb. Just then Bad Luck stuck his nose in from the
kitchen, saw Jack, snuffed a breath in greeting, and re-
turned to the kitchen. Gloria said, "They're installing the
satellite dish and the workmen asked he be kept inside."

Jack looked surprised. "He's too friendly. Gets in the
way." Jack nodded. "Now, what were you saying?"

"She talked about meeting a blacksmith, a fellow with
a horse-drawn wagon, who fixed a thrown shoe. I
checked with Mr. Laudermilch's foreman, and he said
that he thinks My Dandelion had cracked her hoof a
couple of days before and they'd filed 'cross it and
reshoed her. He checked and couldn't see anything differ-
ent. Besides, I was only ten minutes behind her at most,
and it couldn't have happened in the time she says. So it
must have been a hallucination."

Gloria looked both thoughtful and worried. "Gabbie's
not given to flights of fancy. She might have told you
about her mother and grandmother—anyway, her child-
hood was pretty rugged emotionally. She tends to have
both feet on the ground. She has a temper, but otherwise
she's a pretty down-to-earth girl."

"Well, I got pretty sick when I was a kid, a high fe-
ver, and hallucinated giant bunny rabbits hiding in my
closet. The human mind is capable of a lot."

"Fever can do that," Gloria agreed, though her agree-
ment seemed tentative. "Maybe she ought to see the doc-
tor anyway."

Just then a voice from the kitchen caused them to
turn. Gabbie entered and brightly said, "Gloria, I'm fam-
ished—" She halted when she saw Jack and her expres-
sion turned dark. "Hello," she said icily.

Gloria put the last towel on top of the new dryer. "I
think I'll go see how the workmen are coming." She beat
a hasty retreat.

Jack said, "You okay?"

Unexpectedly, Gabbie was taken aback by the ques-
tion. "Sure? Why wouldn't I be?"

"You were kind of out of it last night, is why."

She looked at him, curiosity softening her eyes for a
moment. "What do you mean, 'out of it'? I was just a
little—upset." Her expression darkened again. "And now
that you mention it, what are you doing here? I thought
you'd be out with the balloon queen."

"Sheila?" said Jack, his forehead wrinkled in concern.

"I explained all that last night. She wants Aggie to write
a recommendation letter to Cornell. She's pinned to a frat
rat down at Penn. Gabbie, don't you remember my bring-
ing you home?"

Gabbie's face drained of color. She backed into the
kitchen and sat down at the table. "I ... I remember
leaving the park. I rode into the woods and . . . it's a
little vague after that. I woke up this morning, so I fig-
ured I got home—My Dandelion! I was going to take her
over to Mr. Laudermilch's."

Jack pulled out another chair and sat down. "I took
care of it last night, after I put you to bed."

Suddenly Gabbie flushed. "You put me to bed?"

Jack smiled, a little self-consciously. "Well, you were
feverish and someone had to. I put you in bed, called Mr.

Laudermilch's place, and told him what was going on.

He sent a couple of boys over to take the horses back, and
when your folks got in, I took off."

Gabbie hid her face behind her hands as she uttered a
groan. "I'm so embarrassed."

Jack leaned back in his chair. "Yes, I can understand.

That tattoo is pretty ugly."

She looked out from behind her hands, half-amused,
half-upset, and hit him in the arm. "You bastard! I bet
you enjoyed it. Taking advantage."

Jack was caught halfway between a grin and a con-
cerned look. "Actually, I was pretty worried. You were
drenched with perspiration, burning up and all. I had to
wet you down with a damp cloth." His grin broadened.

"Still, I can't say as I didn't take notes as I went."

She hit him again, harder. "Ow!" he protested.

"That's enough."

Suddenly she reached out and put her hand behind his
neck. Yanking him forward, she kissed him long and
hard. He returned the kiss, then, when she pulled away,
said softly, "Now, what was that for?"

"For being worried and for not taking advantage."

He shrugged. Gently he said, "Gabbie, when you yank
me into bed, I want it because you really want to, not
because you're all delirious with fever."

Gabbie's eyes widened. "Yank you into bed?"

Jack grinned even more. "Yes, you ... ah ... had
some interesting ideas last night."

Gabbie hid her face behind her hands again. "Oh

God!" Then after a minute she looked at him. "I thought
those were all dreams." Once more her hands covered
her face. "I think I'm going to die." She looked at him.

"What did I say?"

Jack laughed. "What's it worth to you to know?"

He leaped from his chair as she swung at his shoulder.

"You son of a bitch," she said, laughing. "You'd better
tell me!"

Jack backed away from her, his hands held out before
him in a gesture of supplication. "Now, I don't
know. . . ."

She jumped forward and he dodged into the service
porch. Bad Luck had been lurking under the kitchen ta-
ble and at the sudden burst of activity began barking, a
joyous canine celebration of noise.

"Shut up, you hound." Gabbie laughed. "You," she
said, pointing at Jack. "Speak!"

At that, Bad Luck barked. Jack halted his retreat,
laughing uncontrollably. "I surrender." Gabbie came
into the ring of his arms and he kissed her. "You didn't
say much. You said something about a blacksmith fixing

My Dandelion's shoe, then were quiet until I started un-
dressing you." She buried her face in his shoulder and
made embarrassed noises. "Then you thought to recipro-
cate."

She laughed. "Whew! I must have been out of it."

"I like that!"

She looked up into his eyes. "Don't fret," she said,
kissing him. "As long as you aren't interested in Miss

Dock Bumpers, you'll have no problems."

Jack grinned. "You really got jealous?"

Gabbie rested her head on his shoulder. "Ya, I did."

Suddenly she was angry. "Damn it," she said defiantly as
she pushed herself away and turned toward the kitchen.

"It's just not fair!"

He was after her in a stride and took her arm. Her
momentum caused her to turn and he drew her back to
him. "What's not fair?"

"In less than three months I'll be back in California."

"Hey! It'll be all right."

She looked long at him. "Promise?"

He grinned. "I promise."

She bit her lower lip. "I tried to undress you?" He
nodded. "Ow!" she said with a wince as she turned back
to the kitchen. "I'm starving. Let's eat."

"Which I take it means you want to change the sub-
ject." He admired her as she leaned over to peer into the
refrigerator. "Still, you did have me worried."

She looked back over her shoulder. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

She looked radiant. "Thanks." Looking back in the
refrigerator, she asked, "Ham or bologna?"

"Ham."

She pulled the fixings from the refrigerator and
bumped the door closed. Putting everything down on the
table, she paused and looked thoughtful. "Did you say I
talked about a blacksmith?"

"Yes, you did. Why?"

"Funny. I just had an ... image of a man ... I
don't know. It must have been the fever."

Jack only nodded, but he wondered. Too many strange
things had occurred in those woods, and he still couldn't
shake the feeling he had seen something on Erl King Hill
on Midsummer's Night; he just couldn't remember what.

And at night he had odd dreams just before falling
asleep, ghostly dancers and the faint, inhuman music. He

tried to remember the dream in the morning, but it just
slipped away; yet he knew there had been something
there. He shook himself from his musing and grabbed a
pair of plates from the cupboard, handing them over to

Gabbie.

Outside he could hear Gloria's voice as she shouted
something at the twins.

5

"Okay, monsters, back off."

The boys grudgingly retreated a step as they watched
the workmen. The concrete around the pole had been
poured a few days before and left to dry, and now the
dish itself was being mounted. Patrick and Sean had been
hovering around them all morning, asking questions, and
generally being underfoot. The two workmen didn't seem
to mind, but Gloria was determined to give them a demil-
itarized zone in which to work. She glanced at the house
and wondered if Gabbie and Jack had resolved their dif-
ferences. She was pleased that Gabbie appeared back to
normal this morning, but still felt uneasy about last night.

The fever had been sudden and severe. It had been at
least a hundred and three, if Gloria could judge from
touch. She had nursed two babies through fever and
knew Gabbie's had been high. Still, no harm, no foul, as
that basketball announcer back in L.A. said all the time.

But there was something about the sudden onset and
recovery that disturbed Gloria. It just didn't fit her set of
acceptable illnesses. Anything that wasn't clearly a cold,
flu, broken bones, or allergy was suspect. Symptoms that
didn't make sense were always a sign of terrible things
approaching. A deep fear of Gloria's, never shared with
anyone, not even Phil, was a terror of illness. Cancer,
heart disease, the other lingering, disabling illnesses with
long technical names that twisted bones, filled lungs with
fluid, robbed the muscles of strength, all were horrors

beyond her mind's ability to accept. The strongest, most
robust man she had known—her father—had died of
cancer. And the symptoms had been misleading at first.

His death simply amplified her deep fear of debilitating
illness. She gave up smoking in high school when other
girls were just beginning. She wasn't a health food fa-
natic, but she stayed away from refined sugar and high-
cholesterol foods and made sure everyone stayed active.

She had badgered Phil into running when they had met,
and now he was addicted. No, Gloria thought, it was just
a bug. But deep inside she wondered if she should press

Gabbie to see the doctor.

Ted Mullins, the owner of the local television shop,
personally supervised these installations. He had made a
fair profit from other farmers nearby and this was the
fanciest ground station he had sold yet, so he wanted it
perfect. Satisfied all was going as it should, he turned to

Gloria and said, "Ma'am, I'll need to hook the cable up
inside the house now." She nodded distractedly. "The
dog, ma'am?"

Gloria smiled. "Boys, go get Bad Luck and take him
for a walk."

"Ah, Mom," Sean began to complain. She gave them
both the Look and they fell silent and walked toward the
house. "And make it a long walk."

Mullins, a heavy man of middle years, said, "Fine-
looking boys. You must be proud."

Watching Sean and Patrick vanish around the rear
of the house, she smiled in appreciation. "Yes, I am.

They're pretty terrific kids."

"I've got a boy about their age, Casey. Ought to get
them together."

Gloria said, "Does your Casey play baseball, Mr. Mul-
lins?"

The man grinned. "All the time."

Gloria returned the grin. "If they haven't met already,
they will."

Mullins wiped his hands on his handkerchief and put
it away. "We've finally gotten a Little League charter
separated from Frewsburg's and we'll be starting teams

next year. We used to have our own, but the population
fell off fifteen years back when the economy got so sour
and factories closed down or moved. Lots of families
went to Kentucky or Texas with the factories. We had to
take our kids over to Frewsburg. Now we've got that
high-tech stuff coming and we've got enough kids for our
own league again." He glanced at the dish, obviously
pleased at the work. "But until then it's sandlot. Tell
them there's a game about every day over at the field.

Not the park field, that's for the Muni softball league, but
beyond Doak's Pond. Forms up about one in the after-
noon."

"That's a little far."

"Not too far. They can cut through the woods and
come out over on Williams Avenue. That's only a block
from the field."

Gloria didn't relish the idea of the boys' using the
woods paths with regularity. But the woods were in their
backyard, and it looked as if the Hastings family was
settling in for a while, so she judged she should get used
to the idea. As she moved toward the house with the
workman, she said, "I'll mention it to them."

Mullins turned and shouted some instructions to his
companion, who waved in acknowledgment. The boys
came tumbling through the door with Bad Luck in tow,
and Gloria said, "Mr. Mullins here has a son your age."

Patrick said, "Casey Mullins?"

The man nodded while Sean said, "We played with
him yesterday at the park. He's a good shortstop."

Gloria said, "I rest my case."

"Well, he's over there right now. There's a game about
every day, over by Doak's Pond. I'm sure they would like
to have you aboard." He glanced at Gloria, suddenly
sensing he might be speaking out of turn. "If your
mother doesn't mind."

Patrick answered for his mother. "She doesn't."

Gloria said, "Well, I like that."

"Can we go, Mom?" asked Sean.

"Just don't be late for dinner, and if anything happens,

you call. I'll come get you. I don't want you tramping
around the woods late. Got a dime?"

"Phone's twenty-five cents, Mom," said Sean with ill-
disguised disdain at such ignorance. "An' we got some
money."

"Okay, Diamond Jim. Just be careful."

"Okay!" they chorused as they dashed toward the
woods.

Mr. Mullins said, "Seems they already know the
shortcut."

Gloria said, "Sure, they're kids. Kids always know the
shortcuts."

6

Patrick fumed. "Boy, you sure can be dumb."

"It wasn't my fault!" retorted Sean.

"You don't go running to back up the shortstop on a
pick-off, dummy. Anybody knows that!" Patrick's voice
was openly scornful. Patrick stopped his brother for a
moment. "Look, when I signal a pitchout, you move to-
ward third, see? I almost hit you in the head and Casey
didn't even see the ball coming at him. You really blew
it."

Sean turned away and plodded along in silence. The
misplay had ended up costing their side the game, which
alone wasn't a problem. It had reduced their stature in
the eyes of the local kids, which was a problem. They
would have to endure a long week of being among the
last kids picked on each side, along with the nerds and
wimps, until they'd established their bona fides again.

Patrick was always intolerant of Sean's shortcomings, as-
suming because they were twins that Sean should be ca-
pable of everything Patrick was. Sean was a good pitcher

—at least, he had better than average control—while Pat-
rick usually caught, as he could make unerring throws to
any base, but the nuances of the game were often lost on

Sean in the heat of battle while Patrick always seemed to
keep his head about him. The truth was that Sean was
just average in many of the areas Patrick was outstand-
ing. Sean's gifts were more in the area of thoughtful con-
sideration, picking his spots as a pitcher. He was a
thinker, and possessed an overactive imagination that
was part of the reason for his timidity. He was afraid of
the dark because of all the things he could imagine lurk-
ing in the gloom, while Patrick took the more prosaic
attitude that if you can't see it, it isn't there. Sean glanced
down at Bad Luck; the dog seemed to have little interest
in boyish social concerns.

Finally Sean said, "Maybe we should practice?"

Patrick shrugged. "Okay, if it'll help. But I can't see
what the big deal is about getting out of the way when I
throw the darn ball."

They turned at the end of Williams Avenue, hiking up
the little rise past Barney Doyle's Appliance Repair. The
door opened and Barney stepped out. He quickly closed
the door behind him and put something on the ground
before the stoop. Turning, he spied the twins and said,

"Well then, it's the Hastings lads, isn't it?"

Sean shrugged, while Patrick said, "Hi, Barney."

They ambled toward him while he put his keys away.

Glancing around, Barney said, " 'Tis certain to be a fair
summer night, with a break in the humidity, I'm think-
ing. We could do with a bit of the dry air, now and
again."

Sean noticed Bad Luck sniffing around a saucer of
milk before the door and said, "You got a cat?"

Barney leaned forward, patting Bad Luck on the head.

The dog seemed to judge him an acceptable human and
endured the gesture of friendship with good grace. "Not
a cat, lads. 'Tis for the Daonie Maithe." When the boys
looked at him blankly, he said, "Which, if your education
wasn't lacking, you'd know was Gaelic for the good peo-
ple."

Sean and Patrick shot each other a glance, each si-
lently accusing the other of betraying a trust. Noticing
the exchange and mistaking the reason for it, Barney

said, " 'Tis all right, boys. I'm not entirely mad. Many of
us from the old country leave milk out for the little peo-
ple." The boys remained silent, and Barney glanced
around as if making sure they weren't overheard. He
knelt slowly, age making it difficult, and whispered,

"When I was a lad back in County Wexford, I lived on a
farm a fair piece from Foulksmills. 'Twas lovely, though
we were poor as mice." His eyes, watery and bloodshot,
seemed to be seeing something far off. "One fine day in

May I was out looking for a bull calf my Uncle Liam had
given my father. It was a grand calf, but had a decided
tendency to go adventuring. Which was fine for the calf,
for he'd see many new sights and make interesting ac-
quaintances, but was a trial for me, for I'd be the one to
go and fetch him home—much to the hilarity of my
brothers and sisters. Well, that one May day the little bull
had wandered halfway to Wellington Bridge—which for
your enlightenment is a distant town and not a bridge
close at hand—and it was until late after dark I was
bringing him home. The night was warm and smelled of
flowers and clover, and the wind was fair from the chan-
nel, and it was altogether a grand night to be abroad.

Being no more than a few years older than you boys now,

I was cautious being alone with the calf, but not fearful,
for the troublemakers were all in their pubs and banditry
had fallen off of late. Then I heard the music and saw the
lights."

The boys glanced at each other, and it was Patrick
who said, "Leprechauns?"

Barney nodded solemnly. "The whole of the Daonie

Sidhe," he whispered. "In every shape and size that they
come, they were dancing atop a hill, and 'twas a majestic
and fearful sight." He slowly rose. "I'd not seen it again
since, until this spring."

"The danny she? Are they bad?" asked Sean, his voice
betraying concern. Patrick looked at him with a mixture
of disdain and relief that the question was voiced.

"It's Daonie Sidhe, though 'danny she' is close
enough. Bad?" repeated Barney, rubbing his chin. "Well
now, there's a topic. 'Twould be hard to put a good or

bad to them, as they are. They can be either, or neither,
depending upon whim. It is said they reward the virtuous
and punish the wicked, but mostly they leave us alone.

Wait here a minute."

Barney stuck a hand deep into one of the pockets of
his bib overalls and seemed to feel around for something.

Finding what he sought, he withdrew his hand and held
something out for the boys' inspection. It was a smooth
stone, with a hole in the middle, hanging from a thong of
leather. "What is it?" asked Patrick.

" 'Tis a fairy stone."

"Oh!" exclaimed Sean.

Patrick looked unconvinced. "It's just a rock."

"Which is true, to a point. But then, a magic wand is
also just a stick, if you look at it that way."

"Is it magic?" asked Sean.

"In its way, lad, in its way. It has the power to keep
the good people from harming you, so then it must be
magic."

"How can it?" asked Patrick, still unconvinced.

"As to the how, I cannot tell you, save that it does.

And not just any stone with a hole will do. You can't
grab a pebble and drill through it, you know. It must be a
stone washed in a stream, with a natural hole, that is
found upon the bank dry. It must be magic, or else why
would there be so many rules?"

That made sense to the boys. Patrick showed no great
interest, but Sean fingered the smooth stone. Something
caused Barney to look about. "I judge the afternoon's
ending and you late for dinner. Your mother will be fret-
ting. Now," he said to Sean, "keep the stone, so the Good

People cause you no discomfort on your way home, and

I'll find another."

"I can keep it?" said Sean in delight.

"Aye, lad, but hurry off now. And don't forget that
the Good People will think kindly of you if you leave a
bit of milk or bread out for them."

Sean put the thong around his neck, so the stone hung
almost to his navel. He'd shorten it when he got home.

"Thanks, Mr. Doyle," said Sean.

" 'Bye," said Patrick.

The boys scampered off without further word, Bad

Luck loping alongside, and when they entered the woods,
began to run. They ran with a delicious sense of danger,
as the shadows lengthened and deepened, casting a decid-
edly menacing aspect to the woods.

They ran and shouted and reveled in the fact of being
eight years old with a yet endless summer stretching
away before the harsh reality of school intruded. At first
they had missed the Valley and friends, but the kids in

Pittsville seemed okay and they played ball all the time,
which was great. They all missed Little League, but the
kids said there'd be a new one next year. It was shaping
up to be a wonderful summer.

Then, before they knew where they were, they found
themselves crossing the bald hill, the one Jack called Erl

King Hill. Both boys grinned nervously and shared a
secret thrill at the idea of mystery and things of magic. A
sudden, wordless communication passed, and an im-
promptu game of follow-the-leader commenced. Patrick
ran in circles around the top of the hill, while Sean dupli-
cated his movements. Bad Luck tried to play, but
couldn't resist running alongside first one brother, then
the other. They yelled for the joy of it. Then they were
sprinting back into the trees. They dashed through the
woods with the endless supply of energy given to chil-
dren, laughing at the simple pleasure of being alive. Then
they reached the bridge.

Both boys halted. Bad Luck stood with hackles rising,
a low growl issuing from his throat. Panting, the twins
silently understood that the bridge was once again a scary
place. Many times since they had first met Jack they had
crossed the Troll Bridge, and while it was never a com-
fortable experience, the bridge had lacked the solid sense
of menace they had felt upon first viewing it. But now the
feeling of danger had returned, if anything stronger than
ever. Patrick rolled the Louisville Slugger off his shoulder
and held it before him as if it were a club. Fingering the
stone Barney had given him, Sean softly said, "It's back."

Neither knew what it was, but both knew there was a

malignant presence hiding in the dark place beneath the
bridge. Bad Luck snarled and began to move forward.

Sean snapped, "Heel!" and the canine reluctantly fell in
at Sean's side. He whimpered and growled, but seemed
willing to obey. Patrick nodded and they stepped for-
ward, putting foot upon the stones of the Troll Bridge.

Suddenly evil swept up from below, swirling around
them like a fetid wind. Both boys moved quickly, eyes
wide with fright as they walked purposefully across the
bridge. They instinctively knew the rules of crossing.

They couldn't look down or back. They couldn't speak.

They couldn't run. And they couldn't stop. To do any of
those things would allow the thing below the bridge to
come rushing up, to grab the boys and drag them back to
its lair. The boys didn't make the rules, they just knew
them and abided by them.

At the midpoint of the bridge, Sean felt an overwhelm-
ing urge to run and shot a glance at Patrick. Patrick
returned the glance with one of dark warning. To run was
to be lost. With steady steps, he led his more timid
brother across the bridge, until they were free of the con-
fines of the ancient dark arch. Bad Luck hesitated, and

Sean's hand shot down to grab his collar, forcing the dog
to come along at the proper pace. As soon as their feet
were off the stones and back on the path, the boys leaped
forward as one and were off at a dead run. Bad Luck
hesitated an instant, indulging in a defiant bark at the
bridge, before he dashed after the boys.

Sean shot a glance rearward, not sure if the rule about
looking back held now they were finished with the bridge.

As the bridge vanished behind the trees they fled
through, he glimpsed the dark presence. It had seen him!

Fighting down panic, Sean overtook his brother. Patrick
saw Sean pass him, and the race was on.

By the time they reached home, all thoughts of the
black presence under the Troll Bridge were forgotten and
the only concern was who would be first to reach the
screen door. As usual, it was Patrick by a step, with Bad

Luck at his side.

Gloria stood in the kitchen, finishing the last prepara-

tions for dinner. "Cutting it a little fine, fellows," she said
dryly, her eyes upon the clock. They dined at seven dur-
ing the summer, six during school. "You have just
enough time for washing up—and don't simply wipe
your hands on the towels!" she shouted after them as
they vanished in the direction of the bathroom. Gloria
returned to getting dinner ready.

7

"Look at this," said Gary, handing a book to Mark.

Mark opened it and read, then grinned.

"What?" asked Phil as he poked around his desk.

"Dirty German poetry," said Gary. "Old Herman had
a few vices."

Mark put the book down. "Not very good." To Phil he
said, "Look, if we're in the way, let us know."

Phil waved away the comment. "I've finished the first
draft and Gloria's reading it upstairs. I'm taking the
boys fishing. One of the reasons I left L. A. was so I could
spend time with my kids. Being at the studios fifteen
hours a day makes for strangers, not families." He put
away some papers and moved toward the door. "Gab-
bie's out with Jack, so you can have the library to your-
self."

Mark Blackman regarded the floor-to-ceiling book-
shelves and shook his head. "This may take longer than I
thought."

Phil turned at the door. "There're more in the base-
ment and attic. Have fun."

"Catch a big one," said Gary with a grin.

Phil stuck his head into the parlor, which was now the
family TV room. Sean and Patrick were on the floor be-
fore the new big-screen television Phil had ordered the
week before. Gloria had said nothing about the purchase

—they could afford it—but she couldn't understand why

her husband and sons needed to see double plays and
touchdowns life size.

"Come on, kids," said Phil.

Sean leaped up and flipped off the ball game. The live
feed from Chicago on WGN had begun an hour before,
two in the afternoon, local time. The boys loved the idea
of being able to point the dish at different satellites and
get signals from all over the world, but most especially
the superstation baseball broadcasts from Atlanta, New

York, and Chicago. Sean grabbed his pole from where it
leaned against the wall and happily said, "Padres are
ahead by four."

Patrick shook his head in disgust. "Sandberg booted
one. Two unearned runs in the first!" He had maintained
his allegiance to the Angels, but had decided to be a Cubs
fan in the National League. Sean was taking double de-
light that his favorite team was on the verge of sweeping
a three-game series with the Cubbies to the consternation
of his brother.

Phil opened the front door and was confronted by

Hemingway, who had chosen the middle of the doorway
to lie. The cat opened his eyes and regarded three of the
people whom he tolerated in his house. Phil looked down
and, when it was apparent the old torn wasn't about to
move, stepped over him.

As Sean closed the door behind his brother, he said,

"Wish us luck, Ernie. Maybe we'll catch you a fish."

The cat's expression showed a less than optimistic atti-
tude toward that outcome.

Gloria heard them leave and smiled to herself. She
put the manuscript down on the bed beside her and
thought about the chapter she had just finished. Phil's
work was good, but the narrative wandered about at this
point of the story. She knew that Phil would catch it and
tighten it up when he rewrote. But she also knew he'd
expect her to point it out to him.

When she heard the car start up, she picked up the
phone beside the bed and dialed. It was answered on the
second ring. "Aggie?" The voice at the other end an-
swered. "Tell Jack and Gabbie now."

She hung up, a secret, conspiratorial smile on her face.

Jumping up from the bed, she padded across the floor on
bare feet and headed down the stairs. Reaching the land-
ing, she glanced into the den and stepped back. Gary

Thieus was in the fireplace.

Mark Blackman stood with his back to the door, look-
ing over Gary's shoulder while the younger man investi-
gated something in the rear wall. Gloria quietly entered
and said, "I don't think you'll find a lot of books in there,
guys."

Mark turned, seemingly unsurprised by her entrance.

"Look here." He pointed, but she saw only an empty
shelf.

"The depth of the bookcase next to the fireplace
doesn't match all the others. There's some unaccounted-
for space behind the shelves."

From inside the fireplace, Gary said, "Got some-
thing."

Gary came out of the fireplace and passed a key over.

"A lot of these old houses have little hidey-holes,
like behind bricks in fireplaces or under false floorboards,
and secret basements. Sometimes two or three different
ones in the same house. There's a little hollow on the side
of the hearth, covered by a false stone."

She took the key, noticing it was covered in soot, and
said, "What is it?"

Mark said, "I don't know. Have you a door that you
can't unlock?"

Gloria said, "No, unless there's something in the base-
ment I've missed. I haven't spent a lot of time down
there." She absently tapped her cheek with the key, leav-
ing a small smudge. "Mark, just what are you after?"

Blackman said, "I'm not sure. If I were, I'd know
better how to go about finding it." He pointed at Gloria's
cheek and the key.

"That doesn't make a lot of sense," she said, wiping
away the spot of soot.

Mark moved around to lean back against Phil's desk
while Gary sat on a stack of books. "Gloria, have you
read any of my books?"

"No," she said without embarrassment.

"That's not surprising. Most of them are still in print,
but they tend to be in libraries or on the shelves of some
pretty strange little stores—you know, next to the books
by people who've been to Venus in flying saucers or know
where Atlantis is. Most of my work is devoted to finding
the underlying truth in myth and legend, especially in the
area of the occult and in magic. If there's a real story
behind a myth, I want to find out about it. I wrote a long
work devoted to the idea that the mystic visions of peyote
rites were actually deep racial memories induced by the
hallucinogens in peyote. My theory is that the Native

American cultures in the Southwest had a different psy-
chological set from European ones, which let those 'prim-
itive' people reach places in their genetic memory, places
most 'civilized' people don't know exist within their
heads."

Gloria said, "Sounds pretty Jungian to me."

Mark smiled and Gary grinned. "It's very Jungian,"

said Gary.

"But what's that got to do with your digging around
in my fireplace?"

"Look, I don't like to talk about my work before I
show it to my editor. Only Gary knows what we're doing,
but you do deserve an explanation. But believe me when I
say we're up to nothing nefarious. It's just I didn't want
to talk about my current work." He paused. "Remember
at Aggie's, I told you I was after information about Fred-
rick Kessler?" She indicated she did. "He's one of a few
men I've been able to track who were involved, somehow,
in some pretty strange occurrences that I'm interested
in."

"Like what?"

Mark said, "Like a lot of things I'm still trying to
figure out. But what I know so far is that just after the
turn of the century in what is now southern Germany—

Bavaria, and parts of Wurttemberg—there was a sudden
return to more primitive attitudes, as if the peasantry
were going back to the beliefs of their ancestors of centu-
ries earlier, superficially Christian, but only a Christian

patina over a deep, abiding pagan belief system. And do-
ing it in droves. Tales of magic and sorcery ran ram-
pant."

Gloria said, "Great. Now you're telling me Old Man

Kessler's father hung out with pagan priests?"

"No," corrected Mark. "I'm telling you Old Man

Kessler's father was a mystery man, known beyond what
his status as a minor merchant entitled him, at a time
when all hell was breaking loose in southern Germany
among the peasantry. There were a full half-dozen refer-
ences to Fredrick Kessler and some other people whom
he was known to associate with. But the maddening thing
is ... I'm looking at a black box. Something's in there,

I just don't know what." He crossed his arms and obvi-
ous frustration showed on his face. "Something odd, and
pretty mysterious, happened eighty, eighty-five years ago
in southern Germany, and it was very important, but just
exactly what it was is not yet clear. And Fredrick Kessler
was involved. I wanted to talk to the son, but he was
already in Europe when I got here, last year. I tried get-
ting permission from his lawyer to poke around, but he
wouldn't allow it. So I snuck out here and checked out
the grounds. I didn't break into the house. But the lawyer
got wind of it somehow and threatened to call the sheriff
if I set foot on the property again. So I spent some time
doing whatever research I could in the local newspaper
morgue and the area libraries, and even interviewed peo-
ple who knew the elder Kessler—though there were only
a few of them. When Herman died I was down in Wash-
ington, checking old banking records. By the time I got
back, you and Phil had made an offer on the house.

"What I've pieced together is that Fredrick Kessler
and his associates were somehow central to this reversion
to pagan beliefs, and it was unprecedented historically.

Turn-of-the-century Germany was not exactly the place
for such an event. This isn't a case of the peasants in

Transylvania suddenly concerned that Dracul had risen
again from the grave, or aborigines in the outback believ-
ing in the spirits of animals. It was as if most every inhab-
itant of Connecticut in 1905 suddenly believed in spirits,

elves, and the older gods again. Then, most surprising of
all, the heads of the Protestant and Catholic churches,
even the leaders of the Jewish community, which was
persecuted by them, all joined with the local authorities
to stamp out the sudden reversion to paganism. It was, in
a literal sense, a witch-hunt. A lot of people were ar-
rested, some were relocated out of their villages and
towns, and not a few simply disappeared—I expect they
were executed. It's been hushed up over the years—even
a century ago there was concern over P.R.—but it was a
regular little inquisition."

"Well, it's a hell of a story," said Gloria. "But why the
mystery? Why not tell us up front?"

Mark shrugged. "I don't like talking about my re-
search, like I said. That's part of it. Also there's the ques-
tion of religion. The established churches don't like to be
publicly reminded of some of their past actions. And
some people get tense when you bring up the subject of
ancient pagan beliefs, even these days."

"Especially these days," added Gary. "The fundamen-
talists can generate a lot of noise if they want to."

Mark nodded. "And there's the stories about the trea-
sure."

"You mentioned it at Aggie's and laughed it off."

"Well, it may not be a joke. Whatever the cause—
involvement with this pagan thing or some other reason

—the elder Kessler and his cronies left Germany in haste
about that time and showed up in Canada, the States, and

South Africa. There were about a dozen of them. All of
them were traveling light, but all of them were prosper-
ous businessmen within two years of reaching their new
homes. Where did the money come from? If you check
records, Kessler would have had to have twenty or thirty
grand to get started, and it seemed he had more than
that."

Gary said, "That's like a quarter million today."

Gloria couldn't shake the feeling that there was more
here than Mark was revealing. But before she could com-
ment, the front door opened and Gabbie called out,

"We've got it!"

Jack staggered in carrying a large box, put it on the
floor by the desk, and hurried outside. Gloria said to

Mark, "We'll talk more later."

Jack and Gabbie both brought in several more boxes
and quickly opened them.

"What goes on?" inquired Mark.

"It's Dad's birthday," announced Gabbie, removing
what looked to be a television from a box. "We've bought
him a word processor." With a grin, she said, "It's self-
defense. Dad's a lousy typist. At the studios they had
people who would type the scripts. Without this, Gloria
or I will end up retyping his manuscripts." Inside a half
hour, a complete home computer took form on Phil's
desk. A printer was hooked up to it, and Jack quickly ran
a few tests. "Everything's perfect," he announced.

Mark said, "Well, if you're going to have a party for

Phil, I guess we should take off. We'll come back tomor-
row."

Gloria said, "No, stick around. Look, Phil's as bad as
you are for not talking about what he's working on, but
now you've spilled the beans he'll be fascinated. And

Gabbie's going into Pittsville for Chinese, so there's no
problem with a few extra mouths."

"Okay," answered Mark. "I assume Aggie's going to
join us?"

"Of course."

"What do you mean I'm going to get dinner?" said

Gabbie.

"You've been elected," answered her stepmother. "Be-
sides, I had a call from Mr. Laudermilch and he said it's
okay to board My Dandelion here for the rest of the
summer now that our barn is fixed. He says you're a
pretty good horsewoman."

Gabbie's eyes widened. She turned to Jack. "You
creep! You didn't say a thing."

He laughed. "It was supposed to be a surprise. Be-
sides, it was your folks' idea."

Gabbie threw her arms around Gloria's neck.

"Thanks, Gloria. She's a terrific horse. I like her almost
as much as Bumper. I'll take good care of her."

"You're welcome, Gabbie." Gloria squeezed back.

"Phil also got him to let us keep John Adams. But you've
got to work them, and teaching the boys to ride is part of
the deal."

With mock distaste, Gabbie said, "So now I'll have to
put up with him every day, I guess," indicating Jack.

"Hey!" protested the object of her bogus scorn.

"Go get the animals, then when Phil and the boys are
back, dinner. Okay?"

"Okay!" she said with enthusiasm as she grabbed

Jack's hand, and half led, half dragged him from the den.

Gloria watched them exit, then said, "Why don't you
go on with what you're doing, and I'll get back to reading

Phil's manuscript. We can start over with Kessler's trea-
sure or whatever after dinner. All right?"

"Fine," said Mark.

He and Gary returned to inspecting the books and
making a catalog, while Gloria went upstairs. She was
not unmindful of the key that rested in her jeans pocket,
and she was certain Mark hadn't forgotten it either.

In the small storage space under the stairs a black
thing listened, hanging to the underside of the steps. It
made a satisfied sighing sound and judged it time to
leave. It moved like some giant black spider, its long
arms and legs seeming to stick to whatever surface it
touched. Next to the baseboard, it halted, regarding the
narrow crack between boards. The creature somehow
seemed to shrink in upon itself, compressing bones and
joints, until it could slither through the crack. In an al-
most silent whisper it hissed, "The key. The key." Then
with a chuckle it vanished through the crack.

8

At the edge of the clearing, in sight of the Queen's court,
he lingered, contemptuous of her power. Within the
shadows of the boles he crouched, the mad one of soft

light and sweet fragrances, awaiting his servant. The
black thing scampered through the woods until he stood
at the feet of his master and whispered to him.

His master looked down into the tiny mask of black
rage, his own expression a match in anger and madness.

Perfect white teeth were set edge upon edge, locked in a
hideous grin, while his eyes were wide, orbs of blue in-
sanity glinting with inhuman lights. "Good, good," he
whispered back to his servant, stroking its knobby head
as a man might stroke a dog. The little apelike creature
chittered in pleasure at its master's happiness. It was so
rare a condition. "Now return and wait, and when it is
time, we shall show them the lock." Without hesitation,
the creature scampered back through the woods, with
stealth enough that human sight could not apprehend its
passage, despite its speed.

The being of light stood, stretched his arms wide, and
looked heavenward. With a clap of his hands overhead,
thunder rang in the woods.

A sudden breeze blew across the hill, and the Queen
rose, her court turning eyes toward the source of the
thunder. "You dare . . . ," she began, but the shadow
was empty. In anger she hissed between teeth as perfect
and inhuman as the other's. Again he was gone. She
slowly sat, glancing to one who nodded, his eyes reflect-
ing her own hidden fear. With a wave she commanded,
and the musicians resumed their music, but some of the
joy had been banished from the circle by the thunder.

And all knew that the one who had mocked them could
alone dare such an affront. He alone had the power. And
the coming night would be colder for that knowledge.

9

Phil led the boys through the door, holding a full creel.

"Hey!" he said. "We're home."

Gloria came into the kitchen, and held her nose with
exaggeration. "Into the sink!"

Phil and the boys deposited their catch, and Gloria
looked at the seven fish. "Don't you clowns know you're
only supposed to drown worms, not catch anything?"

The boys just grinned with pride.

Phil kissed her cheek. "I'll clean them. I've got to
teach the boys how to."

Patrick made a face and said, "Ugh, fish guts!" while

Sean laughed.

"Wash up first, guts later," Gloria commanded. "I've
something to show you."

She bullied them out to the sink in the service porch
and watched until they'd removed the fish odor from
their hands. "You'll all have to change before dinner, but
first come with me."

She led them to Phil's study and slid aside the door.

Gabbie shouted, "Surprise!" while Aggie, Jack, Mark,
and Gary offered birthday congratulations.

Phil shook his head and said, "I'd hoped everyone had
forgotten. At my age I can afford to miss a few." Gloria
fixed him with a disapproving look. Then he caught sight
of the word processor sitting on his desk, with a big red
ribbon stuck atop. "What!" He sat down slowly at his
desk.

"Happy birthday, Daddy!" said Gabbie, hugging him
from behind.

Phil sat staring at the blank monitor, silent for a long
minute. Finally he said, "How do you work it?"

"Jack can show you."

Phil vacated the chair, while Aggie commented, "It's a
lot like the one I use, just more snazzy."

Phil laughed. "I thought you used an old Remington

Noiseless."

"My boy, we live in a technological age, if it has es-
caped your notice," she chided. "Don't let this thing
scare you. Once you get used to it, you'll throw rocks at
your old typewriter. Now, something a little more tradi-
tional." She handed a box to Phil. "Happy birthday,

Philip."

Phil opened the box and revealed a beautifully ornate
silver letter opener. "Aggie! This was Henry's. I can't
take it."

"Of course you can, you silly man. I'm going to die
one of these years and I'd rather you had it than the state
of New York." She looked at the beautifully fashioned
sheath of silver. "I got it for him when we were
honeymooning in Mexico. It was made up in the silver
country somewhere. You have to clean it regularly. It's
pure silver handle, blade, sheath, and everything, and tar-
nishes dreadfully." She smiled. "No, you keep it, Philip."

Phil seemed genuinely moved by the gift, a personal
belonging of Aggie's husband's. "Thanks," he said, rising
to kiss her on the cheek.

The boys clustered behind Gabbie, inspecting the com-
puter, and Sean said, "What kind of games can you play
on it?"

"Can you do Spy Hunter?" inquired Patrick.

Jack laughed. "Well, you can play games, but—"

"No games!" said Gloria. "This is for your father and
it's no toy. One computer game and he'll never get to use
it."

"Aw, Mom," protested Patrick.

"Don't 'Aw, Mom,' me," she said in mock indigna-
tion. "You two go clean up. Dinner's in a half hour." The
boys gave in and trooped up the stairs to completely wash
up and change into clean T-shirts.

Phil hovered over Jack's shoulder while the young
man showed him the basic operation of the system. He
indicated the manuals and said, "If you run into a prob-
lem, give me a call—"

"He'll be out in the barn," interrupted Gabbie.

Jack grinned. "Probably."

Gloria said, "Well now, who wants a drink?"

"That's my cue," said Gabbie.

"What?" asked Phil.

"Dinner. I've got to go fetch it. Loo Fong's best Hu-
nan and Szechwan to go. Back in fifteen minutes."

As Gabbie hurried out the door, Gloria said, "You
play with your new toy, Phil. I'll go do something with
those fish."

He nodded absently as he poked experimentally at the
keyboard.

Gabbie's Porsche 911 Turbo was back in California,
awaiting her return for the school year, so she took her
father's Pontiac, driving as she usually did, fast but not
recklessly. She hated to dawdle. The food was all bagged
and waiting in two cardboard boxes, so all she had to do
was negotiate the boxes into the backseat of the car. Gab-
bie pulled an illegal U-turn on McDermott Street—after
making sure no one was coming either way—and headed
for what the locals called a highway. To Gabbie it was a
glorified two-lane country road, and a little one com-
pared to what she'd grown used to back in Southern Cali-
fornia. Hitting the highway, she drove at five miles over
the speed limit, sure the local police considered that
within the legal amount of fudging. She was approaching
the turnoff to home when a shaft of light momentarily
dazzled her as the sun appeared between some trees on a
distant hilltop. She turned her head slightly and flipped
down the sun visor. Then her eyes widened and she
looked back toward the sunset. Atop a hill on the road
leading away from the highway something was outlined
against the sky.

A blast from a car horn pulled her attention back to
her driving, and she hit the brakes and swerved. She had
been drifting off to her left, and the angry driver of the
car in the oncoming lane threw her a black look and
flipped her off as he sped past. Gabbie's heart pounded as
she negotiated the turn off the highway. She was doubly
shaken as she pulled the car over to the shoulder and
came to a complete stop. She took several deep breaths,

then checked the backseat to see nothing had spilled be-
fore resuming her trip home.

Gabbie muttered to herself that she must have been
imagining things. For an instant, outlined against the eve-
ning sky, she had seen something that had looked like an
old wagon pulled by a single horse. A vague memory
came to her, one which she almost recaptured, but which
then fled. All she was left with was the name Wayland.

And she couldn't understand why she felt tears running
down her cheeks.

10

After dinner, the adults sat around the living room while
the boys retired to the parlor for a little television before
bed. Jack and Gabbie were out in the barn, checking on
the two horses rented from Laudermilch, even though
there was little reason. Gabbie already had plans for new
fences from the barn around the south pasture, so the
horses could be allowed to wander. Gloria had observed
to Phil that she was making some long-term plans for a
kid heading back to California soon, a remark that Phil
shrugged off.

Everyone had overheard Gabbie's remark, and Gary
said, "She's in for a shock when she sees what that much
fencing's going to cost."

Phil and Gloria burst out laughing. Mark and Gary
exchanged glances, and Aggie said, "Money's not a prob-
lem."

Mark said, "You must have done very well with those

Star Pirates movies, Phil."

"It's not my money we're talking about." When Mark
looked uncomprehending, Phil said, "Gabbie doesn't like
us to talk about it, but it's public record. She's an heir-
ess."

Aggie said, "The Larker family of Phoenix."

Mark blinked, then said, "Of course. Her mother's

Corinne Larker."

Aggie nodded. "Who was disowned by Helen Larker,
making Gabbie sole inheritor of the estate."

"But she's. ..."

"What?" said Phil.

Mark shrugged. "I don't know. Normal? Un-rich-kid-
like—how's that?"

Gloria said, "Gabbie's got a good head on her. She
doesn't go in for ostentation. She got only a small allow-
ance while in school, until she was eighteen. She learned
to get along on a modest income. Now she can get what-
ever she needs from the trustee of her grandmother's es-
tate with a phone call, which suits her just fine. She's only
had two indulgences: her horse, which set her back more
money than I care to think of, and her Porsche, which
she drives too damn fast. Other than that, she gets along
on very little. The trustee'll turn the whole thing over to
her when she marries or turns twenty-five."

"If it's not too tacky," said Gary, "can I ask how
much?"

"I don't know," said Phil, "but many, many millions."

"Well then," observed Gary, "if she wants a fence,
she'll get a fence." A mock-evil grin was followed by, "I
wonder how expensive it would be to put a hit on Jack?"

They laughed and Mark said, "Ask Ellen. You go after

Gabbie and she'll put a hit on you."

"True."

"When do we meet this girlfriend, Gary?" said Phil.

"Well, Mark and I were going to have you over to the
house soon, and she'll be there. We're sort of unexpected
guests tonight."

Phil raised an eyebrow and Mark explained about the
key. He repeated his surmises about Kessler and the pos-
sibility of there really being a treasure, and when he was
finished, everyone was silent for a minute.

"Well, it's a wild story," said Phil. "What about the
treasure part? Do you really think it's hidden somewhere
around here?"

"It's possible, I guess. Kessler came from Germany,

started a major enterprise without local capital, and ran
in the red for two years before breaking even. It's pretty
clear he must have carried a tidy fortune out of Ger-
many. In Germany there's almost no information about
him, so where he got the money is anyone's guess. But
there's a small item I uncovered in some banking records
in New York. An agent for one of the equipment firms
reported that the bank draft Kessler used to pay for his
first shipment of heavy equipment was marked 'funds se-
cured by gold,' an unusual notation. And he paid the
note from his factory's profits, so the gold was never
touched as well as I can make out."

"So," said Phil, "you think Kessler might have plun-
dered some secret gold hoard in Germany to start his
factory?"

"Sounds pretty silly when you put it that way," agreed

Mark. "But before I start manufacturing theories, I need
more facts. I don't even have enough for a good historical
novel, let alone a history."

"What about the key?" asked Gloria.

Mark stood up. "If you can find the door that key
opens, you might find something that will tell me what I
want to know about Fredrick Kessler: what he and his
sudden wealth had to do with all the strange goings-on in

Germany at that time, and all the rest."

"And," added Gary, "you might find his treasure—if
there is one."

"We should be off," said Mark. "If you've no objec-
tion, we'll continue with the books tomorrow."

"Of course you can," said Phil, showing them to the
door.

When they were gone, Gloria said, "I still have the
feeling that there's more here than he's telling."

Aggie said, "Mark tends to the mysterious, but he's
harmless, dear. Besides, he always turns up these marvel-
ous and wildly improbable bits of nonsense."

As Phil returned, Gloria asked, "You think this is all
nonsense?"

"No," said Aggie. "I just refuse to indulge in Mark's
tendency to jump from fact to fact and assume causality.

Mark's work is fun to read, but I don't take most of it
seriously. He's obsessed by ancient secrets and lore, and
he can't stand not knowing. He's not as bad as that

Dutch fellow with his gods being astronauts rubbish,
but Mark isn't a rigorous researcher either. He has many
critics, and not without justification.

"But, in his defense, a lot of Mark's work has an ele-
ment of brilliance in it. There are some things he claimed
that were later borne out by more scholarly research. No,

Mark's not a quack. He's just a lot more like Indiana

Jones than Margaret Mead." She paused. "But ask your-
self who you'd rather have chasing after buried treasure,

Indiana Jones or Margaret Mead?" Rising, she said,

"Well, it's late and I should be off. Let me know if you
turn up any more wonders."

They saw her to the door, and Phil walked her to the
barn to fetch Jack. Gloria stuck her head into the parlor
and informed the twins it was bedtime. Ushering them
upstairs, she couldn't shake the feeling that Mark had
revealed only a small portion of what he was after. And
she reminded herself to have a look for a lock to match
the key in her pocket.

AUGUST

1

August days are dog days, when Sirius, the Dog Star,
rises. In baseball, with the long season two-thirds com-
pleted, the heat and humidity begin to take their toll.

Averages dip and pitchers' arms begin to wear out;
chronic injuries become acute and teams start to look to
the minors or to trades with other teams for that player
to fill the gap; front-runners begin their slides and teams
talking World Series at the end of July by September first
are saying, "Wait till next year." A team holding the
division lead throughout August is a good team.

Gabbie dreaded August, for behind August came Sep-
tember, and with September would come the decision:

return to California or stay in Pittsville. Already August
was a week gone, and time felt as if it flew by. She and

Jack had talked, but there was something preventing ei-
ther of them from making the commitment that would
keep her in New York. Gabbie felt suddenly frightened as
she turned straw with a pitchfork. She halted her work in
the barn and leaned upon the handle of the fork, think-
ing. Jack had gone to New York City with Aggie, to meet
with the members of some committee or another. He'd
been gone for a week and it had given Gabbie a chance to
reflect. She was in love with Jack, or at least she felt more
for him than she ever had for any other boy she had
known. And that caused her concern. Was she in love?

Sometimes she felt like a little kid and everything scared
her. She had made her way through life with an ability to
hide her fears from others, to look calm and collected,
even tough. Through private school she had been the ob-
ject of scorn by most of the other girls, both for her good
looks and for her money, but her protective facade never
broke. Gabbie could be bleeding inside, but she'd never

let on. But just because she didn't show it didn't mean
she wasn't hurting.

In high school she'd had only one serious boyfriend,

Danny. Gabbie had thought herself in love with him. He
had seemed different from most other boys. She had
thought the relationship would endure beyond his leaving
for college. After he'd enrolled at Stanford, she had three
letters from him. The third one had told her he had met
another girl.

Gabbie's face flushed in memory. She had flown into a
rage, jumped into her car, and driven north, stopping
only once for gas. She had her Porsche clocked at over

120 miles an hour at several points along Interstate 5,
and had made the trip to Palo Alto in under five hours.

She had stormed around Stanford until almost one in the
morning, when Danny came back to his dorm from see-
ing his new girl. The confrontation had been humiliating.

Danny's new relationship was nothing but sex. Gabbie
and Danny had never had intercourse. Their love play
had always ended with Gabbie having to hold him at bay.

In their last few weeks together they had passed the
heavy-petting stage, each bringing the other to climax,
but Gabbie still refused to permit the final act. Somehow
she couldn't let Danny inside of her, as if to do so would
be an admission that it was love. And this girl had slept
with him on the first date. He was totally infatuated with
her, sexually obsessed, and regarded Gabbie as an unwel-
come intrusion from his past, best disposed of quickly
and without tenderness. He had called her a prude and a
cock-teaser, then described in graphic detail the sexual
antics of his new girl, as if her willingness to engage in
them somehow proved her love for him. Gabbie had fled
in shame and pain.

She'd expected to catch hell from her dad and Gloria,
but they had been wonderful, offering support and no
criticism over her flying off the handle. She had never
communicated with Danny again. Now she understood
that her reaction had been wounded pride and possessive-
ness. The jealousy that had attacked unexpectedly at the

Fourth of July picnic had been something completely dif-
ferent, a terror at the thought of losing Jack.

Gabbie resumed turning the hay and smiled at the
thought of Jack. There was such a difference between

Jack and Danny. Danny had been a nice boy, most of the
time, but he'd been a boy. Jack was a gentle and loving
man. He never spoke about Ginger, the girl down in At-
lanta, except to answer a direct question from Gabbie. He
had told Gabbie he was a little beat up from that relation-
ship, and she attributed his reluctance to speak of the
future to that. Whenever Gabbie would become con-
cerned about tomorrow, all Jack would say was, "It will
work out."

Gabbie thought, Damn right it will work out, Jack

Cole. Feeling a sudden surge of strong feelings for him,
she found her eyes brimming with moisture. Damn it, she
did love him. And she knew that soon she was going to
drag him off someplace and make love. He'd never
pressed and never accused, seemingly satisfied to take
his lead from her. Twice now she'd regretted his not be-
ing a little more commanding. Ever since that first walk
in the woods, since that night at Aggie's, she would have
let Jack make love to her. But the fact of his restraint
only served to make her more sure of his being just the
right man to be her first—and maybe only—lover. Gab-
bie took a deep breath, suddenly aware she was nervous.

Jack was due back in an hour or two and Gabbie consid-
ered that this might be the night.

Gabbie finished freshening the straw in the stalls and
put the fork away. The horses were out in the pasture and
this time of year stayed out at night, but the hay still got
moldy. The boys had taken another riding lesson before
their regular afternoon ball game. Gabbie was surprised
to discover how much she enjoyed teaching them. When
she had arrived from Arizona, the twins had been six,
cute but underfoot a lot. Now they were turning into
regular little guys, complete with personalities. They even
managed to complete the small chores given them around
the barn with a minimum of grumbling. Despite their
teasing her about Jack, they seemed to hold their older

half sister and her boyfriend in genuine affection and
showed gratitude after each lesson. And she loved them,
despite a maddening tendency on their part to barge into
the bathroom without knocking. Several leisurely baths
had been terminated with Gabbie throwing bath sponges
at one brother or the other.

Gabbie wiped perspiration from her brow. She didn't
know if she'd ever get used to the humidity after years in
the dry heat of Arizona and Los Angeles. The unex-
pected summer showers were alien to her, and the one
that morning had been a beauty. Even in the early eve-
ning, with the sun dipping behind the hills to the west, it
was like a steam bath in the barn. She pulled at her shirt,
letting the air in. She rarely wore a bra, and the air felt
cool on her breasts. She unbuttoned her shirt and flapped
it, allowing the evaporating moisture to cool her. She
regarded herself as the cooling caused chill bumps to
form on her breasts. Not as big as Sheila Riley's, maybe,
but not so bad, she thought, absently touching herself. As
her fingers passed over her nipples they came erect, and
she thought of Jack. "Christ," she muttered aloud, "I've
got sex on the brain."

A noise caused Gabbie to freeze. It had been a laugh.

She spun around, rapidly covering herself. She sought the
source of the sound and glanced up at the hayloft, hidden
in the almost evening gloom. "Is someone up there?"

From within the shadows a laugh erupted, boyish in tim-
bre. "Sean? Patrick?" Again the laugh. "Are you mon-
sters spying on me?" Her tone was angry and she felt
herself blush.

The laugh continued, and suddenly Gabbie was afraid.

It wasn't Sean or Patrick. There was something un-
nerving, almost mad, in the sound. Gabbie was turning
toward the barn door when a whispering, musical voice
said, "Hold, and abide awhile, Gabrielle."

Gabbie whirled and beheld a boy, no more than four-
teen or fifteen from his appearance, hunkering down at
the edge of the hayloft. He was partly hidden by shad-
ows. "How . . . ? Who are you?"

The boy jumped, and Gabbie felt her heart skip. She

regarded the drop, over twelve feet, but he landed like a
gymnast coming off the high bar, both feet planted firmly
on the ground. He wore an odd-looking pair of trousers,
of coarse linen, it appeared, tied with a thong. They re-
minded her of the hospital pants worn by some of the
kids at school. He was barefooted and bare-chested, and
he stood slightly taller than she. His body was muscled,
but smoothly, less like a man's than an athletic boy's, and
his hair was a tangle of brown curls, of a color different
from anything she had seen, looking like nothing as
much as the color of tree bark. His face was young, but
odd—high cheekbones, a high brow, almost cruel lips,
and wide, deep eyes. The blue of those eyes struck her,
and she was certain she had seen them before. Softly,
feeling confused, she said, "Who . . . are you?"

"A wanderer, a seeker, fair one." He stared at her, his
eyes passing over her body as if caressing her. His expres-
sion was appraising, openly desirous. "Do not leave yet,
for your society is most pleasing." He spoke in a funny
way, with an accent impossible to place but somehow
familiar. He reached out, and Gabbie's heart skipped
again, and she felt terror building within her. She was on
the verge of crying out, or running, but was somehow
unable to accomplish either. The youth touched her hair,
then her cheek. As his fingertips brushed her face, Gab-
bie's body tensed, for a thrill ran down her neck, between
her breasts, to her groin. Her nipples hardened again and
her body flushed with heat as she trembled. The odor of
flowers and spices assailed her nostrils and her head
swam.

Teetering she stood while the youth walked around
her. Gabbie was unable to follow him, as if her head
refused to turn and her eyes were fixed forward. From
behind her the youth leaned toward her until his face was
next to her cheek, his chin resting upon her shoulder.

Softly he said, "I would not have troubled you, Gabrielle,
save that your longing sings to me. Your heat is felt and,
being felt, warms my desires." He giggled, a sound that
caused a shiver to run up Gabbie's spine. "Pleasing, your
form is a delight to my senses. To you shall I return such

delight, for your needs are as apparent to me as a storm
in the sky is to the raven." She felt his hand press against
the small of her back, then slide down over her right
buttock. She shook, unable to move, trapped like a deer
in the headlights of an oncoming car at night. Her mind
shrieked and yet she could make no sound; and from
deep within, a desire was building. The youth moved in
front of her and she saw him clearly again. He wore noth-
ing beneath the trousers, and she could see he was in a
state of arousal. His eyes were electric, a blue like flashing
lightning. His boyish features were masked by a shadow
of ages, both childlike and ancient. He was beautiful and
terrifying to gaze upon. He moved close to her, and all
she could see were his eyes. Blue, like the shimmering
surface of lapis lazuli, like perfect ice, his eyes drank her
will. His voice caressed her, soft and sensual. "Shall such
a flower wither for want of tending? Nay," he whispered
in her ear. His hot breath blew over her cheek and ear
and she shuddered. "If the bloom is to be lost, then it
shall not wither, it shall be plucked. Come, follow,
child." He gave her a small push and she found herself
moving toward the barn door. The youth half skipped,
half danced, reaching the door a moment before her. He
paused to glance out and, satisfied that nothing was
amiss, pushed wide the barn door. Gabbie found herself
moving despite any wish of her own.

Her mind felt detached from her body, robbed of any
volition. She moved in rhythms odd and jerky, as if what-
ever commanded her was unused to her body. Her body?

her mind wondered. She fought to halt, and felt her body
held at the door of the barn.

The youth spun to face her, a smile of searing heat
burning her eyes like the crack of lightning. In a voice
like music he said, "You know your desires. Do not
pause. Come, come with me." He made an airy gesture
with his hand, a lazy half circle, and said, "Listen, listen,

Gabrielle."

From the distance came the sound of music, a sobbing
melody so lovely it brought tears to Gabbie's eyes. Grand
themes overwhelmed her, though the sound was little

more than a quintet, a harp and three flutes, with an-
other, unrecognized woodwind. Still, it swept over her
like a wave, freeing emotions that came flowing up from
some place deep within. Gabbie cried, for the song was
too lovely to be mortal, both wonderful and sad. It was
the loveliest song she had ever heard and the most melan-
choly.

Then the theme of the music turned sprightly, a jaunty
tune of merry syncopations. Gabbie felt her body re-
spond, felt her pulse quicken, as she moved in time to the
music, half walking, half dancing behind the strange
young man. He turned and capered around her, and from
somewhere he produced pipes, four reed flutes fastened
together. He played in counterpoint to the music, and

Gabbie felt like laughing, yet it was an urge to a laughter
caught between joy and insanity. A tiny part of her stood
aloof, attempting to sort out the madness that had en-
veloped her, but that lonely part was the only logical
being in an insane universe, for everything around Gab-
bie had become fey.

The barn looked blurry, as if seen through a smeared
glass, and the light in the sky was electric, a searing blue
vibrant with energies never seen, only felt. The trees rus-
tled in the breeze and they spoke in an ancient language.

Even the mud beneath her feet seemed lovely, a moist
and warm carpet to dance across.

The boy moved through the pasture, Gabbie at his
side. She was a puppet, a marionette whose strings he
deftly manipulated. She found herself spinning, making
running circles as when she had been a child, moving for
the sheer and simple joy of movement. A gleeful sound
echoed her own laugh and she saw the boy grinning at
her.

Seemingly without effort, he vaulted the fence with but
one hand upon the top of a post. Gabbie climbed, but
even that normally awkward movement was in time with
the song, all rhythm and harmony. He led her into the
woods, into the cool green of the forest. And in the gentle
evening the trees sang and Gabbie listened.

Never had the woods looked like this, alive, throbbing

with life and energies she could see. The gloom became
soft sheltering darkness, transparent to her eyes, as a new
dimension was revealed to her. She could see every
branch and leaf, and every tree, each unique. She saw
that there was another world, a hidden world, contained
within, surrounded by, the world of her birth. She knew
that this other world had always been there, but that she
had never before been able to perceive it. Now, in the
midst of this mad and joyous dance, she could see that
other world. And in the darkness the boy glowed with his
own faint blue light.

Then the boy was dancing around her in a circle, all
the while playing on his pipes, spinning like Pan at a
bacchanal. Gabbie watched the boy's shoulders and back
while he spun, young muscles cleanly outlined under the
skin. The scent of wildflowers, honey, and spices assailed
her nostrils as the boy moved closer and closer to her.

God, he was beautiful, she thought, as she felt his near-
ness. When he spun, she could see that despite the mad
dance, his erection was still there, a homage to her loveli-
ness. Gabbie was overwhelmed with desire for this boy.

Her own body became a thing unto itself, alive with
awareness; each fiber of muscle sought to bend and twist,
to flex and release, and the dance was joined. Her skin
was electric, her hair flying around her like a dark halo.

Her nipples were hardened to a painful state and her
stomach and groin were awash in damp heat. A distant
voice deep within screamed in terror, pleading with her
to flee. She dismissed that voice.

Without knowing how he had come to stand before
her, Gabbie was vaguely aware of his hands unbuttoning
her shirt and felt the cool air against her breasts, as his
tongue lightly darted against her cheek. Her body tensed,
suddenly coiling like a spring, and then he lightly
touched her left breast. She exploded in a flash of wet
heat, her body releasing in a wild uncontrolled spasm.

Gabbie's knees went weak and she began to collapse,
but a surprisingly powerful arm encircled her, holding
her upright as if she were a child. Her skin was drenched,
as perspiration coursed down her, and she gasped for air.

In a distant corner of her mind the conscious being
named Gabbie suddenly cringed in terror, as her body
went out of control, becoming a thing apart. She felt her
fall turned into a gentle descent to the ground. She shud-
dered as waves of pleasure coursed through her, numbing
her last shred of volition. Softly he said, "Come, young
beauty, come, and let me gift thee with delights." He bent
over and kissed her. And then he drank her soul.

He deftly unbuttoned the fly of her jeans. His hand
traced circles of fire across her stomach and her breath
caught in her throat. He lowered his head and kissed her
breasts and she felt the spring inside her groin winding
tightly again. Her mind was overcome by hot wet long-
ings and she couldn't think. He slipped his hand below
the elastic of her panties and between her legs. Gabbie
shook and thrashed and bucked like a wild animal,
sounds of primitive pleasure erupting from her lips.

Trapped within herself, isolated from her own body,

Gabbie's mind was smothering. And through that palpa-
ble heat she could see images, a kaleidoscope of memo-
ries, brilliant colors scattered behind her eyes, dancing
like translucent colored beads swirling in blinding light.

She could see every man who had ever attracted her, each
remembered in detail. They stood before her, all aroused
and ready, each an object of her desire, each content to
wait upon her whim. From her days at school she re-
membered a stallion ready to mount a mare, and the
laughter of the girls as they watched one of the stable
men holding the stallion's huge member and trying to
guide it into the brood mare while not getting stepped on
by the inflamed animal. The giggles were transformed
into sighs and moans of passion as the girls suddenly
shared the act with the mare. Then the girls were sur-
rounding Gabbie, and the hated shower in the gym was
transformed into a sensual arena, as firm young bodies
writhed in the hot steam and glistened under the blue
lights. Desires undreamed of rose inside and she lusted to
caress those slender bodies, to explore their moist mys-
tery, and to taste their lips. Red lights burned—no, fire,
she could now see—and a giant of a man stood revealed

before her. His arms flexed as he pounded upon an anvil,
his perfect body drenched in sweat. Wayland, she
thought. Then she knew the boy was beside her, his
tongue probing the soft contours of her stomach.

Through a crimson haze of her own pounding blood,
she could see the youth moving to position himself over
her. His face blurred and shifted and for an instant an-
other gazed down upon her, one whose aspect was mad-
ness made solid by a demented artist. A face of cruel
beauty regarded her, then that face lowered to meet hers.

His hot breath was as sweet as mulled cider, his thrusting
tongue hinting at peppercorn sharpness. His kiss seared
her lips; his touch shocked her skin, and pleasure
mounted to levels of intensity beyond her capacity to en-
dure. The burning wet heat between her legs became elec-
tric, and as she climbed new heights of desire, the gratifi-
cation of that desire remained just beyond her reach.

Seeking unobtainable release, Gabbie crossed the bound-
ary between passion and torment. Desire fled as, in that
instant, pleasure turned to pain.

Gabbie knew agony. And terror engulfed her. Fear
profound and uncontrolled, the knowledge that she stood
poised at a point of being lost beyond redemption, swept
over her, carrying her beyond concerns of flesh and pas-
sion; she verged on becoming lost in spirit. Within her
own mind she screamed out in terror, but her lips only
moaned in pleasure, as her body remained a thing apart
from her. Trapped within herself, she knew this was
nothing of love. Love was a giving thing and this was a
taking, a ripping away of something precious. Gabbie
screamed again in her mind, but her body only made
hoarse sounds of sexual satisfaction.

The youth attacked her with animal fury, his teeth and
nails leaving fire upon her white skin, each nip and
scratch eliciting a yelp of pleasure. Deep within herself,

Gabbie shrank away in fear, a spectator to her own body,
so mindless in its grotesque lust that even this pain be-
came a delight. Silently, inwardly, she wept in mortal
terror. Gabbie felt the boy's hands work perverted magic
upon her flesh and knew he was about to take her. And

she knew that once he had her, she would never return to
the world she had known. For, deep within herself, she
knew that beyond this pleasure and pain lay only death.

Even as the passion and terror mounted toward cli-
max, a sound intruded, and that distant, trapped part of

Gabbie's mind turned toward the sound. Someone called
her name. It was a distant voice, but coming closer. Then
she heard a familiar voice call, "Gabbie?" Searing agony
passed through her groin, feeling like an electric shock
applied to flesh too sensitive to endure the most gentle
caress. She arched and twisted as if current passed into
her body, silently gasping, unable even to scream so in-
tense was the jolt of energy. Yet even at that instant she
knew this was but a promise of the full measure of agony
yet to come. She could only silently whimper as waves of
heat and pain raced to consume her, and she understood
that she would endure them for an eternity before death
arrived.

Then the red heat vanished and the pain remained.

Gabbie felt something akin to a cascade of frigid water
pour over her feverish body. Her heart seized up and her
breath froze within her as she went rigid. Then her heart
resumed beating, and a single gasping breath drove sliv-
ers of ice into her lungs. She lay cold and sick, her rav-
aged body shuddering in reaction to the wrenching tran-
sition from sweltering heat to icy darkness. Something
was removed from her, leaving her adrift upon a frigid jet
sea, the pounding in her ears the sound of distant break-
ers smashing upon ebon rocks. In that lightless arctic
ocean she floated. The first sensation to intrude into this
blackness was a smell. Damp earth. No longer did her
head reel from sweet fragrances; now she smelled the
richness of loam, and the blend of wood and leaf fra-
grances, the odor of grasses and the musk of a distant
vixen, all carried on the cool night air. In an uncoordi-
nated, tentative way, her mind was rejoined with her
body. She became aware of a trembling, a sensation
somehow coming closer, until she realized it was her
body shaking, her teeth chattering audibly. She moved
her head, and the pain shot behind her eyes, making her

cry out. Then it was light, almost blinding. "What!" said
the distant voice. "Gabbie! Oh my God!"

Gabbie felt the inky haze lifting. She blinked and
shook her head. The terror had vanished, as if someone
chased it away, but much of the pain and the terrible cold
remained and she couldn't stop shivering. Then Jack was
standing over her.

He put down the lantern, and she turned her head
away from the blinding light. "Oh God, what's going
on?" he said in a hoarse whisper. Her eyes refused to
focus and she could only vaguely sense Jack's words;
their meaning slipped away before she could apprehend
them. The fragments of thought began to coalesce, and
she looked down. Her body was near-nude, her shirt un-
buttoned and pulled back, her jeans and panties yanked
down around one ankle. She was lying in the mud along-
side the path toward the Troll Bridge in the woods. Her
breasts were covered with teeth marks and scratches, as
was her stomach. Her nipples were throbbing from the
cold, and pain shot up into her groin each time she
moved. Gabbie became aware of her damp hair matted
on her head and face, obscuring her vision, and she feebly
attempted to brush dark strands of it from her eyes. She
blinked in confusion and began to cry. She weakly
reached toward Jack. He said, "Oh God, Gabbie, what
happened?" as he cradled her in his arms.

Finally she spoke. "Jack?" Her voice was a dry half-
whisper.

Gabbie felt him quickly pick her up. As he bore her
back to the house, she felt her control slip away. The last
hint of the soul-shaking terror and the memory of the
insane, blinding lust vanished, replaced by a revulsion so
deep it caused her mind to knot in torment. She cried,
deep sobs racking her body with uncontrollable trem-
bling. Her stomach knotted a moment later and she
turned her head and vomited. Between sobs she whis-
pered, "Jack, I'm so scared." She was still crying when
he carried her into the kitchen, just before she slipped
into unconsciousness.

2

Gabbie blinked. Her head pounded and her mouth was
dry. "Water," she said, and her voice was a dry croak.

Gloria poured her a glass from a pitcher and helped her
lift up to drink. Gabbie's head reeled with the effort, as
she was overcome with dizziness. The water was cool and
fresh, and Gabbie drank deeply. Quickly the dizziness
passed and she took in her surroundings. She was in her
own bedroom.

Gloria stood beside the bed, Phil just behind her. "You
okay, honey?" asked Gloria.

"Sure, I guess." Gabbie smiled weakly. "What hap-
pened?"

Gloria glanced at Phil, who said, "We were hoping
you could tell us. Don't you remember?"

"Remember what?" Gabbie asked.

Gloria sat on a chair next to the bed. "You went into
the barn about seven-thirty yesterday. Jack showed up at
eight and I thought you'd come up here to your room.

When I discovered you weren't here, Jack grabbed a lan-
tern and went to the barn. You were nowhere to be
found, but he saw footprints in the muddy ground, head-
ing across the meadow toward the woods. He followed
them and found you on the path."

Gabbie's brow furrowed as she thought. "I ... I re-
member going to turn the hay for the horses, and I was
thinking. . . ." Her voice trailed off. "I can't remember
anything else." Suddenly she was visited by dread; but
she couldn't identify the source of that feeling. It was
only a nameless and numbing terror. The color drained
from her cheeks and she whispered, "What happened?"

Phil said, "Honey, someone tried to rape you."

Gabbie fell silent. Somehow that didn't seem possible.

She thought that if someone tried to rape you, you'd re-
member. Softly she said, "Rape?" She looked at her fa-

ther and saw that his face was a mask of controlled an-
ger. For the first time since she had come to live with
him, she saw her father truly enraged. "Someone tried to
rape me?"

"You were pretty beat up, honey," said Gloria. "And
you were burning up with a fever. You'd been left. . . ."

Gabbie looked down at herself, as if trying to see
through the covers and the T-shirt she wore, as if trying
to see inside her own body. "Did . . . ? Was . . . ?"

Gloria took Gabbie's hand. "The doctor will be here
soon. Look, we can talk about it more later. You need
your rest."

Gabbie lay back against the pillows. "I'm not tired.

Just confused."

Phil said, "You don't remember anything?"

Gabbie felt her fears diminish. The possibility of rape
seemed somehow distant. She felt bruised and battered,
but somehow not. . . . She didn't know what she felt.

Then she said, "Jack?"

"He's downstairs, waiting," said Phil. "He's been here
all night, slept on the couch, if he slept at all."

"The boys?" Suddenly Gabbie was concerned for her
brothers. If some maniac was on the loose, they might be
in danger.

"They're okay."

"Can I see Jack?"

"Sure," said Gloria, rising from the chair beside the
bed. Phil kissed Gabbie and followed his wife from the
room. Almost instantly Jack was beside Gabbie. He
looked haggard, unshaven, and rumpled. He smiled
down at her. "Hi."

"Hi yourself," she said, returning his smile. "Don't I
get a kiss?"

He leaned over and kissed her. "Are you all right?"

She said, "I ... don't know. Ah, I don't remember
much." She studied his face and saw he was working
hard to maintain a light manner. Behind the soft words
and quick smile, he was seething and deeply troubled.

"Are you okay?"

The mask broke and tears gathered in his eyes. His

voice became thick with emotion. "No, I ... I'm not
doing real good with this." He took a deep breath. "I'm
not a violent person, Gabbie, but I swear if I get my
hands on that animal, I'll kill him."

The strength of his emotions startled Gabbie. "Hey!

Take it easy."

Jack's control was tost and tears ran down his cheeks.

He took her hand in his and looked at her. "I ... I love
you, you know?"

She smiled. "I know. I love you, too."

He sat on the bedside and leaned over, kissing her
again. "If anything happened ... I'd go nuts, you
know?" he whispered.

"Ya, I know," she whispered back, holding his head so
his cheek rested against hers, ignoring the rasp of his
beard stubble. At that moment she felt the bond between
them and knew that whatever doubts she had felt were
gone. There was a long silence, then she said, "It's funny,
but I don't feel raped." Jack stiffened, and she said,

"Hey, calm down, Jack. I'm serious. I feel . . . tired,
and. bruised, but . . . somehow I don't think. . . ." She
looked at him. "I think I'd know." Her eyes closed as she
kissed Jack. She loosed her arms from around his neck
and he sat back. "Something happened," she said softly.

Her voice lowered to a near whisper as fragments of im-
ages flashed past. "But ... it wasn't what they think."

Before Jack could answer, one of the boys shouted
from below, "Doctor's here!" The downstairs door could
be heard opening, then slamming, as Sean or Patrick pro-
vided a loud welcome. A moment later Dr. John Latham
entered and chased Jack from the room while he checked
on his patient. Jack went downstairs and found Phil and

Gloria talking to a man in the living room.

The man looked up as Jack entered and Phil said,

"Jack, this is Detective Mathews." The police detective
had arrived on the heels of the doctor and returned to
what he had been saying when Jack had entered. "I'm
sorry, Mr. Hastings, but if she can't remember details,
there's little we can do."

Phil looked incensed. "My daughter was raped and
you can't do anything?"

The detective held up his hands. "Mr. Hastings, I
know you're upset, but we won't know if she was raped
until the doctor says she was. From what you say of her
condition, we can pretty well rule out that the girl beat
and bit herself black and blue, so there is ample evidence
of an assault. But unless we have a physical description of
a suspect, we're stuck at a dead end. We'll have a car
make additional patrols out here for a few days, and we'll
keep an eye out for any strange characters who might
come through town, but we don't have a lead. Hell, if it's
a transient, he could be halfway to anywhere by now."

He paused, and added, "I'm no lawyer, but even if we
found someone, we still might not have a case for assault.

Without a positive identification, we couldn't tie him to
this crime."

Phil said, "Look, I don't care what you charge the
bastard with. I just want him caught."

"We'll do what we can. Now, as soon as your daugh-
ter's able, I'd like a few words with her." He turned to

Jack. "You're the one who found her?" Jack nodded and
the detective took him aside to ask some questions.

A while later Dr. Latham came down the stairs. He
said, "She's fine. Just keep an eye on her for a day or two,
and let me know if that fever comes back." He looked
disapprovingly at Phil and Gloria. "I wish you'd brought
her in to the emergency room last night."

Gloria looked self-conscious. "I ... it didn't look es-
pecially bad, I mean the swelling of those bites and
scratches didn't start until this morning, or during the
night." Her voice trailed off as she added, "I have this
thing about hospitals. . . ."

"Well, I've given her a tetanus booster, and a shot of
tetracycline, so those scratches won't do much, but . . .

look, I'm not going to lecture you. Just don't be so quick
to make a diagnosis in the future, all right?"

Phil said, "We won't," and cast a sidelong glance at
his wife. Last night Phil had been beside himself, and

Gloria had appeared an island of calm, reassuring her

husband that Gabbie was only a little bruised. He had
been forced to agree, as he had helped put the feverish
girl to bed, that the scratches on her breasts and stomach
had looked minor. Gloria had judged Gabbie's tempera-
ture to be little more than a hundred degrees, so he had
grudgingly agreed not to rush her off to the hospital. This
morning, when Gloria had looked in on her, the fever
was still there and she had tossed off her covers in the
night. Gloria had seen the welts that had come up during
sleep and had rushed to the phone, getting Dr. Latham's
name from Aggie. It had taken all Gloria's persuasive-
ness and dropping Aggie's name to get him to agree to
the house call.

Phil said, "Doctor, what's the story? Was Gabbie
raped?"

Dr. Latham said, "My best guess is not. There're no
physical signs of penetration."

"Are you sure?" asked Phil.

The doctor understood Phil's concern. "One hundred
percent? No, anything is possible, but I'd bet thirty years
of practice she wasn't entered. No, your daughter was
roughed up a good deal—those teeth marks are a symp-
tom of a pretty sick mind at work." He looked thoughtful
a moment. "The marks are odd, more like burns than
abrasions. And I swear there are tiny blisters on the skin
below her pubic hair." He regarded the puzzled expres-
sions of Gloria and Phil, and said, "No, I don't think she
was raped." After a short silence he said, "But, to all
intents and purposes, it's pretty much the same thing.

She was violated and she needs to have some help dealing
with that. I can recommend someone if you'd like."

"A psychiatrist?" said Phil.

"Or a psychologist. Or someone from the rape assis-
tance center up in Buffalo, maybe. Sign of emotional diffi-
culty may not surface for a while, so keep an eye out. If
she's troubled, or has difficulty sleeping, or shows any
unusual behavior, like becoming suddenly agitated or
manic, or going quiet for long periods, just let me know.

I'll give you a referral."

Phil thanked the doctor, and the detective went up to

question Gabbie briefly. When they had both left, Gloria
went upstairs to sit with Gabbie. Phil and Jack stood in
the living room and exchanged a look that revealed they
both felt the same things: outrage and helplessness.

3

"Hey!" Gabbie shouted. As usual, her protests were ig-
nored and the twins continued their battle. Pulling aside
the covers of her bed, she got up and stormed down the
hall to their room. Sean and Patrick were rolling on the
floor, their tussle approaching the point where play
verged on battle. "Hey!" Gabbie shouted again.

The boys halted their struggle. Looking up, Sean said,

"What?"

"Take it outside," ordered Gabbie.

"Take what outside?" said Patrick with that evil ex-
pression only little brothers are capable of.

"Your noise, your brother, and yourself," she said, her
patience at an end. "Or when Gloria and Dad get back,
your little fannies'll be in a sling." She turned on her heel,
not staying to hear their rebuttal. Then a shout caused
her to look back. "What!"

Patrick stood there, trying to pick up Sean. "You said
to take him outside." Both boys collapsed to the floor
with uncontained mirth.

"Oh!" said Gabbie as she retreated to her bedroom.

She had gotten exactly twenty-four hours' consideration
from the boys since Jack had carried her home. All day
yesterday the boys had practically tiptoed around and
spoke in whispers, so as not to disturb Gabbie's rest. Now
it was business as usual. She gave up on the convalescing
and took off the big T-shirt she used as night clothing.

She paused a moment to regard her nude body in the full-
length mirror hung on the door and shuddered. The welts
had gone down, but now angry marks, like tiny sunburn
blisters, had formed, puffy reminders of some terrible en-

counter she could not remember. Sighing, she pulled a
pair of panties out of the dresser and stepped into them.

Dressing in a shirt and jeans, she pulled on her boots,
determined to put all this strangeness behind her. Be-
sides, she needed to work the horses.

Back in the hall, she found that the boys had left, and
assumed they were heading out for the afternoon baseball
game at the park. Phil and Gloria were up in Buffalo for
the day. Phil had been asked to speak at a library lun-
cheon, and Gabbie had almost had to throw a temper
tantrum to get him to go. He'd wanted to stay close de-
spite her assurances she was all right. Phil consented to
go when Mark agreed to baby-sit the place, so he and

Gloria had decided to make a day of it, staying for some
shopping, then dinner at the Cloister, which was reputed
to be one of the best restaurants in the state.

Passing the library, she spied Mark sitting behind her
dad's computer and stuck her head through the door.

"Hi. How's it going?"

Mark looked up and smiled at her, and Gabbie was
suddenly struck by the thought that he was a very nice
man. She'd spent only a little time with Mark and Gary,
more with Gary, for Jack and she would play tennis with

Gary and his girlfriend, Ellen. But when she was around

Mark, she found him pleasant company.

He said, "Pretty good. Just about done here, and get-
ting ready to brave the basement tomorrow. How's it
with you?"

She shrugged. "I'm still bruised. But I'll live."

"That's good."

"What's with Dad's computer?"

"I'm using it to catalog the library. I'll dump a hard
copy for myself, and your dad'll have these discs to keep.

He can update them when he buys or sells something."

She shook her head. "I doubt he'll remember. He likes
the word processor, but all the other stuff is from another
planet as far as he's concerned."

Mark laughed. "I know. I wrote the program for the
catalog."

Gabbie lingered at the door, seemingly unable to speak

for a while. After a bit, Mark said, "Want to talk about
it?"

"It's pretty weird."

"Weird is my business." He looked hard at her. "Gab-
bie, if you don't want to talk, my feelings won't be hurt.

But if you need an ear, I'll be more than happy to listen."

He smiled. "And I am a psychologist."

"I didn't know that." She seemed surprised.

"Most people don't. I don't practice, but I have my

Ph.D. in abnormal psychology and a license from the
state of New York which says I'm a shrink. That's how I
got into the occult in the first place, investigating weird
psychological phenomena. The first book I wrote was on
paranormal psychology, and that led to other things in
the occult field. I'm sort of distant from when I did my
clinical internship, but I still know how to listen."

She paused, as if considering what he said. Then at last
she said, "Confidentially?"

"Absolutely." He punched some keys, saving what-
ever he was working on, while she went over to a chair.

He sat back, the desk separating them, and said nothing.

After a while she began, "What has me worried is that

I don't remember much. I mean, I've heard of people
having blocks and the like from trauma, but I don't feel
especially . . . traumatized, you know?" He nodded.

"But it's like a . . . dream. Like when you wake up and
almost remember what you dreamed, maybe an image or
something, but you can't remember most of it."

"What do you remember?"

"I remember . . . hearing something. And I remem-
ber . . . smelling something."

"What?"

"Wildflowers, I think. At least, it smelled like flowers.

And it had to be pretty strong for me to smell it in the
barn." She laughed, looking a little embarrassed. "This is
pretty stupid, huh?"

"No, not at all. Smells are pretty basic, stronger than
you'd imagine. You can look at a picture of your grand-
mother, for example, and not remember her, then smell

her favorite cologne and trigger vivid memories. It's com-
mon."

"Well, I don't think I've smelled anything like this
before. It was spicy. I'd have remembered. . . ." Her
voice trailed off and her eyes widened.

"What?" Mark asked softly.

Color drained from Gabbie's face. "I did smell that
flower smell before. I ... I'm surprised I didn't remem-
ber right away, 'cause that was pretty weird, too."

"When?" said Mark, obviously interested.

"When My Dandelion threw her shoe, on the Fourth
of July." She told him about her encounter with the
blacksmith. Mark moved forward, so that his elbows
rested upon the desk as she spoke. "That's so strange. I
didn't remember anything about that until just now.

Must have been the flu."

"What flu?"

"I got a bug on the Fourth. Jack found me. He thinks
this blacksmith was a hallucination. I don't. I think he
was one of those Amish guys from Cattaraugus. He
looked like one, wide hat, suspenders, heavy boots. And
he had an accent. He had this old wagon, with a portable
forge in back. But it looked . . . you know, really old,
not like the modern ones in the back of trucks. I don't
know how to describe it, really."

Mark didn't say anything; at last Gabbie said, "You
know, I was pretty upset with Jack, and I thought that
smith was pretty nice. I sort of thought I might like to
meet him again, but I guess an Amish guy wouldn't . . .

I don't know, date outside his faith? Whatever."

Mark smiled and spoke softly. "No, I don't think so.

Look, Gabbie. There may have been a blacksmith. I don't
know much about the Amish, but I could check it out for
you. Did he tell you his name?"

She wrinkled her brow, then her eyes widened.

"Smith. That was it. His name was Wayland Smith."

The only change of expression on Mark's face was a
slight tightening around the eyes. "Wayland Smith," he
repeated in flat tones.

"Yes." She seemed to be struggling to remember some-

thing. "He said he was from someplace called White

Horse. I guess it's his hometown. That's about all, except.

. . ." She lowered her eyes.

After a long silence, Mark softly said, "What?"

"Well, he sort of ... got me turned on, you know."

Mark was silent, absently tapping a pencil against his
cheek. Then he said, "Did this disturb you?"

Gabbie's eyes met his, and she looked embarrassed.

"Yes, sort of. It's like there's two different people, see"—
she tapped her chest with a finger—"inside." Gabbie
paused, fighting for words. "Me, the real me is, you
know, normal." Her voice lowered, showing discomfort.

"I've got urges, you know. I get ... excited, by Jack,
you know."

Mark smiled. It was reassuring and warm, not mock-
ing. "Yes, I know."

Gabbie grinned self-consciously. "I do that when I get
nervous. You know, you know, you know." She shook
her head. "Grandmother used to really get on my case
about ending every sentence with 'you know.' " The
mood seemed to lighten, and Gabbie began to relax.

"Look, when I'm with Jack, I get pretty turned on, but
it's sort of a normal thing. . . ." She began to say some-
thing, then halted and changed it to, "See?"

The both laughed. Mark said, "I do."

"But with this blacksmith. . . . Well, he was nice and
all, but while he was working, all I thought of was his
body." She sighed loudly. "I mean, he was something
else, but. ..." She thought for a long time and finally
said, ". . . but I don't normally think a lot about a guy's
body. I mean, Jack's got a terrific body, and I'd have
trouble with somebody who repulsed me, but what a guy
says and thinks, how he feels, those are the things, I
guess, that make me take notice." She seemed again to be
fighting for words.

"And this Wayland was different?"

Gabbie said, "God, yes!" She fell silent once more
while she remembered. "I watched him work, and I was
sweating all over, and all I could think of was getting my
hands on his body." She laughed self-consciously as she

made a grasping gesture, and shook her head in amaze-
ment. "He lifted me to the saddle, after he'd finished the
shoeing, and when he put his hands on me, I just about
came in my jeans." Gabbie's tone shifted from embar-
rassment to distress. "Mark, it scares me. I'd have balled
his brains out right there on the ground. I mean, I wasn't
thinking about love or loyalty to Jack or my virginity or
anything. I just wanted to pull his pants off and screw."

Her voice lowered. "It was like he had this power over
me. Am I crazy, or what?"

Mark smiled. "My guess is you're a little more 'or
what' than crazy." Gabbie smiled back. "Sex is a pretty
heavy experience in any case." He studied her for a mo-
ment. "Especially if you're kind of new at it. You may get
a little better at dealing with sexual attraction as you get
more experienced, but it's still something that can badly
shake you. Every once in a while we'll meet someone who
just makes us go batty without our knowing the first
thing about him or her. Most times, we need some shar-
ing, trust building, and time together to build a relation-
ship, you know?" They both smiled at that. "But this
other thing, chemistry, love at first sight, lightning strik-
ing, whatever you call it, is pretty scary stuff. Even old
guys like me have it from time to time. Just a year ago, I
met someone at a writer's convention. . . . Well, with-
out details, when we shook hands to say good-bye, it was
like an electric shock. Damn near knocked my socks off."

Gabbie became animated. "That's it! I nearly jumped
out of my clothes when he touched me." She lowered her
eyes. "It was almost an orgasm."

"It's a powerful and basic thing. And it doesn't make
a whole lot of sense. It's the reason people get so deeply
involved with partners who are no damn good for them."

Gabbie nodded. "Like my mom and dad?"

"I never met your mom, but from what little your dad
has said, it might have been like that. I've seen pictures of
your mom, and she's a killer." He winked at her. "And
so's her kid." Gabbie smiled at the compliment without
embarrassment. "And your dad was pretty young when
they met. By all accounts, it was a whirlwind courtship.

Even now they might not be able to tell you what they
saw in each other back then." He paused. "So what I'm
telling you is that when we run up against this chemistry
thing, it's overwhelming and it doesn't make sense. And
you get scared. Also, it gives you the feeling someone else
has power over you, and that's usually not pleasant. We
often come to resent those we love, just for that power
they hold over us." Gabbie still appeared worried.

"Look, you said you had the flu, right?" She indicated
yes. "Well, when we're feverish, we can act in some
strange ways. I'm not an M.D., but I do read the jour-
nals, and I know fevers do weird things to hormones and
other things in your biochemistry. Maybe this fellow's
effect on you was due in part to the fever. Or at least you
responded more strongly than normal because your body
chemistry was a little messed up and your normal inhibi-
tions were dampened. Or something like that."

Gabbie sighed. "I hope so. I ... hope it isn't some-
thing . . . you know, like something I really wanted

. . . secretly or something." She looked down at her
hands, folded in her lap. "Like maybe this guy in the
woods . . . saw something in me. . . ."

Softly Mark said, "Gabbie, getting excited by a good-
looking, strong young man isn't the mark of a slut. It
doesn't put a neon sign on your forehead inviting every
passing man to jump on you. And even if you were into
sports sex, even if you'd had a dozen lovers by now,
rape's a different thing. Very different."

Mark studied Gabbie for a moment without speaking.

His expression was serious, but his tone remained reas-
suring as he said, "It's not uncommon for victims to get
confused and lose sight of what's reasonable and what
isn't. You can get pretty messed up, feel somehow respon-
sible for being victimized. Understand?" Her expression
showed she still had some doubts. "Look, you can find
yourself saying, 'I should have prevented this somehow,'

or 'I must have secretly wanted to be raped,' or 'God
must have had it in for me,' or some other such thing,
and the guilt comes pouring out."

She raised her eyes a little. "I sort of thought things

like that. I thought maybe he ... you know, that I in-
vited him . . . that it was my fault."

"It's not. But you can get scared and confused and
think it was." He looked hard at her. "And sometimes
those around us also get confused and reinforce those
feelings. Like boyfriends or fathers. Any problems like
that?"

"No, Dad and Jack have both been perfect." Her eyes
seemed to light up at that, and she smiled. "Ya, they've
been great."

Mark smiled again. "Remember, it wasn't your fault.

Okay?" She nodded. "Now, any improvement in remem-
bering what happened in the barn?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I can remember that
smith better than what happened in the barn. The guy in
the barn? Just he was young, like maybe younger than
me. And he was . . . cute, but sort of spooky, too, even
crazy. Charismatic maybe. He talked to me, but it's like I
can see his lips move but can't hear the words, like
watching a movie with the sound off. Then suddenly he
was all over me. I don't remember much, really. I don't
even remember how we got into the woods." She leaned
back. "So I'm not nuts?"

He laughed. "No. . . . Well, maybe just a little." She
smiled. "There is no 'right' way to feel about this sort of
thing, Gabbie. Anger, regret, hostility, depression, even
euphoria, all of them are possible at different times. Just
make sure you're straight with yourself about how you
do feel at the moment, and if things get rough, don't be
shy about giving me a holler, okay?"

Gabbie nodded. "I've been pretty good about staying
in touch with my feelings. I had to deal with a lot grow-
ing up."

"So I've been led to understand." He paused. "If I
were you, I'd just get on with living. Not try to forget,
but just let whatever comes out of your memory come
out, and not worry about the blank spaces for a while. It
will come to you when it does."

She stood and said, "Well, that makes sense." She bit
her lower lip as she thought. "I think that smell was . . .

somehow part of the whole sex thing." She sighed. "Well,
if I remember anything else, can I talk to you?"

"Sure, anytime."

She moved toward the door. "I've got to check out the
horses. Jack might have messed things up, you know,"

she said lightly.

"You okay with the barn?"

She smiled. "I don't think he's still lurking there, do
you?"

"If you want, I'll go out there with you."

"No, that's okay. I'm a big girl." She started to leave,
then stopped and said, "Thanks, Mark."

"You're welcome, Gabbie." He watched her leave. She
was a lovely youngster. He smiled as he remembered

Gary's remark about putting a hit on Jack. If she'd been
ten years older he might have thought the same thing.

Hearing her slam the back door, he sighed and added to
himself, Or if I were fifteen years younger. Chuckling, he
amended that to twenty years. He passed off the thought
with amusement and picked up the phone. It was an-
swered after the second ring. "Gary? Do me a favor. Go
to the file and look up the name Wayland Smith. See
what we've got on him. Don't call back. Keep it until I
get home." He listened. "No, I'll be here until about
eleven, I guess. Phil and Gloria should be back by then.

You and Ellen enjoy yourselves at the movies." He hung
up. Sitting back, he thought for a long time on what

Gabbie had told him. Finally, resigning himself to wait-
ing upon this newest mystery, he turned back to the com-
puter, which waited patiently for his next input.

4

Gary was waiting up for Mark when he got home, in the
room they used as an office. Blackman put down the
printout he'd dumped from Phil's computer and said,

"You're back earlier than I expected."

"Ellen's got to work, remember. Unlike some of us,
she can't beg an extra hour of sleep in the morning. Want
a brandy?" Gary indicated his own glass. Mark shook his
head no.

Gary said, "I looked up Wayland Smith in the files."

"What'd you find?"

"He's a character of folklore, who appeared in the Old

English poem 'Deor's Complaint' and later in Scott's

Kenilworth. He's seen as a cognate of Volund; in that
form there's a long story about him in the Elder Edda.

He's supposed to be some sort of supersmith, like what

Paul Bunyan was to lumberjacks. All of which I expect
you already knew. Now, want to tell me why?"

Mark said, "Did you notice where he was supposed to
live?"

Gary grumbled as he stood up and went to the heavily
littered desk. He pulled out a stack of cards and flipped
through them. Finding one, he put the rest down. "All it
says is White Horse."

"Look up White Horse in my place file."

Gary did as he was bid and soon was reading from
another card. "White Horse. Uffington, near Wantage,
southwest of Abingdon on the Berkshire Downs. The

White Horse is a monument of unknown origin, possibly
predruidic, formed by cutting away the top layer of turf,
exposing the chalk substratum of the hillside. Others are
found in Wiltshire, Yorkshire, and elsewhere, but Uf-
fington is the most famous." Gary put down the cards.

"All right. So now are you going to tell me what's going
on?"

"Gabbie said she met Wayland Smith on the Fourth of

July."

Gary sat down. Quietly he said, "Shit."

"Well put, as usual."

"No, I mean, maybe the name is coincidence."

"An itinerant smith, with an ancient portable forge in
the back of a wagon, whom she took to be Amish because
of his old style of clothing and speech? Who says he lived
at White Horse?" He went on, explaining in detail what

Gabbie had told him. "And remember, this is a consult,
almost-a-doctor, for I've promised confidentiality."

"Since when do candidates in historical linguistics do
psychological consulting?" Gary waved away the ques-
tion. "Joking. I won't tell Gabbie you've been gossiping
about her sex life." He sat back, tapping his fingers on the
chair arm. "It just doesn't make any sense, Mark. It's like
paddling down the river and meeting Huck Finn on a
raft. Someone's got to be putting her on."

Mark was silent for a long time. "It's just possible that
there's a series of coincidences here. Perhaps Gabbie's
right and it is an Amish smith from over in Cattaraugus,
who's named Wayland and who comes from a town
called White Horse. Though I don't think there's a snow-
ball's chance in hell we're going to find any Amish carry-
ing an English name."

Gary was up again, pulling an atlas from a shelf and
thumbing through the index. "Here. There are two towns
called White Horse. One is one word, Whitehorse,

Yukon, Canada—"

"I think we can rule that one out."

Gary frowned at the interruption. "The other is"—he
smiled as if vindicated—"in William Pitt County, New

York." He flipped to the indicated map page. "It's about
spitting distance from the Cattaraugus county line, half-
way between here and Pearlingtown, so it may have

Amish living nearby."

"Do me a favor."

"I know, go there and check out if there's a black-
smith named Wayland Smith working in the area."

"Yes. He won't be in the phone book if he is Amish."

Mark sighed. "I don't think you'll find him, but we
should be thorough.

"This one's got me bugged. Either the gods of coinci-
dence are having a field day or Gabbie's had the most
outrageous paranormal experience we've ever encoun-
tered."

"Or someone's running a pretty wild scam," offered

Gary.

"What are you thinking?"

Gary looked at Mark over the rim of his brandy glass.

"Maybe somebody's got the kid marked for a major
league con job."

"Why?"

Gary leaned back against the desk. "Millions of rea-
sons."

Mark said, "Her inheritance?"

Gary nodded. "I did some checking at the library in
town, in some back issues of Fortune and The Wall Street

Journal. Phil wasn't kidding about millions and millions.

I doubt even Gabbie has a notion of how far-reaching her
grandmother's holdings were. Eldon Larker, Gabbie's
great-grandfather, was a regular robber baron, a minor
leaguer compared to the Vanderbilts and Mellons of the
world, but still pretty good at finding ways to make
money. And her grandfather built upon that with major
success. We're talking Middle Eastern oil, South African
gold and diamonds, high-tech companies in California, a
shirt factory in Taiwan, a perfume concern in Paris, a
percentage of a small but profitable nationwide car rental
company, a dog food plant, a chain of Christian book-
stores in the Bible Belt . . . dozens of other things. And
unless Gabbie's mom finds a way to break the will—
which appears unlikely; Helen Larker's lawyers are too
damn good—the kid's rich with a capital letter R."

"How big an R?"

"Quick cash? Three, four million maybe. But if she
divested herself of holdings, who knows? Her net worth
would be, I figure, over eighty million."

"Why your interest?"

Gary shrugged. "Curiosity." Then he grinned. "And
maybe I'll drop Ellen and give Jack a run for his money

—make that her money."

"That'll be the day." Mark lapsed into silence.

After a while Gary said, "This is really bugging you."

"It makes no kind of sense." He sat back. "I'll take
that brandy, please."

Gary fetched him one. Mark said, "If someone was
after Gabbie's money, there'd be a thousand more likely
ploys. I'd be a lot more suspicious of a smarmy young

tennis pro with Hollywood good looks, a Latin accent,
and a marathon runner's endurance in bed than a rural
blacksmith. I don't know. But I think a scam to get her
money is the long shot."

"If that's the long shot, what'd you call meeting a
walking, talking folk myth?"

Mark closed his eyes, suddenly tired. "I don't know.

But I'll bet you a dinner in town that you'll find no Way-
land Smith in White Horse, New York."

Gary said, "No bet. I've learned not to argue with
your hunches." He sipped his drink. "Okay, so I go there
and turn up empty. Then what?"

"I don't know. I really don't know." After another
long silence he said, "When's Aggie getting back?"

"I think in another two days. Jack went back to New

York to help her lug all her stuff home. Why?"

"Give her a day, then stop by and see her. Be as cir-
cumspect as you can, but I'd like you to feel her out
about something that's starting to come together in my
head."

Gary put down his drink and got pencil and paper.

When things began crystallizing in Mark's head, it usu-
ally led to a new project or a breakthrough on a current
one. "Aggie will know more than most about the folk
myths of the British Isles and their relationship to histor-
ical events. See what she knows about the druidic priest-
hood. ..." Mark instructed Gary to inquire after a long
series of seemingly unrelated topics. He finished by say-
ing, "See if she knows the Smith legends."

Gary ended his note-taking. "That's going to be some-
thing to dress up in cocktail talk."

Mark smiled. "You'll find a way."

"Yes, sahib." Gary rose, "Now I'm for bed. Between
an athletic girlfriend who beat me straight sets, then
laughed about it all through the movie, and a strange
boss, I'm grumpy and bushed. And it looks like a long
day tomorrow."

Mark waved good night and sat for a long time staring
into his brandy. His mind turned things over and he kept
coming back to the feeling that the answer that was the

least probable, even apparently impossible, was somehow
going to prove to be the right one. And that certainty
filled him with a strange and exhilarating dread. For if he
was correct, then whatever mysterious thing had rocked

Germany at the turn of the century was occurring again,
in William Pitt County, New York.

5

Patrick looked about and Sean signaled all clear. They
opened the back door and hurried down the three steps.

Patrick placed the saucer of milk on the ground and the
boys scurried back inside. For a few moments they
watched the milk, then Sean said, "Maybe they won't
come if you're watching. Like Santa."

Patrick shrugged. "Maybe. Come on. If Mom catches
us, we'll really get it."

They left, avoiding the wrath of their mother, who was
watching some dumb movie with their dad in the parlor.

Tiptoeing up the stairs, they reached the haven of their
bedroom. In a trice each was in his appointed place, deep
under the covers.

Their visits with Barney Doyle had become more fre-
quent, as he held them spellbound with his wild stories of
great Irish heroes and their magic. It was his placing the
milk out by the door that had caused them to begin doing
likewise. They could hardly sleep for the anticipation of
going down in the morning and discovering if the good
people, as Barney called them, had taken the milk.

Below, the milk sat unattended, until a glowing pair of
eyes spied it from under the house. Moving silently, a
form came out into the moonlight and regarded the sau-
cer. Ernie's nose sniffed delicately and, finding the unex-
pected treat fresh, he began to lap.

A slight sound caused the tom to turn. Behind him,
approaching cautiously, was something odd and confus-
ing. A little man, no higher than the cat, was approach-

ing, waving a tiny walking stick at Ernie. In words high
and faint he cried out, "Shoo! Be off!"

The cat backed away, at first tempted to paw at the
man, but something registered in the old tom's head and
he backed off. There were others coming behind, and
some innate sense told the cat they were not to be played
with. These were not food, or enemies, just strange. Ernie
retreated a short way off and sat down to watch the crea-
tures. There were a half dozen of them, all little people,
some with tiny wings on their backs, some dressed in odd
fashion, but looking wrong and smelling alien to the cat.

They circled the milk, then one dipped a finger in and
pulled it out, tasting it. He nodded and they all bent over
the dish and began to drink.

Then something else emerged from the dark: some-
thing dangerous. The cat's back went up and he hissed.

A thing black and fearsome came out of the dark, some-
thing so evil that the cat rose up and danced backward,
hissing and yowling. The little people turned and saw the
black creature approaching, and all backed away from
the milk, waving their tiny fists in frustration and anger.

But they, too, left the milk uncontested before the ap-
proaching evil, fleeing under the house. Ernie hesitated
only an instant longer before quitting the field. He turned
and ran toward the barn, leaping high into one of the
small, scruffy apple trees. Reaching the highest branch
that could hold his weight, the tomcat hunkered down
and watched as the black thing came before the milk. It
moved with strange articulation of its joints, as if monkey
had been mated to spider. All these concerns were be-
yond the tom's understanding, save one thing: This crea-
ture was dangerous. It gave off a dark aura and an evil
stench as it hunkered down before the milk, making soft
noises of delight while it drank.

6

Gabbie stuck her head through the door. "Mind some
company?"

Mark looked up the stairs from where he sat on the
floor of the basement, amid a pile of old books and
trunks, and said, "Nope."

Gabbie came down the steps and sat on the bottom
riser, so Mark was forced to look up at her. "Troubles?"

"Just some nightmares." She was silent for a while, as
if reluctant to speak. She looked about the confusion in
the basement. "What have you found?"

"A ton of oddities. Both Kesslers were into some
pretty diverse stuff." He held out a book. "Thomas

Mann; it's either a first edition worth hundreds or it's
worthless. I'll have to write to a bookseller friend to find
out." He picked up another. "And this is Herman

Hesse's Magister Ludi, definitely a first. And just when
you think Kessler pater et filius were literary gourmets
you find stuff like this." He waved to another stack.

"Badly written junk on the occult, snake-oil medical the-
ories like mucus-free diets and the benefits of ice baths,
pornography, potboiler best sellers from a hundred years
ago to today, crackbrain philosophy, all sorts of crap. I
don't know where they found it all." Mark stood up.

"There's little sense to it."

Gabbie reached over and took a book from the top of a
pile next to the stairs and read the spine. It was Thomas

Keightley's The World Guide to Gnomes, Faeries, Elves,
and Other Little People. "This worth anything?"

Mark said, "I've got the original, published in 1850 as

The Fairy Mythology. That is a recent reprint of no
worth." He glanced about. "There's probably no reason
for me to be curious, but it strikes me the Kesslers had
some reason for this eclectic gathering of oddities." He
sighed. "What do I know? They might have been the sort

of people who like to buy books by the yard, in the
proper color bindings to fill bookshelves so the decor is
right."

Gabbie laughed. "Old Man Kessler was not concerned
with matters of decor, if Gloria's frustration is any indi-
cation." She noticed a small piece of paper in the book
and opened it to page 317. There was a reprint of an old
drawing. Gabbie squinted and said, "The light down here
is going to make you blind." She stood up and walked up
to the top of the stairs, to better see the book in the light
from the door. Mark turned back to his sorting and
picked up another book from an open trunk. He chose
which pile to put it in and decided it was a big enough
stack to warrant carrying it upstairs and begin putting
data into the computer. Then something in the air caused
him to look up.

Gabbie was studying the picture with intense concen-
tration, seemingly unable to take her eyes from it. After a
while she softly said, "This is wrong."

Mark put down the book he was examining and came
to the foot of the stairs. "What do you mean it's wrong?"

"He's too young." She looked down at Mark, and in
her eyes he saw unfiltered fear. Her words came thick
and choking, as if she had to cough them up. "This is
him as a baby, a little boy. He's older now."

Mark hurried up the stairs and gently took the book
from Gabbie's trembling hands. "What do you mean?"

he said quietly.

Tears welled up in Gabbie's eyes. "Look at the face.

It's hard to see, but it's him."

"Who?"

Gabbie had to swallow hard. "It's the boy from the
barn. The one who tried. ..." Mark gently reached out
and let Gabbie come into his arms. She shook like a
frightened animal. "Oh God!" she said, a desperate, terri-
fied whisper. "I'm going crazy."

Mark let Gabbie cry as he held her. The part of him
that was the psychologist knew the release of pent-up
terror and other dark emotions would be healthy in the
long run, and questions of sanity were but momentary

concerns. The real work with Gabbie would now begin,
and with luck would not take long, for she was basically a
resilient, well-adjusted, and healthy kid. But the investi-
gator into dark mysteries was astonished that he felt no
surprise at her revelation. He held the book behind Gab-
bie's back, where he could see the illustration she had
looked at. The word scribbled in the margin by the
younger Kessler, in an old-style, formal Germanic script,
was Butze. He knew it was a variant of Putzel or Putz. He
glanced at the picture and shook his head. Could he have
become so desensitized to wonders that the impossible
failed to move him any longer? For if Gabbie wasn't in-
sane or terribly confused, or the gods of coincidence
weren't on another rampage, the same girl who had met

Wayland Smith in the woods had been assaulted by Puck.

7

Phil looked at Mark with open disapproval on his fea-
tures. When Gabbie and Mark had come up from the
basement, the girl had been close to hysteria, unable to
stop crying. Gloria was upstairs with her, and Mark had
suggested that if she didn't settle down soon, Dr. Latham
should be consulted. Phil had barraged Mark with ques-
tions and had been unsatisfied with the answers.

"Phil, I know she's your daughter and that you're up-
set, but I can't discuss what she's told me without her
permission."

Phil seethed. He stood in the hall, hands upon hips,
unable to articulate his anger. Finally something inside
seemed to break, and he visibly wilted before Mark's
eyes. In an instant his anger was changing to concern. He
took a deep breath and said, "Sorry. I was out of line."

Mark shrugged. "Not really. You make good father
noises."

"Come on. I could use a drink and I don't like to
drink alone."

Mark looked at his watch. It was a little after noon.

He usually didn't drink this early in the day, even at
publishers' business lunches, but Phil looked in need of
an ear.

They had just poured a couple of scotches when Glo-
ria appeared. Her anger was barely contained. Taking

Phil's drink from his hand, she took a healthy swallow,
then said, "Thanks. Pour one for yourself." Phil did as
she bade while she sat opposite Mark. "Now, just what
the fuck is going on?" Phil looked at his wife, who usu-
ally avoided strong language. He could see she was as
upset over Gabbie's condition as she would have been
where the boys were concerned. In a strange way it made
him feel better to see his wife so protective of her step-
daughter.

Mark said, "I just told Phil that I can't talk about
what Gabbie's going through without her permission."

"What are you, her doctor?" said Gloria, obviously
upset. "I left a kid up there crying herself unconscious.

She looks like hell. She's obviously scared shitless. God-
damnitall, Mark, what's going on?"

Mark leaned forward. "First, yes, I am her doctor."

Gloria blinked. Mark told them of his credentials, and
went on, "I'm listening for free, but I'm bound by the
same considerations as if she were paying me seventy-five
bucks an hour to sit in a Park Avenue office."

"Damnit," said Gloria with sudden anger, "she's our
kid! And she's a basket case. Now, what's going on!"

Mark was visited with a sudden insight as Phil sat
next to his wife, regarding her with a mixture of pride
and concern. Gloria was as scared as Gabbie, and Mark
understood why. The idea of mental illness—maybe ill-
ness in any form—terrified Gloria. Mark balanced his
concern for Gabbie with a newfound wish to make things
as easy as possible for Gloria. Slowly, so as not to upset
her any further, he said, "Look, I can tell you a few
things. After Gabbie wakes up, I'll tell you whatever she
says I may. But if she says not, I can't. You understand."

He hurried on before Gloria could issue any ultimatums.

"Gabbie had a pretty frightening encounter, shocking her

so badly she didn't know she was shocked until this
morning." He paused, letting that sink in a moment, then
he continued, "I don't want to do a clinic on victim coun-
seling, but she's just left the denial stage of the normal
reaction, and now she's dealing with the terror. But she's
not emotionally ill." At this, Gloria seemed to lose some
of her steam. "She's reacting the way most any normal
person would to having the shit scared out of her by a
madman.

"Rape is not a sex thing, it's assault. It's a power trip;
a rapist wants total domination over women. He loathes
women. He's trying to humiliate his victim, not . . .

love her. And sex is the weapon, not the goal. That's not
theory; it is accepted canon." He paused. "It's a brutal
act of physical and psychological violence. The victim's
loss of control is as scary as any other aspect of the expe-
rience. It's the helpless, dehumanized feeling: being at the
mercy of someone who can violate you at will. And
there's always the threat of additional violence or death
throughout." Mark shook his head. "That's about as
scary as anything gets. That's why Gabbie still reacts like
it was a rape even without the sex act. She's angry, and
guilty, and ashamed, and a lot of other things.

"Now she's dealing with the pain. The best thing we
can all do is be supportive. Right now what she needs
most is not to be hassled." Mark rose and tried to be as
reassuring to Gloria and Phil as possible. "She'll be fine. I
know it's not much, but I'm afraid that's all I can tell you
without Gabbie's say-so. Okay?"

Gloria looked hard at Mark, as if trying to see some-
thing behind his professional mask. At last she said,

"Okay." The last objection seemed to slip away. "Ya.

Okay. Damnit."

"Look, I'm not trying to be mysterious about this. If
you want to talk more, I'll be more than happy to listen.

Your own reactions are just now coming out. For now, I
think I'll head down to the basement and work." He took
a sip of the half-finished drink, then put it aside. He
glanced toward the stairs. "I'll hang out until she's

awake. She may want to talk again." He rose as Gloria
and Phil nodded. "If you need me, I'll be downstairs."

Gloria sagged as Mark left, resting her head on Phil's
shoulder. After a moment he said, "You okay?"

Quietly she answered, "No."

8

Mark was sitting reading when Gary entered. Gary went
over to the bar, poured two stiff scotches, and handed one
to Mark. Mark raised an eyebrow. "You'll need it," said

Gary, peeling off a light windbreaker emblazoned with
the logo of the Seattle SuperSonics.

"All right, you've got me on the edge of my chair.

What did you find?"

"White Horse is about as Amish as Salt Lake City."

"So you didn't find Wayland Smith."

"No, you owe me a dinner. I found him."

"Oh?" said Mark, now interested. He'd be relieved to
find any concrete evidence to bear out Gabbie's experi-
ences. "Did you speak to him?"

"A little tough. He's been dead awhile."

"Okay, talk."

"I got to town and asked around if there were any
blacksmiths in the area. The local tack shop owner was
very helpful. There's three smiths that work the area, and
all live in other towns close by. Then he asked why I
didn't use the phone book, so I had to explain that the
smith I wanted might be Amish and wouldn't have a
phone. He said he'd never seen any Amish smiths, and
even if there were one, he assured" me, it was unlikely
they'd find a lot of work in White Horse. The population
is decidedly mainstream and, I think, slightly bigoted. In
any event, later on I met this old codger, name of Ry

Winston, who remembers his father talking about Way-
land. He steered me to the graveyard, and there was a

small stone marker with Smith's name. Seems he died in

1905."

Mark shook his head and groaned. He took a drink
and said, "Just what we need. Ghosts." He frowned.

"Why is that date familiar?"

"I'll get to that."

Mark sighed. Gary had a flair for the dramatic and
hated to be rushed in telling a story. "So we've got a
spirit encounter?"

"We can pretty well rule out a bizarre scam. If it is, it's
a world record for off-the-wall ideas. I can't see any point
in impersonating this guy. I did a lot of checking. Smith
was a regular 'local character,' so there were lots of sto-
ries among the old folks, Ry's father's generation, and Ry
had heard most of them. And the library had some pretty
interesting stuff. An obit from the local paper was pretty
frank on his reputation. It took me half the day to find
the issues I wanted in their morgue." He drank and said,

"Seems old Wayland was sort of a local Wee Geordie, the
strongest kid on the block. He won all those weird con-
tests they used to have, you know, like tossing horses,
biting anvils in half, lifting buildings, or whatever."

Mark laughed. Gary had a tendency to colorful im-
ages when he got going. Gary continued, "One of the
strangest things about this is that the guy lived locally for
only half a year or so."

"He must have been something for old Ry's father to
remember so much about him."

"Notorious, to say the least, a world-class hell-raiser,
almost a legend in his own time. He worked out of the
local saloon, the Rooster Tavern, where he tied up his
wagon. Rented a loft over the taproom there. He alleg-
edly died in 1905, but they never found the body. He
vanished one night after a party. Supposedly, he got too
drunk to function and fell into the river near the tavern.

The marker was put up as a memorial by his local pub
buddies. Seems he was the leader of the equivalent of that
day's biker crowd. 'Ruffians of all stripe, teamsters, field
hands, and unemployed layabouts,' in the words of the
paper. He also, according to old Ry, jumped every pretty

girl in town regularly, including a fair number of the
young wives. Seems there was some mystery about it,

'cause it wasn't hushed up, and that's something Ry can't
understand. They're a pretty straitlaced lot now, so they
must have been downright puritanical back then. But
consider this: I said to Ry it's strange no husband tried to
blow him away. Even if he was the local strong man, a
rifle from behind a tree is a hell of an equalizer. Ry's
answer was to shrug and say, That was Wayland. Pa said
no man'd raise a hand against him. He had the power.' "

Mark considered. "What power?" He was silent for a
while, then said, "What else?"

"With all that sex, I asked Ry if Wayland might have
some descendants around, and Ry said, 'Old Wayland
never did leave kids, on one side of the blanket or the
other.' The best Ry could figure was that the old boy was
sterile, and that's why the ladies liked him so much, no
problem with getting preggers."

Mark said, "So he was a Casanova."

"Yes, but here's why the date tickles your sensitive
curiosity. He showed up the same day as Kessler."

Mark's expression showed keen interest. "What?"

"I found mention of Kessler's arrival, a 'German gen-
tleman seeking investment opportunities,' in the same pa-
per that announced Smith's setting up for business. Both
men arrived on May 4, 1905."

"But Kessler didn't come to Pittsville until June 2."

"Right. Kessler rented a room for a few weeks in

White Horse, at the Rooster Tavern—part of the time we
assumed he was still in New York City—then pulled up
and came to Pittsville."

"Okay, mark that down as coincidence for a moment.

What else?"

"Here's the best story of all. A few years earlier some-
one imported a bunch of poor Germans—sort of an unof-
ficial indentured servitude, working off passage with sev-
eral years' labor. It was probably illegal, and just as
probably the town officials were in on it. Anyway, there's
one real juicy story about Wayland, a local matron, and a

German maid. Seems one night the matron walked into

the kitchen and found Wayland humping the maid's
brains out on the kitchen floor while she was supposed to
be serving hors d'oeuvre to guests. Anyway, there was a
row, and it turned out he was boffing the old gal as well,
and that made for just the sort of scandal these little
towns love so much. But the kicker is the matron was the
mayor's wife and the girl was Helga Dorfmann. The
mayor married her off to Kessler just after that to get her
out of the house and, it seems, out of town."

"Kessler's wife?"

"None other. They married less than a week later."

"So there was a good chance Kessler and Smith knew
each other, or at least knew of each other." Mark sat
silently for a while, then laughed a beleaguered laugh.

"Why couldn't you have found me an Amish smith,

Gary!" he said with mock anger. "Okay, so we have a
regular folk hero in New York who sounds like a match
for the one in Uffington. But what do we have to link him
to the Wayland Smith that Gabbie met?"

"How about his wagon being pretty much as Gabbie
described it to you?"

"You saw it?"

"In the paper. The picture was old and grainy, but it
was there. They shot a picture of him after he ate a tree
or something in a Fourth of July contest. And his horse
was an old dapple-grey."

"I don't suppose you got a copy?"

With a grin and a flourish, Gary produced a photo-
copy. The reproduction was bad, but there was the smith
standing before his wagon. The caption read: "Wayland

Smith, recent arrival to White Horse, victor in the Inde-
pendence Day horseshoeing contest."

"What do you think?" Mark looked disturbed. "Para-
psychological phenomena? Is Gabbie seeing ghosts? Is
she picking up on some sort of psychic field in the area?

Maybe we got evidence of our first true time fugue, and
for a while she passed back to 1905? Or he came forward
in time for a few minutes? An other-life experience?" He
sighed in resignation. "I don't know what to think."

"I don't know either, but rule out subconscious sug-

gestion, hysterical self-delusion, and the other hypnotic
schtick. Gabbie's new here and has not heard those sto-
ries. I doubt ten people here in Pittsville have."

Mark drummed on the arm of the chair. "Maybe she'd
let us test her for paranormal abilities."

Gary looked hard at Blackman. "I've known you too
long, Mark. You've already thought of something. You
just don't want to tell me."

Mark covered his eyes as if tired. After a moment of
silence, he said, "You're right. Let me think for a while."

"Okay, you think. I've got to call Ellen. I'm late and I
owe her one."

Gary hurried upstairs to use the phone in his room.

Mark sat alone, nursing his scotch while he pondered an
answer forming in his mind. It was so fantastic he wanted
to exhaust every answer more probable. And there were
still too many blanks. He sat back and suddenly wished
he had stayed in experimental psych as an undergrad.

Rats and pigeons never gave one this much trouble. Or
this much potential for terror.

9

The rain pounded. It beat on the boys and Bad Luck like
a thousand tiny hammers, insistent, unrelenting, stinging
eyes and somehow getting up noses, making them sneeze.

Patrick and Sean marched purposefully through the
woods, drenched to the skin already. The rain was cool
but not yet chilling. Their moods matched, caught be-
tween irritation at the rain-out and delight in getting sop-
ping wet and muddy with a good excuse. They had never
seen a sudden summer thundershower in California to
match this one. The peals were deafening and the light-
ning flashes impressive. The dim, late afternoon light, al-
most forgotten behind the thunderclouds, made distances
odd; the woods looked flat and impossibly dense. Bowers
became caverns of menacing gloom, with familiar boles

now sinister shapes of black against dark grey. The boys
took delight in the delicious scare the shadowy woods
provided, as if they were embarking upon an adventure of
gigantic proportions. Bad Luck seemed not to mind the
rain, or at least he was more caught up in the boys' fun
than in concern over wet fur.

They cut across Erl King Hill, as usual in coming
back from the park, and when they topped the hill, a
staggering blast of lightning and thunder caused them to
halt. As one they jumped, for this display was consider-
ably more terrifying than those before. Patrick let out a
yell, something between a shriek and battle cry, and ran
down the hill, Sean a step behind. Halfway down the
hillock, Patrick clutched his chest and fell, shouting,

"I'm hit!" He rolled, and Sean rolled after him. Both
boys reached the bottom covered in wet grass, mud, and
stickers. They were now a complete mess. Bad Luck
barked in joy and nuzzled first one brother, then the
other, licking faces already wet. Patrick leaped up and
ran to the trail that led home.

The rain drove them on, an insistent pressure. Where
drops fell unobstructed by branches, they struck muddy
ground, exploding upward in rebound, splattering the
boys with droplets of mud. The cuffs of their jeans turned
black. Where the drops struck branches, they gathered,
combining, then shot downward larger, somehow wetter,
and struck the boys with an audible plop. Never had the
twins known quite so magic a rain. Even while menacing,
it was the most wonderful, most excellent, best ever rain.

Patrick veered off the trail and down the bank, toward
a shortcut they used across the creek. Sean yelled after
his brother, who ignored him. Sean didn't know if Pat-
rick chose not to hear or couldn't because of the sound of
the rain and the wind in the trees, but he was upset at the
slight.

At the base of the cut in the woods he grabbed Pat-
rick, swinging him around. "Hey!"

"What!"

"Don't go down there."

"Why not?"

"We got to go back and use the bridge. Jack said there
could be floods."

Patrick gifted his brother with a look that said his
concern was unfounded and resulted from lack of nerve
rather than thoughtful concern over risk. "It's too soon.

The rain just started a half hour ago. Boy, you sure can
be chicken sometimes."

Sean stood speechless. There was something he fought
to recall about Jack's warning, but he couldn't remember

—something about rain in the hills. Patrick turned and
walked down the short distance to the edge of the stream,
halting there. The stream was now swollen to ankle depth
or more, and the swift-moving water presented a different
picture from the meandering rills they were used to see-
ing. Bad Luck waited, halfway between Patrick and Sean,
uncertain which brother to follow. Patrick hesitated,
seemingly on the verge of turning back, but he caught
sight of his brother and his decision was made. He
plunged into the water.

"Patrick!" Sean yelled. "Mom's going to get you!"

Patrick waded out, finding the water already up to his
knees. "Why? You going to tell?" He turned to face his
more timid brother, a defiant look on his face. "Huh?"

The rain had begun in the hills two days before, at first
a gentle sprinkling, but growing in strength each hour.

Pools formed in the rocks, gathering until they found
escape downward. Trickles became rivulets, which gath-
ered into streams. Near Wurtsburg the level of the water
in the flood control basin had risen until the operator
decided to bleed it off and opened the valve. That small
flood rushed down the usually dry stream bed toward

Munson Springs. At Dowling Mills the water swirled
down a broken culvert, diverted to a small creek that
turned it toward Pittsville. At the north end of the Fairy

Woods, the water gathered behind a clog of branches,
leaves, mud, and debris. It leaked through, causing the
stream which ran below the Troll Bridge to rise as thou-
sands of gallons of water raced over normally dry rocks.

Then the surge from Wurtsburg, turned aside at Dowling

Mills, struck the clog of wood and brush. The inadver-

tent dam held, then suddenly disintegrated and was
swept away. A crest of water two and a half feet higher
than before rolled down the stream bed.

A deep thunderpeal and the masking noise of rain was
counterpointed by a more ominous sound, a rolling, surg-
ing rumble. Patrick hesitated, and that moment trapped
him, for he turned to look upstream, rather than move
toward either bank.

Sean looked where his brother's eyes fastened, and
down the gully the wall of water moved. "Patrick!" he
shrieked as the water engulfed his brother. He scrambled
down the bank, seeking to reach Patrick.

The water was little more than waist-high, but it
knocked Patrick down, then picked up the boy and bore
him along. Sean watched his brother's head vanish below
the roiling brown foam. With a cry of terror he jumped
forward, grabbing Bad Luck, who had been about to leap
into the water after Patrick. Sean's mind reeled, but he
knew that no matter what Patrick's fate, the lab would
also be swept away. He pulled hard on the dog's collar
and scrambled back up the bank, his feet churning the
mud as he sought to race to the Troll Bridge.

The rain turned everything to a chiaroscuro, a grey
haze devoid of color, and suddenly Sean was lost. Crying
in terror, he shouted his brother's name while he spun,
seeking the path he had stood upon a moment before.

Bad Luck hesitated and with a bark bounded off between
two trees. Sean ran after the dog, hoping he knew where
the path lay.

Patrick choked as he fought vainly against the force of
the water; then he came up, spitting and coughing. The
stream wasn't that deep, but it moved with staggering
force against the little boy's body. And the rocks seemed
uniformly slippery, so that no handhold was possible. He
tried to shout for help, but each time he opened his
mouth, he sucked in water. Trying to keep his head, he
struggled against the stream, but in vain. Something he
had been taught while playing at Santa Monica beach,
about rip currents in the ocean, intruded on his panic-
stricken thoughts, and he attempted to move at a right

angle to the flow. All he succeeded in doing was turning
himself in circles and bouncing off rocks. The boy was
terrified, and his natural bent for keeping calm was escap-
ing him. Then suddenly he was in darkness.

Instantly he knew: He was under the bridge. And so
was the Bad Thing.

Claws seized him, and he felt his T-shirt rip, while
pain erupted on his arm. He struck out with small fists,
which hit something soft and fleshy. He felt himself being
lifted up, and his nose was filled with the stink of rotting
meat.

The Bad Thing hung by three limbs beneath the
bridge, upside down like a giant spider. It clutched the
boy's arm in one clawed hand, and above the pounding
sound of the water Patrick could hear its inhuman
sounds. The boy vomited, his stomach constricting in ter-
ror. He kicked and hit, and screamed for his mother and
father.

The water pulled him under again and sharp claws
tore at the child's flesh. As the Bad Thing sought to grab
the boy, claws raked along Patrick's face and chest. He
was seized and lifted, and for a moment lightning illumi-
nated the area. A strange and distant snapping sound
briefly intruded on the boy's awareness before horror
filled his world. A black mask with yellow eyes hovered
scant inches before his face. An evil sharp-toothed mon-
key grin split that face as the clawed hand painfully
pulled Patrick closer. The Bad Thing was smaller than
the boy but impossibly strong.

Another wave, courtesy of the flood control basin at

Wurtsburg, raced down the stream. The wave slammed
against the sides of the bridge and hesitated as the barrier
repulsed its first onslaught. Then it forced through the
opening, rising in level and picking up speed. Patrick felt
the water hit him, tugging him free of the Bad Thing's
grasp. Choking on water and fear, he felt himself being
pulled along. The claws gripped at him again. An inhu-
man shriek sounded in his ears in counterpoint to his
own cries of terror, cries choked off by water rushing into
mouth and nose. Patrick spit and vomited. His lungs

burned for air; he tried to inhale, but there was nothing
there, and his lungs spasmed, ejecting the water. He in-
haled, managing only a single breath while his head
bobbed above the water. Again he heard the snap-snap
sound; then darkness washed over him and water filled
his nose. Blood welled into his mouth as he bit his own
tongue. Pain revisited him as claws once more seized his
arms, cutting him cruelly.

Then the water moved him and the claws were forced
to yield their prey. Patrick struck the stone sides of the
bridge with stunning force and felt consciousness slipping
away as fatigue, pain, and terror took their toll. He was
being lifted up, and he felt water exploding from his lungs
as he coughed, spit, and vomited water a last time.

In a distant fog he heard his name called and vaguely
understood it was Sean's voice. The snap-snap sound re-
solved itself into Bad Luck's barking. He forced open his
eyes and realized that a familiar face was looking down
on him. Through near-blinding rain, Jack hovered above
him. "It's okay, Patrick. You're okay."

Patrick felt Jack cradle him in his arms as the young
man began to run—a slightly awkward, limping gait—
through the woods toward home, Gabbie and Sean beside
him, Bad Luck at his heels. Patrick wondered, in a
strangely detached way, how Jack and Gabbie had come
to be at the bridge, and why the Bad Thing had let him
go. Then he passed into unconsciousness.

10

Gloria's face was set in an emotionless mask. She kept
her eyes on Patrick while the doctor ministered to his
wounds. When the boys had been late coming home from
the game, and given the sudden rain, she had become
worried. Jack and Gabbie volunteered to backtrack
through the woods. They were only fifty yards from the
bridge when they heard Bad Luck's barking. Gloria

opened the kitchen door at Jack's shouting, to discover
her son a mass of bleeding wounds. Not waiting for an
ambulance, they had quickly done what they could on
the fly, bundling Patrick up and driving through the rain
to Pittsville Memorial Hospital. Gloria called over to Ag-
gie's, where Phil was discussing his newest manuscript.

Now they were all waiting to hear how Patrick was
doing. Phil had rushed to the hospital and together with
his wife pieced together what had happened.

For the fourth time she said, "If I ever catch either one
of you near that stream again. . . ." She let the threat
fall away.

Patrick squirmed. Sean was a few feet away, outside
with his father, Gabbie, and Jack, and it was unusual for
only one of the brothers to be taking the brunt of their
mother's ire.

Through the door to the waiting area, Sean sat with
eyes fixed upon his brother. Gloria glanced in his direc-
tion and he seemed to shrink within his chair. Somehow
he had gotten the message he was equally responsible for

Patrick's recklessness. He had been scared for his
brother, but he was also angry that he was being blamed
for Patrick's stupidity. Letting his voice rise, he said,

"It's not my fault, Mom. I didn't go down there. Patrick
did." His father looked down at him, shook his head, and
smiled. It was okay, he seemed to say. It's only Mom
being angry. It will pass.

Gloria looked back to where the doctor tended Patrick
and tears threatened to form in her eyes, but she said
nothing.

The doctor left it to the nurse to finish the last ban-
dage and smiled reassuringly. He led Gloria back to
where Phil and the others sat, then said, "He's fine."

Gloria felt relief break inside and the tears came.

"Thank God," she said in earnest.

The doctor was a young resident, barely older than

Jack. He smiled as he said, "He's pretty banged up and a
few of those cuts look nasty, but most are superficial." He
glanced around. "Just how did he get so many cuts?"

Jack said, "He got caught in the stream over in the

Fairy Woods and swept along under the Troll Bridge.

There was a block of tree branches under it and he was
pulled through."

The doctor winced at the description. "It looks like it.

Anyway, the cold water cut down on blood loss and
we've sutured the one big gash on his scalp. We've ban-
daged the little ones and given him a tetanus shot. I don't
think there's anything else wrong with him. You can take
him home. Just keep an eye out for fever or other signs of
infection. I'll want him brought in in a few days to
change the dressings. In a week the stitches can come
out."

Gloria said, "What about . . . scars?"

The doctor shrugged. "Nothing to worry about. He'll
have a couple on his upper arms and chest he can brag
about to his friends. They'll all fade by adulthood. And
his face has only a few minor scratches. He's not disfig-
ured, if that's what's worrying you." The last was said
softly, but with a firmness showing it was not worth con-
sidering that possibility.

"Well, he looked so bad," said Gloria softly, obviously
relieved.

The young doctor nodded. "A lot of things look worse
than they are until you clean them up. Scalp wounds are
messy and Patrick had a beaut. That's where most of the
blood came from. He really wasn't as bad as he looked."

Gloria nodded, "It's just there was so much blood."

The young doctor spoke in calm, firm tones. "As I
said, it's not as bad as it looked."

Phil comforted his wife and said, "Thank you, Doc-
tor."

"You're welcome. Before you leave, check in over at
administration and they'll do the insurance stuff. I'll
leave his chart at the nurses' station for your own doctor
to review in the morning, before it gets buried in the
administrative archives."

"We haven't gotten around to getting a local doctor
yet, though I guess you could say Dr. Latham. He took
care of our daughter."

"Well, John Latham's a good choice. He's one of the

last true general practitioners left. He's good with kids,
too. He'll be checking on his patients tomorrow. I'll give
him Patrick's chart." He shook hands with Phil and left.

Phil said, "Jack, if you'd take everyone home, I'll stick
around and do the paperwork."

"Sure," said Jack.

Gloria walked next to Patrick while he was wheeled
from the hospital. He seemed to be half-asleep. Sean
walked silently behind. They left the waiting room while

Phil headed for the admitting desk. Outside in the park-
ing lot, water reflected back a low-hanging moon that
peeked through the clouds. Softly, almost to himself,

Sean said, "It wasn't branches. It was the Bad Thing."

No one seemed to hear, though Gabbie tightened her
grip on his hand. Patrick was held on his mother's lap
and he didn't protest being treated like a baby, as he
usually would have. Sean retreated inside himself, sure he
should not repeat what he'd said about the Bad Thing.

There were some things destined to be kept to oneself,
and he suspected that the final confrontation with the

Bad Thing was allotted to him and Patrick alone, and no
grown-up could help them. As the little boy climbed into
the backseat of his mother's station wagon, he considered
this. Despite the terror he felt in contemplating the Bad

Thing under the bridge, he felt a strange sense of fate.

Patrick had survived. Somehow he had won past the first
test. Sean felt what could only be called cold comfort at
that fact. And while resting against his sister's side, he
drifted off to sleep, a strangely disquieting doze where the
dreams were of slipping down muddy banks and of yel-
low eyes in black faces.

11

Patrick shouted, "Dad! It's doing it again!"

Phil came in from his study and regarded the large
television screen. The picture was breaking up, and both

boys sat with disappointment on their faces. The Phillies
were playing the Mets in a crucial series, while the Cubs
were due to start a game with the Pirates in another hour.

The boys were looking forward to the doubleheader. But
for a week the television had been acting up. Twice Mr.

Mullins had been out to check it out and both times had
found nothing wrong. He had expressed sympathy to

Phil, saying nothing was as irritating as an intermittent
failure. Phil picked up the phone and called and after
exchanging greeting said, "Look, I know you haven't
found anything, but isn't there something you can do?"

Patrick shouted, "Tell him to put in a Low-Noise

Downblock."

Phil blinked, then said, "Young Tom Edison said we
need a Low-Noise Downblock." He listened and laughed.

"Yes, they do know everything." After a little more con-
versation, Phil hung up. "Mr. Mullins is going to come
out with a new amplifier and simply swap it. He'll send
ours back to the manufacturer and have them test it. In
the meantime he'll check the lines and make sure every-
thing else is okay. And you should be able to watch the .

games. And it's a Low-Noise Block Down Converter,
smarty."

Sean smiled, while Patrick only nodded. Patrick had
been more subdued of late than was normal, and refused
to talk about his experience with anyone. Phil had begun
to think the child was more deeply disturbed by the acci-
dent than he had first shown. The bandages had come off
a week ago, and the scars were beginning to disappear
under summer tan. But where a usually loud and playful
boy had been, now a thoughtful, introspective child re-
sided. Sean had also become more subdued, but as he
usually took his lead from Patrick, Phil thought nothing
of it. Slowly the boys stood and Sean flipped off the televi-
sion set.

"You going to the park?" asked their father.

Patrick shrugged. "Maybe," answered Sean.

"Well then, you'll need these." He pulled open the
closet door in the hall, took out a brand-new bat, and

handed it to Patrick. Patrick had lost his bat and glove in
the accident under the bridge. Both boys said thanks.

Then Phil gave Patrick a new catcher's mitt, saying,

"You'll have to break that in."

Patrick looked appreciative; Sean tried not to look en-
vious and failed. Phil paused a moment, then produced a
brand-new fielder's glove for Sean. "I figure you both
needed new ones, anyway. Why don't you donate your
old one to the boys' club, Sean?"

Sean grinned and pounded his fist into the stiff new
leather. "Sure."

Phil said, "Let this be a lesson to you. You can mess
up and still come out ahead, sometimes. Just don't make
a habit of it, okay?" Both boys agreed.

Phil thought about his sons as they left. The thing that
caused him the greatest concern was that the boys hadn't
played at the park since the accident, two weeks before.

School was due to start up soon, and Phil had hoped the
boys would have some vestige of a normal summer before
having to adapt to a new school environment. He
watched as they walked out the front door, none of the
usual scampering in evidence. Even the new equipment
didn't seem to get them back to their old selves. Just as
he wondered if he should consider having them talk to a
psychologist, Patrick's voice cut through the still air.

"Mail's here!"

Phil smiled. Some things hadn't changed. Patrick
would never walk back to the door and tell his father
something when he could yell it across the yard.

Phil hurried out the door and met his wife coming
around from the back, where she and Gabbie had been
overseeing the installation of new fencing by the barn.

Gloria smiled at him. "I almost got run over."

"The boys?"

"Yes. They're off to somewhere in a hurry."

Phil felt relief, without knowing why. Just the fact
they were back to moving from place to place at full
speed seemed to him a reassuring sign. He and his wife
reached the mailbox and laughed when their hands

brushed together reaching to open the box. "After you,
my dear Alphonse," said Gloria.

"Thanks, Gaston." Phil opened the box and took out
the mail. He quickly sorted through it and handed sev-
eral envelopes—mostly advertising and giveaways—to
his wife. He opened one and read while she opened an-
other.

"Listen," she said, "Tommy will be passing this way
next week and is going to drop in."

Phil said, "That's nice. How's Superagent doing?"

"He doesn't say. And what brings him out this way, I
wonder?"

"Well, knowing Tommy, it's not just social. He didn't
drop by once that time he was just over the hill at the

Beverly Hills Hotel for two weeks. We had to go there.

Maybe he has a job offer for you."

Gloria snorted derisively. "That'll be the day." They
began walking back toward the house. "I haven't worked
in New York in almost ten years. The attention span of
the average producer on Broadway regarding young ac-
tresses is about ten minutes—unless you've won a Tony

—and then only if you're sleeping with him or owe him
money. And as you may have noticed, I didn't exactly
stand the town on its ear."

"Stranger things have been known to happen. Here."

He handed her the letter he had opened.

She quickly read it, then hit him in the arm, hard.

"You shit. You let me prattle on and didn't say a word."

She grabbed him and hugged him hard. "Congratula-
tions."

"Well, I haven't agreed. They want some things—"

She silenced him with a kiss. "Oh, shut up. That's
what agents are for. You'll work out the details. I'm so
proud of you, darling. The first publisher out of the bag
and you get an offer." She stepped away and said, "The
money's not great, but it's not chump change either."

"Well, you've got to remember, I didn't exactly tear up
the New York Times bestseller list with my books. My
credits in film count spit in publishing."

"Look, it's a deal, as my father always says. Get the

deal, then worry about the details."

"Come on. We're going out for dinner tonight."

"Good idea." She smiled and walked with her arm

around his waist. Since the night of Gabbie's assault, this

was the first time Gloria felt relaxed.

12

"Help!"

Gabbie turned from hammering at the plank Jack held
in place and they exchanged startled glances. Then Jack
dropped the plank and they ran toward the front of the
house.

They rounded the corner and discovered one of the
workmen hanging from the lintel under the corner of the
roof, while Phil frantically tried to right a stepladder the
struggling man had kicked over. Ted Mullins was hurry-
ing toward the accident. Phil held the ladder while Jack
scrambled up and grabbed the man. Through gritted
teeth the workman said, "My hand's caught." He man-
aged to get his feet back on the ladder, but he was unable
to free his hand.

Jack looked up and saw that one of the strange gar-
goyle-like carvings had twisted, capturing the workman's
hand like a vise. Jack said, "Give me a pry bar or a big
screwdriver."

Ted removed a very large screwdriver from the tool-
box and handed it up. "Get ready to catch him," said

Jack as he levered the screwdriver between the carving
and the next one. Then, with all his strength, Jack lifted
up, using the large screwdriver as a lever, pushing the
carving upward so the man could slip his hand out from
between the clamping jaws.

The man fell away, caught by Phil and Ted. Jack in-
spected the carving. "It broke loose," he observed. The
carving had pulled away at the top, causing it to tilt for-

ward. The lower part of the carving had struck a support
beam under the lintel and the ugly head had cracked
behind the alligatorlike jaw, but not broken free. If it had
broken, the man would have simply fallen. As it was, the
carving had caught the man's hand, his own weight act-
ing as the force to keep the hand pinned between the
jaws.

"It's like the damn thing bit me," exclaimed the work-
man, wrapping his hand in a handkerchief. The skin had
broken and the white handkerchief was stained red.

"You'd better have that looked at," said Phil.

"I'll take him to the hospital," said Ted.

He took the man in tow and Phil looked at Jack and

Gabbie. "That's pretty odd."

"It's freaky, all right," agreed Gabbie. "What was he
doing there anyway?"

"The cables from the dish run into the house there."

Jack looked. "I don't see them."

Phil showed him where the coaxial cable and the con-
trol lines ran up the support closest to the dish and disap-
peared into a hole at the base of the lintel. "They must
run inside."

Jack climbed back up the ladder. "These carvings are
all set into a big piece of wood. There's some new screws
here." He looked down. "See that pile of them down
there." Phil saw the dozen or so screws near the base of
the ladder. "He was taking the last one out when the
board shifted—strange, it looks like it's been pushed from
inside." Jack unscrewed the last fastener and put it in his
pocket. He grabbed the line of gargoyles.

"Careful," admonished Gabbie as Jack moved the
cumbersome piece of wood outward.

After several inches, Jack could see the cable. "They
move along here," he said, sighting along the board, "and
run toward the parlor."

"They come out there. Mullin's put them back there
for appearance," said Phil.

"Tidy. But it does make checking for damage a pain in
the ass." Jack looked down the board; something caught
his eye back under the roof. "Thought I saw something

moving. Ernie? You crawling around in there?" He
squinted, as if trying to pierce the gloom by force of will.

He looked down at Phil. "Got a flashlight?"

"Yes, I'll get it," said Gabbie.

Jack was left holding the long wooden facing with the
odd carvings while she hurried inside. She returned and
handed the light up to Jack. Jack shined it into the dark-
ness. "Hello, what have we here? There's something back
in there."

"What?" asked Phil.

"I can't tell. Even with the flashlight it's awful dark.

And it's a fair ways back."

"How did you see it?" asked Gabbie.

Jack tossed back the flashlight. "I thought I saw some-
thing move for an instant. A trick of my eyes, I guess."

He put the board back in place and quickly returned
the one screw holding it up. Hurrying down the ladder,
he said, "Mullins will want to check the cables, so I'll
leave it like I found it."

"What about that thing you saw? Can you fish it out?"

asked Gabbie.

"It's pretty well back. Even with a broom handle I
couldn't reach it."

"Well, how did it get there?" wondered Phil.

Jack regarded the roof line. "That's the boys' room up
there?"

"Right."

"Can we take a look around there?"

"Sure." They hurried inside and up the stairs. In the
boys' room Jack went to the window and looked out to
judge his location relative to the porch roof. "I think
about here," he said, pointing at where the wall met the
floor.

He moved a toy chest and inspected the wall below the
window. After a few minutes, Phil and Gabbie joined
him. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, until Phil
noticed an odd depression near the base of the wall.

"Give me that screwdriver," he said.

Jack and Gabbie watched as Phil put the screwdriver
in the indentation and pried upward. A section of the

floor moved just enough to slip his fingers under the side,
three boards cut to fit so closely they looked one with the
rest of the floorboards. The lid was an odd one, for the
boards were of unequal length, the trap lid cut along the
natural lines of the boards so no unusual seams could be
seen. "Well, I'll be go to hell," said Phil.

Jack grinned. "There's a lot of this in these old houses.

They were built before the government insured banks.

Most folks down home can show you where great-grand-
father hid what little they had from the Yankees. You
wax them a few times to fill the cracks and you can run
your hand over them all day and never find them."

Phil shined the light down and the beam fell upon a
pouch or packet of some kind. Jack reached in and gin-
gerly removed what appeared to be a wrapped bundle of
papers. "Treasure maps, do you suppose?" said Phil.

Jack observed the package. It was a white-flaked bun-
dle of some sort of cloth. "Let's get it down to the study."

They took it downstairs and put it on the desk. Jack
regarded the white substance on his hand and said, "I
think this is wax."

Phil was gingerly poking at the cloth. "Feels pretty
brittle. Must be old."

"Maybe not." Jack rubbed the flakes between his fin-
gers and smelled the residue. "Paraffin," observed Jack.

"It's used for waterproofing. Only problem is it burns
really well. We used to dip matchsticks in it in the Boy

Scouts."

"I didn't know you were a boy scout," said Gabbie in
a teasing manner.

"Lots of things you don't know, darlin'," Jack teased
in return.

"Can we open the package?" said Phil.

"I think," answered Jack. "It's the wax that's brittle,
not the paper or whatever." Jack's guess turned out to be
correct, as the wrapping turned out to be light oilcloth.

Inside they found several documents.

Jack and Phil scanned them and Gabbie said, "What
is it?"

Jack shrugged. "They're all in German. All I managed

was a C minus in high school, and that was a while ago.

Can you read kraut?"

"Only Spanish and then pretty badly," admitted Gab-
bie.

They could hear the sound of a car in the drive. Gab-
bie looked out the window and said, "We're saved. It's

Mark." She ran from the room.

Phil glanced at his watch. "He's a little early."

Jack smiled. "I like a man who knows how to time his
entrance."

Mark and Gary entered the room, Gabbie at Mark's
side. Jack glanced at them, then did a double take, noting
with some discomfort the manner in which Gabbie clung
to Mark's arm. Since they had begun regular therapy
sessions, Gabbie had started to speak a lot about Mark.

Jack struggled to put aside an unreasonable stab of jeal-
ousy.

Gary said, "Gabbie says you found something inter-
esting."

Phil indicated the pile and Mark picked up a paper.

He quickly scanned it and handed it to Gary. One after
the other, they looked and then laughed aloud. "This is
wonderful!"

"What is it?" asked Gabbie, excitedly jumping up and
down.

"Fredrick Kessler's records. The old scoundrel was a
con man."

Gary pointed at a paper. "He was, to put it bluntly, a
swindler."

"What?"

Gary said, "I'll have to read these carefully, but it
seems he had odd transactions going on with several
banks at the same time. And if I'm not mistaken . . .

humm . . ."—he compared three different papers—

". . . he was using the same collateral for all three
loans." With a toothy grin he said, "And I do believe that
sort of thing is frowned upon."

"At least by the banks," said Mark. Then his smile
vanished. "Look at this."

Gary did so and whistled. "I'll be damned. That's un-
believable."

"What?" asked Gabbie, delighted with the find.

"It's a notation from a bank president, ah, a Mr.

Schmidt at German Manufacturers Trust of New York,
that certifies he's seen the gold that's used for collateral."

He quickly searched through the other documents. "See,
there are several others. This is from the First German

American Bank of Brooklyn."

Gary said, "All these bankers had German names and
all the documents are in German."

"That was common enough," said Mark. "Immigrants
like to deal with their own people. Bank of America was
founded as the Bank of Italy in San Francisco years ago."

"Could they have had connections back in Germany?"

wondered Gary.

"I don't know, but it's a possibility. Maybe mutual
business acquaintances from the old country. German-

American banks with offices in both countries, perhaps.

Anyway, one thing is certain: That old swindler used the
same gold several times as collateral for loans."

"How could he do that?" asked Jack. "Didn't the
banks check to see if there were papers out on that gold?

Or take possession of the gold?"

"Things were a lot looser before the big bank collapses
during the Great Depression," observed Mark. "Back
then they sort of shot from the hip. Without much gov-
ernment control, banks could be anything from stuffy old
countinghouses to fast-and-loose investment cartels, play-
ing the stocks or commodity markets with the investors'

savings. There was a lot more potential for abuse. Banks
used to go bust regularly." Mark continued looking
through all the documents and at last said, "But there's
still nothing that tells us what he did with the gold."

"Maybe he sold it off?" said Jack.

"If he had, I'd expect him to have left a record." He
indicated the bundle.

Gary nodded. "He seems to have been fastidious in
everything else. These records could have hung his butt if
the banks had found out before he paid off his notes."

Gabbie seemed disappointed. "I hoped for a treasure
map."

"And I hoped for something to tie Kessler in with all
the odd goings-on in Germany at the turn of the cen-
tury," said Mark. "Still, this is another piece of the puz-
zle."

"Maybe there's another secret hideaway around here
somewhere."

Gary grinned. "Want to play treasure hunt?"

"You four can if you want. Gloria and I are having
dinner in town," said Phil. "As you are all here, I'll tell
you now. I got an offer for my book."

The announcement was met with general congratula-
tions all around, and Gloria, who had been in the shower,
shouted down from the second-story landing, "What's
going on down there?"

Phil shouted back to her, "Come on down. We're hav-
ing a party!"

"Not until I put on more than a bath towel. Wait until

I get dressed!"

A few minutes later, Gloria entered wearing a robe,
her hair still damp from the shower. "What's it all
about?"

"Treasure maps and lost gold," said her husband with
a happy little dance around the desk. "Tales of corrup-
tion in high circles. Bankers in league with mysterious

Germans." Mark and Gary began to laugh loudly.

"Scams to make a patent medicine salesman blush. And
secrets of the ages, wonders and terrors, all wrapped up
for a grand adventure." Kissing her lightly on the cheek,
he added in bright spirits, "And celebrating a true mira-
cle, an editor who recognizes genius when he reads it."

Gloria smiled. "So it finally hit you." He grinned back
and kissed her again. Then she hugged him tightly. Over
her shoulder she said, "Well, I guess we have a party.

Gabbie, call the pizza man. Jack, break out the beer."

She shrieked in mixed pleasure and annoyance as Phil bit
her neck and patted her on the rump. "You animal!" As

Gabbie left the room, she shouted after her, "And find
the boys!"

Above, in the narrow space between the ceiling and
floor, the Bad Thing moved. The package had been dis-
covered and the master would be pleased. Things were
always better when the master had been pleased. The
simple creature, evil in most ways, truly desired to please
the master. And the master had been wroth when he had
discovered the Bad Thing had attacked the boy under the
bridge. And the Bad Thing didn't like it when the master
was angry. He had not wished to ignore the master's will,
but the boy had entered his lair, and he had smelled so
fresh and young, so warm and tender. For a moment the

Bad Thing shuddered in pleasure, remembering the
warm, wet scent of Patrick's blood. Then it remembered
the master's displeasure and the pain and its shudder be-
came one of fear. With a soft sound, like a baby's sigh, it
moved like a spider through the secret crawl space be-
tween the floor above and ceiling below, hanging upside
down most of the way. At the lintel, at the corner below
the boys' room, it pushed aside a narrow board and
squeezed out, scampering down the drainpipe. It didn't
like being about in the light, for the daylight made it
remember vague images of a time long forgotten, when
the Bad Thing had been young. Such memories hurt.

And the light gave it few places in which to hide. But the
afternoon was waning and the shadows were growing
longer, so it could reach the woods safely. Besides, it
considered, nothing in the house posed a threat. Nothing
there could harm it. Nothing.

13

Patrick displayed his scars with a mixture of pride and
anxiety. Proud of his badge of courage, he was anxious
over what Barney would say about the Bad Thing under
the bridge. They stood before the handyman while he
perched on the stool next to his workbench. A disassem-
bled electric mixer was spread before him.

"Well, he cut you good and then some, didn't he, Pat-
rick Hastings?" He regarded the boy with the bleary gaze
they had come to expect.

Patrick nodded. "He tried to bite me. But I got away,

Barney."

Barney sighed and took a drink from the bottle he
kept nearby. Moving from the stool, he led them out the
door and sat on the porch. He glanced about as if expect-
ing to see something. "A little more than two months.

We've only got to get through the next two months and a
bit." He took another drink.

"What's two months?" asked Sean.

"Moving Day, Sean. The Good People will pack up
and be on their way by midnight, gone before sunrise on

All Saints' Day." He took another drink and then a deep
breath. "And if we're lucky, we'll not see their like again
in this life. Twice in my life is two times too many." He
winked conspiratorially at the boys. " 'Tis the reason I'm
a drunk once more. The Good People have a soft spot for
fools and drunkards, 'tis said, and they trouble me not so
long as I've the smell of barley on my breath." He winked
again, tapping the side of his nose with his index finger.

"The troll'll be gone?" asked Patrick.

"Aye, and all his ilk, though I don't think he's prop-
erly a troll, now. A troll's a large and fearsome thing and
springs out upon any that trespasses. I think you ran
afoul of a beastie of the dark folk, those wee ones who've
lost hope of God's salvation. Perhaps even. . . . Well,
then there's no use dwelling on what it might be." He
made the sign of the cross. "But if it were a troll, you'd
have had no chance to cross the bridge. This Bad Thing
keeps to itself underneath. But the river swept you
through its lair, and once inside you're fair game. Stay
out from under that bridge and you'll be fine. Such as he
won't venture into the light, as a rule." He thought.

"Though from time to time the rules get broken."

With sudden fervor, Patrick said, "I want to get it."

"You what?" said Barney, his grey eyebrows coming
up in amazement.

Near tears of anger, the little boy said, "I want to get

even. It hurt me and I want to hurt it back. I'll make it go
away."

"Easy, lad," said Barney putting his hand upon the
boy's shoulder. "Now, in the first, you don't have the
magic. In the second, it's certain it's but a little fellow of
its kind, and to cause it harm might bring you to the
attention of some of its larger, even less caring kin. If it's
what I think, it's in the service of just such a one as to
cause you no end of misery. And in the third, it'll be off
by November. My advice is to let things lay."

"No, I want to get it back."

Seeing the determination, Barney shook his head.

"Well, that's a large order." He sat back with a sigh,
looking thoughtful, and after a moment asked, "Can you
wheel a sword?"

Patrick said, "I can swing a bat."

"Sure then, that's a fair style, if you're running amok
with a great two-handed bastard sword, thrashing about
in wondrous abandon. But this beastie sounds a quick
and agile fellow, difficult to hit." Barney looked hard at

Patrick. "How are you with the bow? Have you a silver
arrow to shoot it with?"

"That's werewolves," said Sean, in disbelief.

"That's as may be, but it's for the Good Folk as well.

They have little enough love for metals, disliking iron—
though I think they have no true trouble of it, as some
tales tell you. Otherwise they'd have vanished long since
when man first came to the forge. And they love their
gold, hoarding it in great troves, beneath the earth—valu-
ing it as men do. But silver, blades and arrows, or shot
from sling or gun, no, they do not like silver. It's the
metal of the moon, as they are creatures of the night, and
it is at one with their powers, so they fear it." He stood
slowly. "I must get Mrs. Macklin's mixer finished."

Looking down on Patrick, he said, "So get yourself
home, and when you've a bow with silver arrows, or a
silver sword, come on back and I'll tell you what to do
next."

"Aw, Barney, that's not fair!" complained Patrick.

Barney leaned over, hands on knees, and said, "And

as my sainted mother—God rest her soul—was heard to
say upon more than one occasion, 'What has fair to do
with it? That's the way it is.' Now get along home, before
it gets dark and that thing under the bridge gets restless."

That was all the urging the boys needed, and as one
they were off and running toward the woods and back
home. As they vanished from sight, Barney shook his
head and muttered, "And if blessed St. Patrick is looking
after his namesake, Patrick Hastings, you won't be get-
ting your hands on any silver swords soon."

14

The party was the more enjoyable for being impromptu.

Aggie came over after a phone call, and when Ted Mul-
lins returned from taking his worker to the emergency
room, he was co-opted into the festivities. The boys ar-
rived just as the pizza was delivered and dug in with
abandon. Gloria noticed they were still subdued, but
showing signs things were returning to normal.

Suddenly Gabbie said, "Oh, damn. I left the tools sit-
ting around. I better get them." Without comment, Jack
rose and went outside with her.

As they reached the fence, Gabbie said, "You've been
quiet. Something on your mind?"

Jack shrugged. "I didn't think you noticed. You
seemed pretty involved in your conversation with Mark."

Gabbie looked hard at Jack a moment, then bent to
pick up the tools. Keeping her eyes on the ground as she
put long nails into a sack, she said, "Well, he's pretty
terrific company."

Her bantering tone was lost on Jack. "Must be," he
said flatly, gathering up the hammers and putting them
in the open toolbox.

Gabbie smiled to herself. Jack was silent as he picked
up the toolbox and level; then he said, "I'll put these
away. You want to put the lumber in the barn?"

"No. Let's just toss a tarp over it."

Gabbie lingered by the door as Jack went inside and
put the tools on the shelf to the left of the door. Sounding
casual, she said, "I figure, if we do it right, it'll be four or
five weeks before the fencing is done all around."

There was silence inside the barn, then Jack emerged
from the dark. "You staying?"

Gabbie decided to keep him in his place. "I haven't
decided. But I figure I can hire someone to finish it for
me, if I go." Jack's expression darkened. "I'll still be
coming back over Christmas and next summer."

Without a word, Jack walked past her, grabbed a
stack of fencing boards, and carried them inside, ignoring

Gabbie's suggestion of using a tarp. Gabbie began a slow
burn. Jack could be a doll one moment and a dumbass
the next. She'd already decided to stay, but she was
damned if she tell him until he said something. She was
ready to do anything for Jack, but, damnit, a girl wanted
to be asked. And, liberation notwithstanding, she wasn't
about to ask him. Whatever had happened to him with

Ginger had left him reticent about any final promise or
commitment, and Gabbie wasn't about to let him take
anything for granted.

She sighed as she heard him rattling around in the
barn, stacking wood. She didn't like seeing him so upset.

Maybe hers was a childish attitude after all, she thought.

She was on the verge of speaking when something caught
her eye. In the gloom, with the western sky turning from
pale blue to rose above a line of indigo woods, at the edge
of the trees stood a glowing figure. And the scent of flow-
ers and spices assaulted Gabbie's nostrils.

Gabbie screamed.

Jack was out of the barn in an instant, while inquiring
shouts came from within the house.

"What?" demanded Jack.

With tears in her eyes, Gabbie pointed toward the
woods. "Him!" she managed to say.

As the kitchen door opened, Jack said, "Stay here."

He vaulted over the fence of the corral and sprinted to-
ward the woods and the vanishing figure. The boys

dashed toward their sister, followed closely by their
mother's orders to stay in the house.

Phil, Gary, and Mark reached Gabbie, and Phil or-
dered the boys back to the kitchen. Mark said, "What is
it?"

"I saw him." Gabbie pointed toward the woods. "I
saw the boy who . . . was in the woods."

"Are you certain?" said Phil. He glanced about, and
without words it was clear he didn't understand how she
could see anything in the faint evening light.

Gabbie only nodded. "Where's Jack?" asked Mark.

"He went after him," she said, pointing.

Without a word, Gary leaped the fence and went run-
ning toward the path in the woods.

A short time later, Jack and Gary both appeared in
the kitchen, where the others waited. Jack, who was
limping, said, "I think I saw him, but this damn gimp leg
let me down."

Mark asked Gary, "See anything?" Gary shook his
head no.

"I called the police," said Phil. "They'll have someone
here soon."

Aggie and Ted Mullins both rose at the same time.

"I'd best be off," said Aggie.

Mullins agreed, saying the hour was getting late and
he'd return the next day to finish checking out the satel-
lite dish. He said he'd escort Aggie to her car and follow
her to her home, then drive on. The boys were hurried off
toward their room, even though it was an hour before
bed. Over their complaints, Gloria ordered them to find
something to do for a while.

Mark said, "Jack, what did you see?"

"It was the damnedest thing," he said, absently rub-
bing his shoulder. "I think I saw a boy of about maybe
fifteen. And I swear he was glowing. It must have been
the evening light. But I could see him through the trees
well enough to follow him across the bridge and toward

Erl King Hill."

Mark and Gary exchanged glances and Mark said, "I
think I'll take a look around."

"Don't you think you should wait for the police?" said

Phil.

"I'll go, too," said Gary. "If it's a kid ... well, he
might jump a girl, but I doubt he'll come after two grown
men. Got a lantern?"

Gloria took a Coleman lantern out of a cupboard by
the pantry entrance and handed it and some matches to

Gary. He took the proffered lantern and quickly had its
mantles glowing brightly. With a grin and a wave, Gary
said, "We'll just make sure he's not hanging around, and
we'll be back soon."

Jack sat rubbing his shoulder. "Maybe I should go,
too."

Gabbie said, "No, your leg is hurting. And what's
wrong with your shoulder?"

Jack looked surprised at the question, then realized he
had been massaging his shoulder. "I don't know. I must
have wrenched it or something when I jumped the
fence."

"That settles it," said Gabbie. "You sit."

Mark said softly, "We'll be all right." And without
further word they left.

Gloria said, "Will someone tell me just what the hell is
going on around this crazy place?"

Phil said, "I wish I knew."

15

Gary pointed. "Over there," he whispered.

Mark nodded. "I'll go that way." He made a circling
motion and Gary headed off, the lantern clearly marking
his progress while Mark crept through the gloom.

They had been tantalized by dimly perceived move-
ment for ten minutes, as if someone lingered at the edge
of their light, just close enough to mark his presence but
without fully revealing himself. Mark moved with
stealth, making as little noise as he could manage, but to

his ears it still sounded as if he were crashing through the
brush. He wondered if it was really true that Indians
once moved through these woods without sound.

A high-pitched laugh from above almost made him
jump. He craned his neck, trying to see what was in the
trees. "Who's there?"

Again the laugh, followed by a scurrying sound, as if
something was moving among the branches. Then Mark
heard the sound of someone or something large landing
in another tree. Whoever was up there was moving
through the woods, jumping from tree to tree like

Tarzan. Mark hurried after the sound.

Mark moved as quickly as possible, but the dark and
the close-packed trees caused him to lose ground on who-
ever was up there. He hit a tree with his shoulder and
cursed aloud, and was startled to hear a childish laugh
ahead. He followed the sound and discovered after a few
moments that he was lost.

Halting, he called out, "Gary!"

Instantly his call was echoed by a distant voice, mim-
icking him. "Gary!" it shouted. Mark tried to gauge the
direction of the sound and again called Gary's name. The
echo sounded, a mocking mimicry, but this time from
another direction.

Mark looked about with no idea of where he was. He
attempted to judge the position of the rising moon, but
couldn't see through the thick branches overhead. Then
he heard his name called in the distance.

As he took his first step toward the voice, it repeated
from another quarter. Mark halted. Whoever had
mocked him was now imitating Gary's cry. Mark was
suddenly afraid. Someone was playing with them.

Slowly and carefully Mark looked for anything like a
clearing or path. He glanced behind him as he tried to
ascertain where Gary was. He stepped around a bole and
started forward. And froze.

Mark's chest constricted and he couldn't catch his
breath. He blinked, as if to clear his vision, and his legs
began to tremble. He forced himself to take a halting
backward step and then another. Slowly he retreated

from the sight that greeted him. No more than twenty
feet ahead of him were three women of astonishing
beauty.

Dressed in thin white gowns that swept the ground,
they smiled, a seductive twist to their full lips as they
held their arms out toward him, moving with a swaying,
inhuman grace. He gasped, forcing himself to breathe,
and ran his left hand through his hair. "My God," he
whispered, unable to move another step. He swayed and
reached out to grip a nearby tree bole with his right hand.

He was certain that could he see their feet, he would see
each woman had bird claws or goat's hooves, for the
legend said such was the case. And he was looking at a
legend come to life: the White Ladies. Mark was over-
whelmed with the scent of flowers and spices, and a rush
of heat struck him in the pit of his stomach. He felt his
head swim as lust rose up in his groin, making him ache
to go to them. His body shook with desire so intense he
felt his chest constrict; breathing seemed impossible. He
felt as if the air were sweltering and humid, a hot August
night in New Orleans with not a hint of breeze. He forced
himself to suck in air. Perspiration broke out on his fore-
head and he pressed his right hand against the tree so
hard the bark dug deep into his palm. The pain of it was
all he could find to keep him sane. That pain in his hand
was real.

His mind swam. He tried to move but was paralyzed
with wonder and fear. He knew the tale of the White

Ladies, and he knew their embrace meant death. Sum-
moning all his strength, he pulled back his hand and
jammed it hard against the rough bark, scraping it side-
ways. The pain of broken skin shot through the hot wash
of desire, giving him a moment of clarity. He struggled to
take a step backward. He remembered a snatch of lore,
and with it a prayer reputed to give protection from the

White Ladies. Barely able to speak, he whispered the Old

German words.

A look of regret passed over the White Ladies' stun-
ning features. The central one of the three seemed sad,
while the others simply turned away, vanishing from

sight, as if stepping through doors into another world.

But the sad one followed, her diaphanous white gown
clinging to her body, revealing it in tantalizing detail.

Erect nipples, outlined by the thin gauze, and moist, de-
sire-swollen lips hinted at promises of sexual rapture be-
yond human imagining, and Mark almost cried from the
conflict between terror and passion. Except for the feet,
which were hidden from sight, the woman was perfect,
and in that perfection terrifying, for no human woman
could possess such beauty. To know her embrace would
be to know ecstasy beyond endurance. She would kill
with love. In a distant corner of his mind, Mark thought
she would literally screw him to death. A soft, moist
smell touched his senses, a faint odor of spices and flow-
ers, mixed with a more pungent odor, that gave a clear
message to some deep center of his brain. Dimly he
thought of some sort of pheromones. Mark fought down
the nearly overwhelming drive to go to her and slammed
his palm against the rough bark again, tearing the meat
of his hand, using the pain as a shield. He forced himself
back another step and again repeated the centuries-old

German prayer. Terror redoubled struck Mark like a
physical blow, for this time the prayer seemed to have no
effect upon the vision. She moved to within touching dis-
tance of him, and he felt himself swaying as she reached
toward him. His mind seemed entombed within himself,
witnessing his body going out of control. Ignoring the
pain in his hand, he took a small step toward his destruc-
tion. Within the prison of his own mind, Mark cried out
in despair.

Then the White Lady spun as a distant horn was
sounded, followed by a laugh of mad delight. The hunt-
ing horn trumpeted in the night, and the pounding of
hooves echoed through the trees. As she hesitated, Mark
felt her power over him lessen. She looked at him and he
felt the passions explode within his body once again. She
stepped forward, hand outstretched. Suddenly a figure
dropped from the trees above, a boy or small man. Step-
ping in front of Mark, he held up a hand, palm out to-
ward the White Lady. She shrank away and suddenly

was gone, as if slipping through an invisible door, seen
from the side.

Mark didn't hesitate but turned and fled, stumbling
through the gloom, away from the madness. His foot
snagged a root, and he fell. He attempted to rise, but
could only manage to sit up. He felt feverish, his strength
gone. It sounded as if riders were speeding through the
woods toward his location. He struggled to his feet, grip-
ping a tree, and breathed deeply to clear his head. Forc-
ing himself to calmness, he glanced about. He had no
idea where he was. From behind, the sound of riders be-
came louder.

Mark turned toward the sound, then shrank back
against the bole; tiny figures could be seen bursting from
between the trees. Dozens of glowing bodies no bigger
than sparrows, some the size of insects, sped through the
night. The beat of their tiny wings was a hum of almost
hypnotic music, a counterpoint to the pounding blood in

Mark's throbbing temples. One creature darted past

Mark's tree, visible for a moment—a tiny woman,
smaller than a canary, nude, with golden hair, the faint
blur of hummingbird-like wings on her back, and bathed
in a blue-green nimbus of light. Little figures smaller than
humans but larger than the fliers bounded by, leaping like
grasshoppers through the woods. Mark felt his mind slip-
ping away as he regarded little men in cutaway coats of
green and red, little women in dresses of gossamer and
light. He felt tears run down his face and knew fear. He
wondered if he was going mad, for these creatures were
both impossible and all too real. But they were colored
strangely, as if fashioned by a nature that required all
flesh to glow from within, for the gloom of the night did
nothing to hide them. Each stood forth in sharp detail as
it sped past, each clearly seen, as if a soft light was for-
ever fixed upon the creature.

The crashing sound of horses' hooves knocking aside
brush heralded the arrival of the next assault upon

Mark's senses. Riders of incredible appearance raced to-
ward him, and he felt a scream building up in his throat.

Then a hand covered his mouth as the young man

abruptly reappeared before him. He grabbed Mark in a
surprisingly strong grip and dragged him around the tree,
pinning him so that he sheltered Mark from the riders'

sight. Mark was held in a viselike grip, hard against the
tree, the youth's body pressed against his. The same odor
of wildflowers and spices Mark had smelled upon first
sighting the White Ladies assaulted his nostrils, but the
effect wasn't erotic or intoxicating. It was rather the op-
posite, almost sobering. The woods echoed with the
sound of the riders as they sped past, apparently unable
to see Mark and his protector. Mark could only wonder
how they could fail to notice the pair pressed against the
tree as horses galloped within touching distance. Mark
glimpsed figures of inhuman beauty speeding past upon
horses unlike any he had seen before, strangely graceful
beasts with eyes aglow, who almost seemed to float as
they ran, so smooth were their movements. The animals
were an impossible white, a glowing snow color dancing
with ice-blue highlights, and in the gloom their long flow-
ing manes and plumy tails seemed shot through with sil-
ver and gold light. The riders wore armor of odd hue and
cut, magnificent in design, though somehow wrong. Or-
nate helms were bedecked with protrusions that would
catch a sword blade, not turn it, one surmounted with
eagle's wings of ebony, another with a bull's horns of
ivory, a third with stag's antlers of gold. The helmets and
long spears and slender lances they carried seemed inured
to the snagging branches of the trees as the riders raced
along. Breastplates were fluted and covered with scroll-
work, and greaves, chain, and gambeson all looked deco-
rative, not functional. Still, they were figures of awesome
appearance, and Mark was staggered at the sight.

They vanished in the woods and Mark was still held
tight against the tree. From above a sound came, as if
something scampered through the branches at a furious
rate, in a vain attempt to keep up with the riders. It
scurried through the foliage like a monkey, swinging
overhead, and for an instant Mark felt the presence of
something evil and dangerous, and his fear deepened.

Then the pressure on Mark's chest was relieved as the
other stepped back.

Mark slowly collapsed to the ground, his knees too
wobbly to hold him. He leaned against the tree and wiped
his brow. His hand came away dripping, whether with
perspiration or blood he didn't know.

Forcing himself to breathe slowly, he regarded his pro-
tector. He was a boy, a teenager matching the description
of the one who had assaulted Gabbie. Mark looked up
into the boy's face and studied it. Then he knew. There
was nothing young about the face that regarded him in
the gloom. Ages looked out through those eyes. Softly
the boy said, "The Fool and his coursers ride the night.

To be seen by them is to be lost."

In a voice barely more than a croak, Mark whispered,

"You. . . ."

"I am not the one you think," the boy interrupted, his
face a stern mask. Softly he spoke. "All is not revealed to
you, Mark Blackman. Know that what was done was
done by another's hand." The stern aspect softened.

"And what was attempted was only because the girl's
desires call his attention." The youth's eyes narrowed,
and even in the gloom, Mark could see a fey blue light in
them. "I serve another, one who would prevent such
harm to the girl and others like her and so becomes your
benefactor." Almost absently he said, "Later, all may be
made known to you." The boy's face split with a mischie-
vous grin. "Or perhaps not. Now you are in my debt, lore
keeper. Forget." With a wink he sprang upward toward a
branch and vanished. Mark crouched low, hugging him-
self against a chill in his soul; tears rolled down his
cheeks and he openly cried. He reached into his coat
pocket and pulled out the tiny microrecorder he carried
for dictation. He thumbed the record button and began to
speak into the condenser microphone on the side, at-
tempting to put some order to the mad scene he had just
witnessed. He vaguely noticed the blood from his torn
hand smeared on the recorder as he forced himself to
speak. It was a difficult task, even for a man of his stern
professional discipline and experience, for his voice broke

and he was forced to pause while sobs broke uncontrolled
from his throat and his chest constricted in icy pain. And
he found that the images, so incisively etched in his mind,
were becoming less distinct, more diffused, each passing
moment. Mark hurried to recall every detail, but one
thing did not lessen. For the first time in his life, Mark
was truly terrified.

16

Gabbie looked up as Gary and Mark entered. One look at

Mark told her something was wrong. A smear of some-
thing brown crossed his forehead, looking like dried
blood. But more than that was the way he looked: His
face was set in a mask, with no expression, but it was
drawn and without color. The others noticed at once and

Gloria said, "You all right?" She pulled out a chair and

Blackman sat.

Mark nodded. "Yes. I just did something stupid. I got
separated from Gary. You don't really know how scary
those woods can be until you get turned around in the
dark out there." He forced a smile. "I guess I'm just a
little shook up." He held up his hand. "I fell and tore this
up trying to catch myself on a tree."

Gabbie made a face and said, "Ugh, that's gross."

"Just some torn skin," said Mark. Gloria hurried out
and returned momentarily with a first-aid kit and began
to dress his hand.

"You should get this looked at," she said when she
had finished.

"I had a tetanus booster less than two months ago. I'll
be fine."

"You want a drink?" asked Phil.

Mark shook his head no. "I think we'll be getting on
home, now that the police are here."

Two police officers had found Mark, sitting on the
ground. Gary had been attracted to their lights. He had

brought Mark back. The officers were still out looking for
the suspect, but held little optimism about finding him.

They had also made plain what they thought of Mark
and Gary chasing after possibly violent criminals in the
dark.

Gary bade the others good night, while Mark said
nothing. It appeared he was concentrating on something,
but from his shaken appearance, all sensed he was dis-
turbed and no one took exception to his departing with-
out a word. Reaching the car, Mark pulled out his re-
corder and gave it to Gary. "Tomorrow, before I wake up
and get out of bed, I want you to play this back to me."

He thought, then said, "Have another tape recorder run-
ning, will you?"

Gary said, "You've got an idea something's going on
that only your subconscious may be understanding, that
it?"

"Something, but I want a night to let this computer"

—he tapped his head—"churn it around a bit."

Gary started the car, then said, "Are you all right?"

Softly he replied, "Yes. I'll be all right."

"What happened out there? Something hit you hard."

He received no reply. After a moment Gary said, "I
thought for a moment I heard. ... I don't know. It
sounded like horses. And some sort of odd music. What
happened?"

Mark started to speak, then closed his mouth. "I don't
know if I can describe it. I don't know much of anything
right now. I'll tell you tomorrow after you play that tape
for me."

Gary knew Mark too well to argue. He would be told
in good time. With a sigh of resignation, he put the car in
gear and drove away from the Hastingses' house.

17

Gary looked down at his employer and friend. Mark's
breathing was slow and steady, but his eyes were moving
under his eyelids. He was in REM—rapid eye movement

—state. He was dreaming and would be susceptible to
suggestion and able to recall things buried in his memory.

They had used this technique three times before and al-
ways had interesting results.

Gary had listened to the tape before going to sleep,
and wished he hadn't, for it had both piqued his curiosity
and disturbed him to a point where he had been awake
since dawn, drinking coffee in the kitchen. He had de-
cided to let Mark sleep in until just before his usual wake-
up time of eight. It was not quite seven forty-five. Gary
crept to Mark's bedside and knelt. He thumbed the
switch on one of their portable tape recorders, making
sure it was on record and that the condenser microphone
was pointed at Mark. Softly, so as not to awaken him,

Gary played back the other tape. He regarded the brown
smear of blood on the small machine as Mark's voice
came through, strained with a note of fear Gary had
never heard before. In the years they had been together,
in more weird situations than most people could ever
imagine, Gary had never known Mark to show the first
sign of fear. "Dark woods in the night. A mocking voice
shouting my name. Three women in white, the god-
damned White Ladies. God, oh God." There was an au-
dible sob and then some sniffing. "Lights and tiny fig-
ures. ... Oh God. It's fairies! Little goddamn fairies.

Naked little people with wings. Oh, Christ. Leprechauns
and brownies, skipping by. . . ." More sobbing. "Then
riders. Oh God, it's the Wild Hunt. Then a boy who
smells of spices. Horsemen in armor are all around us.

The boy keeps them from seeing me. Oh my God. Oh my

God." Mark's voice trailed off as the recorder was put

into his pocket. There was no sound for a long time,

Gary knew, then, just before the tape ran out, the distant
muffled sound of a policeman's voice, and Mark's answer.

He had regained most of his composure by then. The
exchange ended as the tape ran out. Gary turned off the
machine, for he knew Mark had no interest in that sec-
tion of the tape.

Gary looked at Mark's face as he rewound and re-
played the tape. The second time through, he noticed
that Mark's REM had become more pronounced, and a
sheen of perspiration was forming on his face. His breath-
ing became more shallow and the rate increased. Then he
began to make sounds and abruptly he shouted an inar-
ticulate cry and sat up, eyes wide and awake.

He blinked, grabbed the tape recorder Gary had left
beside him, and spoke into it. "It was . . . night. We
were in the woods looking for Gabbie's assailant. I
shouted your name, Gary, and someone mocked me.

Then I thought I heard you call, but the voice came from
all directions, as if someone imitated you. Then I turned
and saw three Weissen Frauen, who beckoned me to join
them. As I tried to break away from their spell, the sound
of horses came and from the trees. . . ." His eyes held a
haunted look. "Hundreds of tiny creatures, glowing,
came past me, flying and leaping and running. They were
followed by riders. It was the Wild Hunt. Then a boy, a
teenager, I think the same one who tried to rape Gabbie,
jumped from the tree and shielded me from the riders.

After the riders had passed, he said, 'The Fool and his
coursers ride the night. To be seen by them is to be lost.'

Then he said he wasn't . . . something to do with why
he ... tried to make Gabbie ... he was serving
someone, and now he wasn't . . . something like that

. . . and . . . then he smiled and said, 'Now you are in
my debt, lore keeper. Forget.' He then vanished." Mark
ran a hand over his face. "That's all I remember."

Gary hesitated, then asked, "Did you see the horse-
men?"

Mark got out of bed and put on a bathrobe, Gary
pointing the mike of the recorder at him. "Yes. They

weren't human and I've never seen horses like the ones
they were riding." He briefly described the alien armor
and animals.

"Did the leader have a stag's head?" Mark blinked.

"The leader of the Wild Hunt has a stag's head in some
of the legends."

Mark shook his head. "I saw one, he might have been
the leader, whose helm was crested by antlers. Maybe
that was it." Mark looked drawn again. "I need to wash
up. We'll talk when I'm done showering."

Mark walked slowly to the bathroom, while Gary ran
downstairs and made a pot of fresh coffee. When the
coffee was finished he took two mugs up to Mark's room.

Mark was out of the shower and half-dressed when Gary
entered. He took the proffered mug and drank. After a
moment he said, "What a dream. I must be reading too
much of that stuff we dug up on Kessler. Maybe I need a
vacation."

Gary blinked. "What?"

"I said I must be working too hard. You wouldn't
believe the dreams I had last night."

Gary walked over to the tape recorder, the one used
by Mark in the woods, rewound the cassette, and played
it back to Mark. As Mark heard his own voice, he paused
in dressing, his arm put through his pullover shirt sleeve.

When the tape finished, he slowly resumed dressing. As
he sat down to pull on his heavy hiking shoes, he said,

"They make you forget."

Gary said, "Who?"

"The fairies. The elves, whoever—whatever—they are.

That's why Gabbie had only some of the normal reaction
a rape victim would have. She forgets the incident unless
someone else brings it up." He looked down at his shoes,
elbows on knees. "By the time I had gotten out of the
shower, I thought that whole thing a dream. I thought I
hurt my hand running after the boy in the woods, and
we'd never found him." He ran his uninjured hand over
his face. "It makes sense."

"Good," said Gary, sitting on a chair by the dresser.

"Then you can explain it to me."

"Whoever these people are, they can make humans
forget contact. Don't you see, that's why they're consid-
ered myths, because no one can remember seeing them.

All we've ever heard are partial reports, fragments, bits
and pieces. And given the superstition of earlier centu-
ries, people were likely not to ask a lot of questions any-
way. Suppose for a minute you're a peasant farmer in the

Middle Ages and someone comes running into your hut,
babbling about little glowing critters or something, then
the next day can't remember anything. It's how the leg-
ends get hatched."

Gary thumbed the tape machine and asked, "What do
you remember of last night?"

Mark thought. "We went looking for Gabbie's assail-
ant. We ... got separated." His brow furrowed. "I
thought ... I thought I saw someone, maybe more
than one person. I tried to follow. I ... think I. ...

There was someone else there. He ... said something.

There was noise. Maybe the wind. Then I was alone and
the cops and you showed up."

Gary rewound the tape and played it again. Mark lis-
tened and again his face drained of color. "We need to
make copies of that. I don't want to risk losing the only
thing that can make me recall what I saw. Then you're
going to hypnotize me and condition me not to forget.

And I'm going to do the same for you. It may not do any
good, but it can't hurt." He looked at Gary. "You and I
are going to spend all our time seeing what we can find
out about Kessler and the time between his getting to

America and showing up at White Horse. And we're go-
ing to do some digging on Wayland Smith. And digging
around in the Hastingses' attic and basement for ... I
don't know." He rubbed his face as if he hadn't slept.

"There's got to be some sense to all this."

"Mark, just what the hell is going on?"

"If you apply that ample imagination of yours to this,
you'll have no problem in seeing the obvious. Whatever it
was that happened in Germany at the turn of the century
is happening again right here in William Pitt County,

New York."

Gary grinned. "If you're right, it could be the coup of
the century for you."

"I don't even want to think of all the possibilities right
now. I just want to get a handle on what we've experi-
enced so far, and I think Fredrick Kessler's the answer.

Whether we're dealing with ghosts, aliens from Planet

Ten, or fairies, Kessler's the key—"

Gary's eyes widened. "The key! I'd forgotten about
it."

"We've got to dig around some more and find the lock
that matches that key."

Gary stood up. "You know, I'm sort of excited by all
this. It's amazing stuff."

Mark finished tying his shoelaces. "Just remember
what happened in Germany."

"You mean all the old folk rites and stuff?"

"I mean a lot of people died."

Gary's expression turned somber. "Yes, I see what you
mean." With no further comment, he went down the
stairs.

SEPTEMBER

1

"Mark!"

Mark pushed himself away from Phil's desk, not even
bothering to save off his program, so urgent was the note
in Gabbie's voice.

He entered the kitchen to find Gabbie helping Jack to
a seat at the table. Perspiration ran in streams down

Jack's face, and his shirt clung to him, almost completely
soaked through. Given the day's heat and humidity, it
was likely he'd sweat, but this was far beyond normal.

Despite working alongside him on the fence, Gabbie's
face showed only a light sheen of moisture.

Mark said, "What is it?"

"Jack's sick, but he won't go home." Her tone was
both scolding and concerned as she looked down at the
young man.

Jack tried to downplay his condition. "I'm okay. It's
just a bug. Give me a few minutes to catch my wind, and
we can get back to work on that fence."

Mark reached down, saying, "Jack, if you're sick, take
it easy—"

His words were cut off as his hand touched Jack's
shoulder. The younger man cried out in pain. Gabbie's
hands flew up to her mouth and she jumped slightly at
the unexpected cry. "Jack, what is it?" she asked, her
eyes wide with concern.

Mark knelt. "Let me look at that shoulder."

Jack nodded weakly, allowing Mark to unbutton his
shirt. Mark fumbled awkwardly a moment, his bandaged
right hand encumbering him. He got the buttons unfas-
tened and gently pulled the shirt back.

"Oh Christ!" said Gabbie, looking down at Jack's
shoulder. It was aflame with infection, a dome of red

flesh rising up above the joint. The center of the swelling
was almost purple, while the flesh at the edges of the
swelling was hot red.

Mark said, "This is no bug, Jack. You've got a killer
infection. We've got to get you to the hospital, now. I'll
drive. This looks like an invitation to blood poisoning if

I've ever seen one."

Jack looked down at his shoulder, attempting to focus
his eyes. "It was all right this morning," he said, his voice
sounding weak.

"Well, it isn't all right now," answered Mark, digging
his car keys out of his pocket. Handing them to Gabbie,
he said, "Let me turn off your dad's computer and you go
get the car started. Drive it around to the back and I'll
help Jack outside."

Gabbie hurried out toward the front door, and Mark
gently replaced Jack's shirt over the inflamed shoulder.

Within a minute the computer was off, the doors locked,
and Mark's car turning down the road toward Pittsville

Memorial Hospital.

2

The young doctor in the emergency room examined the
shoulder, touching it lightly, but even that gentle touch
caused Jack to wince and grunt. Gabbie stood by his side,
while Mark stood a short distance off, watching through
the E.R. door.

The doctor said to Gabbie, "I think you should wait
over there. This isn't going to look very pretty." Gabbie
said nothing, only shaking her head once.

The doctor ordered novocaine and injected Jack just
above the swelling, in still-healthy tissue. The pain from
the needle caused Jack to grip the edge of the examina-
tion table where he sat, but he said nothing. "That shoul-
der's really hot. This will take the sting out in a mo-
ment." He waited, then touched near where he'd injected.

When Jack didn't complain, the doctor injected closer to
the center of the inflammation. As he waited for the en-
tire shoulder to go numb, he said, "You really shouldn't
have let it go this far, Mr. Cole. It may have been only a
boil a week ago, but now it's a world-class infection and
you're a hairbreadth away from septicemia."

"I didn't have a boil a week ago," said Jack, his color
returning a little now that the pain was dulled. "Doctor, I
didn't have a boil this morning."

The doctor looked skeptical. "I'm not going to argue,

Mr. Cole, but that couldn't have popped up in a few
hours. Didn't you have any discomfort in this shoulder
recently?"

Jack shook his head, but Gabbie said, "You were rub-
bing it the night before last, after running into the woods,
remember? And you were sort of moving it around all
day yesterday, like it was stiff. I saw you."

Jack said, "I thought I'd just wrenched it going over
the fence." Then he thought and said, "Yeah, it was sore
yesterday."

The doctor only nodded, as if this was an admission of
neglect on Jack's part. He took a scalpel and said, "If
blood makes you queasy, I suggest you look at that pretty
girlfriend of yours." He cut into the center of the swell-
ing, and the nurse at his side began to sponge off the
blood. "Whew, what a mess." The doctor probed deeply.

"If I'd known it was this deep a pussy mass, I'd have sent
you into O.R. and called in a surgeon." He ordered an-
other tray to catch the discharge and nodded to the
nurse. Another nurse came and moved Gabbie away, and
without saying anything, they turned Jack and made him
lie down. The doctor ordered a shot of antibiotics and
continued to drain the infection from Jack's shoulder.

He probed into Jack's shoulder, seeking to lance the
core of the infection, and said, "What's this?" He kept
the lancet in place and asked for a long retractor, pulling
open the incision. Then he went after something deep
inside and came away with a tiny white object. "I think
we've found the problem." He deposited the object on a

clean green cloth and said, "I think you had a bone chip
work loose and get infected, Mr. Cole."

Jack's voice sounded weak. "I've never had any trou-
ble with my shoulder, Doctor. I shattered my leg a few
years back." He closed his eyes a moment, then said, "If

I had a bone chip there, I wouldn't be surprised." He
described his sailing accident while the doctor cleaned up
the shoulder.

When he was done, he ordered Jack to stop at the
pharmacy and pick up a week's supply of penicillin and
told him to take it easy for a couple of days. He said Jack
should have the shoulder looked at the next day and
again in a week, and Jack said he'd check in with Dr.

Latham.

Gabbie and Mark took Jack outside and the doctor
looked at the cleanup in progress in the E.R. He went to
the instrument tray to inspect the bone fragment and saw
that the cloth it lay on was missing. Looking around, he
was about to comment on its absence when a warning
siren intruded. An ambulance was approaching the E.R.

door, and the doctor quickly forgot Jack's quirky bone
fragment as he pulled off dirty gloves, moving toward the
sink to scrub once again.

3

Mark sat quietly behind his own desk. Gary was out hav-
ing dinner with Ellen and Mark expected he wouldn't see
his assistant until the morning; it was likely Gary would
sleep over at Ellen's tonight, as they preferred the relative
privacy of her apartment. Mark had been silently staring
at the hospital-green cloth he had deftly pocketed in the

E.R. It was stained by a now brown spot of Jack's blood,
and upon the bloody spot a tiny white object lay.

Mark had been staring at the object for nearly an
hour. He sighed and opened a desk drawer. Mark was an
infrequent pipe smoker, and the ignition of tobacco in his

study was a sign of deep concern or worry. Had Gary
entered, he would have known in an instant that some-
thing was wrong. The tobacco was dry and half-stale, but

Mark packed the pipe anyway. It would burn hot and
cook his mouth a little, but the ritual and smell of the
pipe had a calming effect upon Mark, and at this moment
he felt the need of a calming influence.

When the pipe was burning, Mark rose and poured
himself a brandy from the nearly empty decanter on the
bar. He'd have to remember to purchase some more in
town, or remind Gary to, he thought. They'd had a bit
more than usual, a sure sign of stress, as they both tended
to drink only after a long day's work.

Mark returned to his desk and put the drink down and
the pipe in his seldom used ashtray. He picked up the
small Bausch & Lomb reading glass that had come with
his compact edition of the Oxford English Dictionary and
looked closely at the white fragment on the towel.

What the doctor had taken for a bone chip was a tri-
angular piece of white flint, little more than an eighth of
an inch long. It tipped a tiny piece of wood, the presence
of which had been hidden from the doctor by the mass of
puss built up around the flint. Mark opened the bottom
drawer of his desk and pulled out a box of X-acto tools.

To the usual collection of blades and handles he had
added a long pair of tweezerlike tongs, used by stamp
collectors, and two pairs of small needle-nose pliers.

Mark used the tongs to pick the tiny arrow up off the
cloth, carefully, as his bandaged palm made handling
things awkward, and hold it underneath the glass, turn-
ing it to inspect it from every angle. His mind struggled
to accept what he held, and he silently sought to deter-
mine how this tiny missile could have come to be.

He sat back, placing the glass down. Without thought,
he transferred the little arrow to his uninjured hand, no-
ticing it felt almost without weight. His mind cast back
two days as he attempted to organize the fragmented and
shadowy images of that strange encounter in the woods.

A dozen times he had listened to the tapes, and Gary and
he had hypnotized each other against forgetting, but even

just after hearing the tapes he found that the memories
were distant, colorless things, lacking substance, as if a
dimly seen movie were being recalled, not one of the most
terrifying moments of his life. What power could cloud a
man's mind? he mused. The Shadow? he answered,
knowing the glib quip was born of frustration at not un-
derstanding what force moved out in the woods.

Suddenly his reverie was broken by a small prick in
the palm of his left hand, as if an insect stung him. He
jerked it involuntarily and then looked down. The tiny
arrowhead was now stuck in the fleshy part of his palm,
under his thumb. He wondered how he had managed to
stick himself. He didn't feel alarm; the pain had been
barely noticeable. He reached for the tongs to pull it out,
then felt his heart skip a beat as he saw the tiny missile
vanish into his hand, as if sucked in by his own flesh.

Mark sat stunned and flexed his fingers. He experi-
enced an odd discomfort in the palm of his hand, as if he
had strained a muscle, but otherwise no pain. Then he
knew. He grabbed up one of the X-acto knives in the box
on the desk and, gritting his teeth, dug an incision where
he had seen the arrow vanish. The pain struck him like a
hot wave and his eyes watered, but he pressed the knife
deep. Blood flowed copiously, and he held his hand above
the hospital cloth. Mark quickly dropped the knife and
picked up the tongs. He pressed the bleeding wound
against the cloth, and for a moment the pressure and
absorbed blood cleared the wound. In the incision he
could see the tiny arrow, and he plunged the tongs in,
gripping it. Ignoring the jolt of electric pain, he blinked
furiously to clear his eyes of tears. They flowed down his
cheeks as he pulled the arrow from his hand, depositing it
on the now blood-soaked cloth.

Mark rose and found his knees weak. He made his
way to the bathroom, managing not to drip blood on the
floor along the way, and tended the wound. Luckily, he
had acted quickly and the missile hadn't moved deeply.

He used a gauze pad to stanch the flow of blood, elevat-
ing the hand above his heart to hasten clotting. Then he
inspected the damage. What had felt like an amputation

and had bled like a mortal wound was only a cut a little
longer than an inch and perhaps a quarter of an inch
deep. He applied copious amounts of Neosporin ointment
to the cut and bandaged it. The cut would heal without
needing stitches. Now both of Mark's hands hurt, but the
discomfort was among the least of his concerns.

He returned to the desk and picked up the little arrow,
being careful to employ the tongs. With real regret he
reached over to his butane lighter and flicked it on. With-
out hesitation he placed the little arrow in the flame,
watching as the slender wooden shaft burned in an in-
stant and the flint turned black. When he had finished, he
rubbed the blackened arrowhead between his thumb and
forefinger. As he expected, it crumbled like so much soot.

Mark sat back, then took a long pull from the ne-
glected brandy. He had seen and been injured by a genu-
ine elf-shot. He had destroyed the evidence, but he felt no
further need for evidence. He was convinced, and he
knew that convincing others was not a prime concern at
this point. Now he knew what lurked among the trees of
the woods behind the Hastings house.

Jack had been wounded by one of the tiny creatures

Mark had seen bounding by in advance of the Wild

Hunt. Now Mark understood why medieval legends told
of such wounds causing death. The tiny weapon was be-
yond the ability of the healers of the day to detect and the
infection came fast. Without antibiotics, Jack would al-
ready be close to death.

Mark considered and then rose. He began to pace the
living room. For hours his mind wrestled with the prob-
lem of what to do next.

As dawn approached, he began pulling books off the
shelves around his desk.

Three hours later, Gary entered through the front
door and saw his employer hard at work behind the desk.

One quick glance told Gary that Mark had been up all
night, and the pungent odor of stale pipe smoke still hung
in the air. Gary skipped his usual wry quips and said,

"What is it?"

Mark absently waved to the books. "We've got to dig

out some things from a lot of garbage." He looked up at

Gary. "The other night, when we were all out running
around, Jack was elf-shot."

Gary sat down, his eyes wide. "Right."

"I'm serious." Mark held up his left hand. "I made the
mistake of putting the damn elf-shot on my own flesh and
it dug itself in."

Gary began to say something, but halted himself. He
looked at Mark, started to speak again, then stopped.

Finally he could only shake his head and say, "Coffee?"

"Good idea."

As Gary rose and turned toward the kitchen, he said,

"What are we doing?"

"Digging out every description we can find of how
fairies behave and what to do about them." He looked up
at Gary. "Not all the cute, fanciful stuff, but any refer-
ence to how to deal with them—rituals, prayers, customs,
protocols, anything. When we're done, I want a hand-
book on what you do to deal with fairies."

Gary stood dumbfounded. He was silent a long time,
then again started to speak. One more time he halted,
unable to articulate his astonishment. At last he said,

"Coffee," and turned toward the kitchen.

4

Gabbie heaved and the trunk rocked slightly. Jack said,

"Here, wait a minute. That's pretty heavy."

He came around a stack of magazines and stood next
to the girl. Together they pushed, and the large trunk slid
slowly along the floor, revealing the bottom half of the
bookcase it had blocked.

Mark and Gary hadn't been around for almost two
weeks, since Mark had taken Jack to the hospital. Mark
had called to say they'd stumbled onto something, but
they'd be back at work on the cataloging soon. Then last
night Gary had called to say he'd be taking Ellen for a

long weekend to New York City, while Mark was up at

Buffalo, lecturing at SUNY that afternoon for one of
their Friday colloquium series, a favor he had promised
months before. Neither would return until late Sunday
night.

Gloria had decided that someone should at least con-
tinue digging stuff out of the basement for Mark to cata-
log, so she had volunteered Jack and Gabbie. A dozen
old trunks had been plundered and their contents sorted
somewhat, waiting for Mark to make final disposition.

Jack knelt and began scanning titles. "Some of these I
can read, others not. My German's pretty fractured." He
pulled one out. "Some sort of physics text, I think."

The door at the top of the stairs opened. Gloria
shouted down, "Gabbie, Tommy's here."

"Great!" said Gabbie, jumping up. "Come on. You'll
like Tommy. He's a real character."

Jack wiped dusty hands on his jeans and followed

Gabbie up the stairs. In the hall, Phil stood shaking
hands with a large man, at least three hundred pounds
on a six-foot-two-inch frame. His red-brown hair was
combed straight back in a rakish style and his beard was
so red it was almost orange.

Gabbie hugged the large man and endured a playful
pat on the rump as she said, "Tommy, it's good to see
you."

The man called Tommy squeezed her. "Gabrielle, you
are so lovely, I think I'll leave my wife and run away with
you."

Gloria laughed. "Tommy, you're not married."

With mock surprise, Tommy said, "What! Did Caro-
line divorce me already?"

Taking Tommy's elbow, she answered, "Yes, about
five years ago."

With mock regret, he said, "Ah me. Wives are so diffi-
cult to keep track of. That makes four, I believe. Gabbie,
would you care to be Mrs. Raymond number five? You
have the best figure and would be the prettiest of the lot. I
could drape you in jewels and slinky clothes and show
you off everywhere."

Gabbie laughed and said no, while Gloria steered

Tommy into the living room. "How long are you stay-
ing?"

"Just until after dinner, I'm afraid," he said as he sat
heavily in the overstuffed chair. "I've made plans to con-
tinue on to Erie, Pennsylvania, if you can imagine. I've a
stepsister who is marrying off her daughter tomorrow, so

I decided to combine all my travels in one pass, as it
were. A daring sojourn beyond imagining, I know, but
necessary. If the fates are kind, I will soon be back in my
own little nest in Manhattan, none the worse for the jour-
ney."

Gabbie laughed. "Little nest." She said to Jack, "It's a
penthouse that's easily two million bucks' worth."

Gloria said, "Tommy, this is Jack Cole. Jack, this
character is Tommy Raymond, formerly my agent."

Jack's hand was engulfed in Tommy's giant fist, as the
large man half stood. "Jack Cole! Good, I was going to
have Phil call you over if you weren't already here." He
sat back in the chair.

Jack looked surprised. He couldn't imagine why

Gloria's ex-agent would have even known he existed, let
alone wished to see him. He snuck a peek at Gabbie and
saw her shaking her head no while an alarmed expression
crossed her face.

Blind to her warning, Tommy Raymond continued
speaking. "I'd owed these lovely people a visit for some
time, and after reading your work, I decided to combine
a little business with pleasure while passing through."

Jack was obviously stunned, blinking like a startled
owl. "Reading . . . my work?" He turned to stand out-
lined against the window, his face a mixture of surprise
and displeasure.

"Yes," said Tommy. "The manuscript portion that

Phil sent me."

All eyes in the room turned upon Phil, who looked
uncomprehendingly at Tommy. "I didn't send you any of

Jack's work, Tommy."

Then slowly all eyes moved from Phil to Gabbie, who
stood looking guiltily at Jack. "Ah ... I used to forge

late passes my senior year in high school, Dad. I've got
your signature down pretty good."

Jack looked irate. "You sent copies of my stuff to
him?"

Instantly Gabbie took the counteroffensive. "Yes, I
did!"

"That stinks!" Jack almost shouted.

"Hey, cool off, you two," said Phil to no avail.

"The deal was we read each other's work, not show it
around," said Jack.

"It had some good stuff in it."

"I don't care! I didn't want anyone reading it."

"Hold it!" said Gloria.

Both Gabbie and Jack fell silent. Gloria said, "All
right. Now, what's going on?"

Gabbie said, "Jack and I agreed to show each other
some things we'd written over the last few years, you
know, sort of a mutual consolation society. But some of
his was really good."

"So you sent it to Tommy?" asked Phil. "Why didn't
you show me?"

Gabbie shrugged. "You're my dad. And I thought
maybe if Jack heard from a pro who wasn't a friend that
his stuff is good, he'd go back to writing."

Jack was doing a slow burn. "You didn't have the
right," he said, softly and angrily.

Tommy's laughter interrupted any rebuttal Gabbie
was preparing. "Right or not, young Jack, she did and I
read it. Now, do you care to hear what I think?"

Jack's curiosity won out over his anger. "Yes, I guess."

"Well then, you are a very bad writer of prose fiction."

Jack's expression darkened again, but Tommy pressed
on. "But you write excellent dialogue. In fact, you may
be one of the best natural writers of dialogue I've read.

Your characters are like little lumps of lead until they
open their mouths. Then they dance and caper about the
page, all light and wonder. Your proposed book Durham

County would, at best, make a bad parody of Edna Ferber
as prose. I think, however, in a different medium, it could
be excellent."

"A play?" said Gloria.

"Perhaps, but I'm more inclined toward a screenplay.

I think it could make a wonderful motion picture."

Jack was caught completely off guard. "A movie?"

"Yes. Perhaps even a television miniseries. I primarily
represent actors, but my agency handles all manner of
theatrical and film folk, writers and directors as well as
actors. So we have agents on both coasts who are familiar
with working with writers. And you have one of the more
successful screenwriters in recent years sitting a few feet
away, and if I read this situation correctly, he would be
willing to help you get the project into shape as well.

When you feel it's ready to present, I'll be more than
happy to see you're properly represented to the studios."

"Will another agent want to work with me just be-
cause you ask?" Jack still appeared confused.

Tommy laughed. "Son, you misread the situation. Of
course an agent in my office will agree to work with you.

I own the agency. I am, in short, the boss."

Gloria inclined her head toward Tommy. "Jack, if I
was half the actress Tommy is an agent, I'd have been a
star. Do it."

Tommy laughed. "You, my darling, were a thespian of
marked gifts. Your only shortfall was a decided lack of
ambition. That is why you made the right choice to get
married and leave the theater." He said to Jack with a
smile, "Well then, Jack Cole, what do you say?"

Jack sat back on the windowsill. "Ah, thanks. I. ...

This is all sort of a shock. I'll need to think about it."

"Well, there's no problem." He looked at Phil. "Might

I have a brandy?"

Phil laughed. "Of course, Tommy. One brandy com-
ing up."

Jack looked like dark thunder for a moment. Then
softly he said to Gabbie, "You. Outside." He didn't wait
for an answer but moved purposefully toward the door.

The entire way down the hall and out the door, he didn't
look back to see if she followed. When he reached the rail
around the front porch, he turned and said, "You really
didn't have the right."

Almost defiantly she said, "Okay, so maybe I didn't.

But Tommy said you're good."

Jack looked off into the distance. "I'm sort of messed
up about this. I don't know if I should feel betrayed or if
you're proving something to me."

She came close and looked up at him. "You're a dumb
shit at times, Cole." She stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

"Why do I put up with you, anyway?"

All anger fled as he put his arms around her. After a
moment he said, "So what am I to do?"

"What do you want to do?"

He was silent for a while. "How about we get mar-
ried?"

She clutched at his shirt as she rested her head on his
shoulder. Then her arms slipped around his waist and she
hugged him tightly. Tears came to her eyes. "It works for
me." She kissed him long and hard and said, "I love you
so very much."

He held her close. "I love you too, Gabbie." He was
silent for a while again, then said, "You know, I was
getting pretty frantic about your heading back to the
coast. I didn't know what I was going to do."

"Like I said, you're a dumb shit at times. It's the tenth
of September. Classes at UCLA begin in two weeks. I'd
have to be out of here next week if I was going back.

Have you seen any sign I'm getting ready to leave? I've
already written to UCLA telling them I'm staying here.

And it's all because of you, idiot." She paused. "But
maybe I should write again and tell them I'm coming for

Winter Quarter."

"Why?"

"Look, if you're going to write a screenplay, we'll have
to go to the Coast and find a place for you to work."

"Wait a minute." He looked troubled. "I've got to fin-
ish my dissertation and get my Ph.D. I can get us on the
list at Graduate Housing, or we can both stay at Aggie's,
but I can't afford to support a wife in L.A. while I'm
trying to get a career started in screen writing." He
paused. "Besides, I'm not sure if I really want that. But if

I try, I'd be an idiot not to let your dad help me if he's

willing, which means staying here. Look, this is all com-
ing on so damn fast."

She started to say something, then stopped; Jack was
on the verge of saying something important, she was cer-
tain. At last he said, "When I graduated at UNC, Ginger
and I were full of plans." He paused, remembering.

"Well, mostly she was full of plans. But . . . well, I got
timid. Maybe I wasn't really in love with her." He looked
down into Gabbie's eyes. "Maybe I wasn't. Or maybe I
just wasn't willing to open up and take what she had to
offer. But the thought of marrying her just scared me
silly. Anyway, I came here and she went to Atlanta and
after a while we just sort of weren't going together any-
more. I guess it was mostly my fault. I didn't want the
responsibility, I guess, of taking care of someone else."

Gabbie smiled. "You are a dumb shit, Jack." She said
it with a mixture of affection and irritation. "I mean it.

You don't have to take care of me. I'm a tough kid and

I've got resources. What you're going to have to learn is
to let me take care of you ... if your southern male ego
can handle it."

"Why? You going to work while I write?"

She shook her head. "Let's see how liberated you are,
boy. How about you write and I go to school while we
live off my money."

"Look, I can't let your dad support us—"

"I didn't say a damn thing about Dad's money, Jack! I
said my money." She looked away, uncertain about how
he'd react to what was coming next, but at last plunged
in. "If you haven't figured it out by now, you're probably
not going to without my telling you." She paused and
took a deep breath. "I'm rich. Buckets of money rich."

When he looked uncomprehending, she said, "Remember
when we first went riding, I told you the Larkers were
serious money? We're talking major serious money. And
when Grandma Larker died, I got it all. She cut my
mother out of the will. Except some money she left to
charity and Arizona State University, every penny comes
to me. It's tied up in a funny trust; the trustee has to
approve any amount over an allowance I ask for—he

gives me whatever I want, anyway—but when I many or
turn twenty-five, the trustee goes away, and I get every-
thing without strings. I don't think we could spend it all
if we tried."

Jack looked astonished. "You're kidding."

"Nope. We're going to get many, many millions on
our wedding day, sport."

He whistled. Then he grinned. "I always wanted to
marry a rich girl."

She returned the grin. "Well, you will. Can you handle
having me pay the bills for a while?"

He nodded. "I think. But even if this writing thing
does work out, I'm still going to get my doctorate and
teach part-time, okay?"

"Okay. But let's not worry about that now." She
hugged him and kissed him. "Let's go tell the folks, then
get out of here and go somewhere so we can be alone."

"Aggie's in New York for the weekend. There's no one
at her place." He looked deep into her eyes. "You sure?"

"Damn sure," she said, her eyes shining.

They returned to the house and shortly had Gloria in
tears and Phil breaking out a bottle of chilled cham-
pagne. Phone calls to distant friends and relatives were
made and Tommy Raymond insisted on taking everyone
out for dinner before he dashed off to the wilds of Erie.

But eventually Gabbie and Jack stole away, taking her
dad's car to drive over to Aggie's.

5

A loud noise woke Gloria. She listened for a moment in
sleepy disorientation before she sorted out what the
racket was. Somewhere below, Bad Luck was barking
loudly, while inquiring voices from the kids were begin-
ning to fill the night. She glanced at the clock while Phil
was already rolling out of bed. The luminous dial said

3:10 A.M.

"What the hell is this?" Phil said.

"Be careful," she urged as he slipped his bathrobe on.

For an odd moment she considered the quirky nature of
the human mind. Phil might be going down to confront a
prowler, but he refused to do it naked. His pajama bot-
toms were tossed somewhere in the corner, the result of
some enthusiastic lovemaking earlier that night.

Phil hesitated. "What are we supposed to do? Call the
police?"

"I don't remember. Make noise or something. Scare
them away, I guess."

"I don't want to scare the kids. Sean and Patrick
would want to capture the guy and hold him until the
sheriffs posse got here."

A dull thump came from downstairs and Bad Luck
continued to bark. Gloria started at the sound. "Well, do
something."

"I'll go look. You call the cops."

Gloria began dialing while Phil moved cautiously
down the hall. Passing Gabbie's room, he noticed her
standing at the door, an anxious look on her face. "Stay
here, honey," he cautioned as he passed her. Her worried
look spoke volumes about her concern for her father. The
boys were outside their own door, Patrick armed with
their baseball bat. Phil relieved them of the would-be
cudgel, saying, "I'll take that. You two guard the stairs."

Patrick seemed on the verge of protest when his father
said, "Take care of the women." Sean and Patrick both
positioned themselves resolutely at the top of the stairs,
arms folded, daring any invader to attempt to pass them.

Phil slowly crept down the stairs, listening. Nothing
alerted him to a prowler's being close, as the only sound
was Bad Luck's barking. He absently hefted the bat,
holding it as one would a quarterstaff, ready to swing or
thrust. He felt a little silly, but somehow more confident
for having some sort of weapon.

A snarl and yowling sound, followed by a loud thud,
caused Phil to jump. Instantly Bad Luck resumed bark-
ing at an even more furious pace. The Labrador was
standing before the door to the basement, barking and

whining to get in. The sounds of movement and banging
came from below, as if someone was knocking things
around. Then came a yowling cat cry. Phil laughed self-
consciously as he moved toward the door to the base-
ment. It sounded as if Hemingway had encountered a
trespasser in the basement and was discussing issues of
feline territoriality and rights of passage. Another thump
was followed by a painful screech, rising to a pitch of
agony. Phil flung open the door to the basement, while
questions came from above.

Bad Luck charged down the stairs, barking loudly,
while Phil flipped on the light and hefted the bat. If
something besides a stray cat had wandered into the base-
ment, Hemingway might need rescuing. Phil had vague
recollections of Jack or Gabbie or someone telling of a
raccoon that was a terror in the area. Phil hurried down
the steps.

Something black and agile, and damn big compared to
the cat, leaped from a stack of books to a high basement
window and vanished outside before Phil could get a
good look at it. Bad Luck leaped after it, scrambling up a
fallen pile of books to the worktable below the window.

He stood on hind legs, barking in outrage at whatever
had escaped. Phil shouted, "Bad Luck! Shut up, hero!

Get down!" After a last bark, the dog ceased his racket
and jumped down from the workbench with a defiant
snort. Phil glanced around and said, "Hemingway?"

A weak, pitiful meow answered him as he located the
cat beneath a tilting bookcase. Dozens of books lay
strewn across the floor as the case leaned forward over
three trunks. The cat lay amid the confusion. "Heming-
way?" said Phil softly, reaching in. He touched some-
thing wet and warm, and a screech of pain erupted and
claws struck the back of Phil's hand. Snatching away his
hand, he swore. Hemingway had never scratched anyone
in the family. Phil pushed up the tilting bookcase and

Hemingway lay revealed in the glow of the bare light
bulb above.

"Oh God," whispered Phil. The cat lay atop a pile of
bloody magazines and books, his stomach ripped open

from forelegs to hind legs. What seemed an impossible
length of intestine was spilled below Hemingway's stom-
ach. Gloria came to the top of the stairs. "Phil?" she
asked.

"Don't come down!" said Phil. The cat looked up at
him. Hemingway's expression seemed to be asking Phil to
make things better. His tiny tongue darted out, licking
his nose, and he seemed disoriented. As much as any-
thing, he looked distressed to be found in such an undig-
nified state. Hemingway tried to mew, and it was a stran-
gled, pitifully weak imitation of his usual tomcat yowl.

The cat's head tilted to the side slowly, lowered until it
touched a green-covered book, then lolled to one side at
an odd angle. Glassy eyes stared blindly up at Phil. Hem-
ingway was dead.

Gloria ignored Phil's instruction and came down the
stairs. At the bottom, she glanced at the mess and for a
moment seemed unsure of what she was seeing. Then she
said, "Oh shit," softly.

"Something got in and Hemingway tried to chase him
out. Whatever it was . . . gutted him."

Gloria turned as the twins appeared at the door. "You
two, stay out of here!" Her tone said in no uncertain
terms how much the twins could get away with: nothing.

They backed out of the door, and Gabbie came to the
landing.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Something big got in and . . . killed Ernie," an-
swered Gloria.

Gabbie's eyes welled with tears. "Ah no," she said
softly. "Poor Ernie. What was it? Another cat?"

"No," said Phil. "It was too big. Maybe a weasel or
fox or something. I couldn't get a look at it. It was too
fast. Looked sort of like a big black tomcat. Maybe it was
that raccoon Jack told the boys about. Anyway, it was
huge."

The boys heard from the hall and silently exchanged
glances. They knew. They nodded as wordlessly they
said, The Bad Thing.

Gabbie came down the stairs as Phil used an old news-

paper to cover Hemingway. "Christ, what a lot of
blood," she said. She glanced at the mess. "How'd they
knock over that bookcase?"

Phil looked and shrugged, "Hemingway was next to
it."

"I don't think a cat could knock that over." She
glanced around. "Jack and I spent a day stacking all
this." She left unvoiced the complaint that they would
have to do it again. Hemingway had been her dad's cat,
and she knew he was deeply feeling the loss, despite his
outward calm.

"We'll bury Ernie," announced Sean.

"By the apple trees," agreed Patrick.

Gloria said, "All right, in the morning. Early. School
day tomorrow. Now, back to bed." Her eyes widened.

"Oh, Jesus! I better call the police back and tell them it
was a cat fight. They're sending a car out this way."

As Gloria herded the twins ahead of her up the stairs,

Gabbie said, "Look at this."

Phil came over to his daughter, who was peering at
something behind the bookcase. "It's a door."

Gabbie said, "What's it doing hidden behind the
case?" She climbed atop a trunk and leaned forward, put-
ting her right hand on the wall. She reached over with
her left and tried the knob. "It's locked."

Phil said, "Maybe that key Mark found will open it.

Let's try tomorrow."

Excited, Gabbie said, "At least go get it and let's try
now."

"You're going to have to move all that crap before you
can get the door open." Glancing around, as if unable to
decide what to do first, he added, "And it's pretty nasty
right here. I don't think we should be shoving things
around until we clean up."

Gabbie turned to face her father. "Okay, but if we try
the key in the lock, we can see if it's worthwhile moving
all that crap."

Conceding the point, Phil went upstairs and fetched
the key from where Gloria had put it in the dresser

drawer. As he came downstairs, Gloria was just hanging
up the phone; she said, "What?"

He explained as they returned to the basement. Phil
passed the key along to Gabbie, who hadn't left her
perch. Gabbie leaned over and put the key in the lock. "It
fits!" she announced. She gave it a turn. "It works!" The
door opened a few inches and she said, "I can't see any-
thing."

Gloria said, "Come on, then. You can putter down
here tomorrow. You and Jack can dig around all day if
you want. But now let's clean up this mess, then back to
bed."

Gabbie nimbly jumped down from the trunk. "All
right. But I'm dying to know what's in there."

"Probably more junk," muttered Phil as he gently
gathered together the papers around Hemingway. Gloria
and Gabbie retreated up the stairs, leaving Phil alone
with his cat. Phil ignored the wet, sticky softness beneath
his fingers and carried the cat over to an empty card-
board box. Lowering the bloody mass into the box, he
said, "Just like Papa himself. You thought you could do
anything, take on anybody, didn't you? Well, you dumb
shit, you finally overmatched yourself." He sighed, not
fighting back the tears that gathered in his eyes. "Well,
you were pretty good company for a lot of years, Hem-
ingway." He sighed and left the box by the door on the
top landing, so the boys could bury him in the morning.

Without another word, Phil wiped away the tears in his
eyes and flipped off the light.

Outside the basement window the black thing watched
the light go out. With a sick sound, a twisted laugh, it
retreated from the house. Its master would be pleased. Its
only regret was that the man had come before it had
finished tormenting the cat. Chasing the cat around the
basement so the humans would find the lock had whetted
the creature's appetite for sport. It had enjoyed gutting
the cat, then pulling out the steaming intestines, but the
cat had still been alive when the black thing had been
forced to flee. It hadn't been allowed to prolong the tor-
ment a few moments longer. It felt cheated. Perhaps an-

other time. Perhaps the master would let it play with one
of the boys. Considering that happy possibility, it scam-
pered off into the dark.

6

Jack seized a shelf, lifted the side of the case, and swung
it around in an arc, letting the other corner act as a pivot.

He sat it down with an audible grunt, then flexed his sore
shoulder. In the two weeks since it had been drained, it
had reinfected, and Dr. Latham had had to reopen it and
clean out the wound, giving Jack a second course of an-
tibiotics. Everything seemed under control at last, but the
shoulder was still tender. Before the case had touched the
concrete floor, Gabbie had the door open.

She pointed the flashlight she'd brought down and
flicked it on. She took one step into the large room and
halted. "Jack," she said softly.

"What?" he said, stepping around the mess on the
floor and halting behind her.

"Get Dad."

Jack took one look through the door and nodded. He
ran up the stairs, and in a few moments Phil came to
stand behind Gabbie. He watched as she played the light
over the interior of the small room.

It had been excavated out of the earth next to the
house so that no hint of the room's existence could be
gleaned from the floor plan. The ceiling was reinforced so
no depression of earth outside would betray its location.

Hooks were placed along the right wall, from which hung
musty robes. They were white save one, which was red,
and from the way the light scintillated across them, they
could have been silk.

Seeing the robes, Phil said, "What? Kessler was a

Klansman?"

"I don't think so," said Jack as Gabbie played the
flashlight around the room. On the other wall were

shelves on which both books and rolled-up scrolls had
been carefully placed. At the rear, a wooden table stood
topped by a funny-looking lectern, with a large book rest-
ing upon it, flanked on either side by candles. The wall
behind the table was hung with a tapestry depicting some
sort of hunting scene, done in Renaissance fashion, show-
ing a group of riders, all bedecked in strange armor, exit-
ing a forest. To the right of the riders, lovely women in
white danced in a circle before a throne, upon which sat a
beautiful queen. At the right edge of the tapestry, the
subject matter turned decidedly erotic, as members of the

Queen's court had doffed their clothing and were embrac-
ing one another. Those depicted at the farthest right edge
of the tapestry were engaged in blatant sexual acts, in
couples and groups. At the far left, game from the hunt
was hung as trophies. Gabbie felt her gorge rise as she
saw that some of the game hanging from the trees was
human. Beneath the table, in odd contrast to the rest of
the room, was a fairly modern banker's box, metal, with
two drawers.

"What is this place?" said Gabbie.

"I don't know," said Phil softly. "We'd better call

Mark."

7

Mark and Gary arrived fifteen minutes later. Phil, Jack,
and Gabbie were taken aback by both men's appearance.

Mark looked as if he hadn't slept for a week and Gary's
color was bad, as if he was fighting a cold or flu. It was
clear both men had been working hard, and something in
their manner suggested they were under a great deal of
stress. As soon as Mark saw the contents of the room, he
became animated. "Did you touch anything?"

"No, we just sort of stood around in awe," answered

Phil.

"Good." Glancing down at the bloody mass of scat-

tered books and magazines next to the case, he said,

"What's all this?"

Phil said, "Something killed Hemingway last night."

When both Mark and Gary looked blank, he added, "My
cat."

Mark said, "Killed it?"

"Eviscerated him. The boys buried him before Gloria
took them to school."

Mark and Gary exchanged glances; Mark said, "Did
the room smell strange?"

Phil said, "Not that I noticed. Why?"

Mark knelt a moment to inspect the mess, then stood,
shaking his head as if the question was trivial. "Just that
foxes or other wildlife can give off a pretty strong odor.

Well, I'm sorry, Phil."

Phil seemed to have accepted the cat's death. "It's
okay. He was a tough old coot and was going to go out
fighting one day anyway."

Mark nodded. "Who's seen this?"

Phil said, "Just us. Gloria stayed in town to grocery-
shop after dropping the kids off at school. She should be
back in the next hour."

Mark said, "And I'd just as soon no one outside of
here knows about this just yet."

Phil said, "Why?"

Mark sighed slightly. "I'm not sure yet just what's
going on, Phil." He paused, thinking a moment. "All
this," he said, waving at the room, "has to do with the
mystery surrounding Kessler. And maybe some other
strange things, as well. Anyway, until I get a few facts
nailed down, I think it's a good idea not to let anybody
know about this until absolutely necessary. We'll tell Glo-
ria, of course, but if the boys can be kept away, or at least
cautioned not to talk about this at school. . . ."

Phil said, "We'll tell them you just found something
secret. I know my boys. They'll be pains if we try to keep
them away. If we let them in on it, they'll stay quiet
about it—for a while, anyway."

Mark reluctantly agreed. It was Phil's house and his
property, so he decided not to make an issue of the boys'

seeing the secret room. He turned to Gary, handing him
some keys. "Get the big tape recorder and some blank
cassettes, both cameras, and a stack of legal pads, then
we can start." As Gary headed up the stairs, Mark called
after, "And get the sack in the trunk, too, if you would."

To Phil he said, "Can you get a lamp and an extension
cord in here?"

Phil hurried upstairs and returned with a lamp from
the living room and a long extension cord from his study.

Mark removed the shade and plugged in the lamp to the
extension cord while Phil plugged the other end of the
cord into a socket in the basement wall. The room was
illuminated by a harsh white light.

Mark pulled out the little recorder he carried in his
pocket and flipped it on. "This is Mark Blackman. The
date is September twelfth. I am standing in the basement
of the Philip Hastings residence at 76 Frazer Road, Rural

Route 6, William Pitt County, New York, this residence
also being known locally as the Old Kessler Place or Erl

King Hill. I am recording the findings of a hidden room
discovered at—"

He flipped off the recorder. "When did you find this
place?"

"About three-fifteen this morning," answered Gabbie.

Gary returned down the stairs with the equipment

Mark had requested and began setting up to take pic-
tures.

Switching on the recorder, Mark continued. ". . . ap-
proximately 3:15 A.M., this date. The room is approxi-
mately thirty feet deep by fifteen feet wide by ten feet in
height. Exact measurements will be made." Even as he
spoke, Gary was unlimbering a builder's tape measure
that he had pulled from the sack. "It was excavated to
the east of the house proper, the location giving no sign
of the room's existence to casual observation. The ceiling
is braced with double joists and cross-member supports,
preventing collapse from above. The wall construction is
not visible to casual inspection. Upon the right wall, as
viewed from the door, are eight hooks, spaced approxi-
mately a foot apart. From each hangs a robe, white in

color, except the farthest from the door, which is red.

They appear to be silk or satin. Upon the left wall are
floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. . . ." He continued his de-
scription of the room, noting in detail everything he saw.

When he reached the altar, he said, "The candles appear
to be common wax, but may be more exotic in composi-
tion. Analysis will be made. The holders appear to be
gold. The—"

"Gold!" blurted Gabbie, and Jack shushed her. Every-
one was fascinated by Mark's work.

"—table seems fashioned from ash or another wood of
similar appearance, perhaps olive." He inspected it from
below without touching anything. "The workmanship is
typical of nineteenth-century manufacture of the area. As
speculation: It may have been manufactured at Kessler's
factory, or even handmade by Fredrick Kessler himself.

The book is open. It is approximately fifteen inches high
by nine inches wide, page dimensions. It is written . . .

in German, in Gothic script, but in a dialect I do not
know, perhaps Old High German or Middle High Ger-
man." He described some of the properties of the writing
and finally said, "It is most probably a copy of a more
ancient text, for it appears to be no older than a hundred
years." He turned his attention to the tapestry, turning
off the recorder for a moment.

Looking at Phil and Jack, he asked, "Can you get
more light in here?"

Phil said, "I've another lamp we can bring in, and a
two-way plug adapter."

Gabbie said, "There's a work lamp in the barn, the
kind you can hang from a hood when you work on a
car."

"Get them, please," said Mark.

Jack said, "I'll fetch the one in the barn," and accom-
panied Phil up the stairs again.

"Gabbie, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, maybe
you could rustle up some sandwiches. Or if you'd prefer,

I can contribute to a hamburger run. We're going to be
here awhile."

"Ah, I can cut up some of that turkey we had last

night. And I'll make a pitcher of lemonade." She glanced
at her watch. "Lunch in about two hours?"

"That's fine." Mark removed his corduroy coat and
tossed it carelessly across a dusty trunk. He resumed his
narration, describing in detail the illustrations on the tap-
estry, then opening the top drawer of the banker's box.

"The banker's box is metal, appearing to be no more than
twenty years old. Inside the top drawer are what appears
to be correspondence and other documents." He closed
the top drawer, opened the bottom, and found more of
the same. "It appears there are possibly two or three hun-
dred documents in the box." He snapped off the recorder.

Gary reached into the sack and removed a roll of mask-
ing tape, and a black marker, which he gave to Mark. To

Gabbie he said, "Now we start cataloging everything."

"This is fascinating," said Gabbie, wide-eyed.

Mark smiled. "Tell me that in about six hours when
we're still at it." Gary tore off a piece of tape and handed
it to Mark, who numbered it with a big "1." He put it on
the uppermost shelf in the bookcase, at the left, beneath a
rolled-up parchment. He continued until Jack and Phil
returned and set up the lights. Then he took out the Po-
laroid and shot a few pictures to determine exposure.

Judging the required numbers, he took the Nikon and
began shooting pictures of everything. Gabbie, Jack, and

Phil settled in to watch.

8

Three hours later, Mark was still at it. Phil had returned
to working on the final draft of his manuscript, making
last-minute revisions before the publisher put it into pro-
duction. Gloria had come home and been shown the dis-
covery. She had watched Mark and Gary a bit, then van-
ished upstairs when the twins came home from school.

Keeping the boys out of the basement had proved little
trouble. A few minutes of watching Mark talk into his

tape recorder while he pulled down parchments and
opened them, and Gary took pictures of them, was all it
took to drive away their interest. Indiana Jones and the

Temple of Doom this wasn't. They promised to keep mum
about the room, certain none of their friends would be
impressed anyway.

Gabbie and Jack watched with interest. As a rule,

Gabbie wasn't given to long periods of inaction, but she
found Mark's work riveting. Jack was also curious; as a
student of literature, his knowledge of any sort of field-
work was nil, and watching the way Mark ensured that
each item was clearly identified before it was moved was
instructive. Nothing would be misplaced or lost if possi-
ble, and the exact order in which things were done was
recorded as Mark spoke continuously into the recorder
and Gary shot picture after picture. Mark had gone
through two ninety-minute tapes and was into the third.

He switched off the recorder and stood up, groaning au-
dibly. "These knees are getting too old to camp out on
cold concrete this long." He left the lights on as he exited
the room. "Time for a break."

They went upstairs, where a stack of sandwiches
waited. They had been prepared at noon, and it was now
past three. Removing the wax paper covering, Gabbie put
sandwiches on plates and handed them around while

Jack retrieved a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigera-
tor. Hearing them in the kitchen, Gloria and Phil wan-
dered in.

"Find out what that stuff is?" asked Phil.

"Not half of it, and it's incredible stuff," said Mark.

Gary nodded agreement. "Those scrolls are written in

Greek, Old High German, Old Russian, Amharic, and a
few in Latin, Hebrew. . . . Some I don't know. I'll have
to dig out some books, but I think a few are in Pahlavi."

"What's Pahlavi?" asked Gabbie.

Gary looked at her and said, "Medieval Persian. It's a
dead language."

Jack and Gabbie exchanged glances. "Persian?" won-
dered Jack. "What's Kessler doing with parchments cov-
ered in Persian and those other languages?"

Mark shrugged and looked at Gary. "Can you trans-
late them?"

Gary spoke around a mouthful of sandwich. "Some.

My practical linguistics is a little rusty. I'd do better with

Old Church Slavonic or Old Prussian, but I can handle
the Russian and German, and the Latin, too. The Pah-
lavi . . . ? Indo-Iranian languages were never my thing.

I only touched on Pahlavi once or twice. I can get some
reference books and take a crack at it, but it's a little too
far east for me." He shook his head. "But I know some-
one at Washington who could read it like it was the funny
papers. We can photocopy the scrolls and with express
mail have an answer in a few days."

Mark shook his head. "See what you can do first. We
can call your friend if we need to."

"What about the robes and all?" asked Gloria.

"I've a few vague ideas, but I'm going to hold off talk-
ing about them until we get some of those books and
scrolls translated. The German I can read, freeing Gary
for the others. I can even read the Old Middle and Old

High German, slowly, with a dictionary in hand. And if
any of them are in French or Flemish, I can translate
them, too. It will take a while, but I think we've found
the stuff I've been after for the last two years. Whatever
was going on in Germany in the early 1900s was con-
nected to Kessler and his cronies, and. . . ." He paused
while he thought. He seemed disturbed, despite his out-
wardly calm appearance. At last he said, "Somehow,
something went wrong, terribly wrong, and Kessler and
his friends had to flee. There are things involved here that
are so ... outrageous, I don't want to even hint at
them."

Gloria asked, "Nothing dangerous, is there?" She was
obviously thinking of the boys.

Mark thought a minute, then said, "Possibly. But I
don't think so. At any rate, as long as we don't spread
news of this find around, we should be okay."

"Mark," said Gloria, "I don't like this. What's going
on?"

Mark glanced at Gary, and the younger man

shrugged. Mark chewed silently a moment, then said, "I
don't really know. I've told you a little about what I
know about Kessler and his lot back in Germany, and all
the strange things that were going on at that time. It may
be ... there may be some interest in all this. That's
why I want to keep quiet. I'll have a better idea of what's
going on after we finish here."

"How long will that take?" asked Phil.

"We've about finished the rough catalog. There're less
than a dozen documents to record. Then we get to open
the banker's box and count letters. Then I can start trans-
lating the German and French"—he grinned—"while

Gary gets headaches with the Pahlavi and the others."

Gary said, "I'll start with something less exotic, then
work my way up to the Pahlavi. I'll have to run back to
the house and find my linguistic references. I hope I can
remember where I put them."

"Most of your college texts are on the lowest shelf
behind my desk."

Gary nodded, finished his sandwich, and said, "I'll go
now."

"Good," answered Mark. "Gabbie and Jack could
help me. If you don't mind," he directed toward them.

"No," said Gabbie.

"Sure," said Jack. Both seemed pleased to be included.

Finishing his sandwich, Mark killed off the last of his
lemonade and said, "Well, let's go." Seeing Gloria's con-
cerned expression, he reached out and touched her arm.

Looking her in the eyes, he said, "There's nothing dan-
gerous about this, Gloria."

She returned his look and slowly nodded. She turned
away to clean the table as Phil returned to the study and

Gabbie and Jack headed toward the basement.

As he left the kitchen, Mark wondered if Gloria could
tell he was lying.

9

The last document from the shelves was a rolled-up light
vellum. Mark had Jack and Gabbie hold the large sheet
flat while he photographed it. Speaking into the recorder,
he said, "Document 136: a single sheet of what appears
to be vellum, measuring"—Gabbie had the tape out and
she and Jack quickly measured, giving Mark the dimen-
sions—"twenty-four by thirty inches." He knelt to study
the vellum. "No writing apparent. Seven lines, in stag-
gered order, placed along the edges to the right as photo-
graphed. A single line from the bottom at approximately
a 60-degree angle to the bottom running . . . seven
inches, then turning to approximately 250 degrees to the
original angle, running for eleven and seven-eighths
inches. The line ends in a circle of less than a half inch in
diameter. Three marks are clustered in the upper left cor-
ner. A line runs in a tightening coil from the circle to a
larger circle"—he counted—"encompassing nine full
turns counterclockwise before terminating. The nature of
this document is not apparent."

He had them roll it back up and said, "Well, that does
it. Now we can begin translating." He smiled, obviously
pleased with the finding. "Let's take a short break until

Gary gets back."

Over coffee in the kitchen, Mark said, "I think we'll
have the answers we've been looking for. I can almost feel
it within reach." He seemed both pleased and disturbed.

"What exactly got you started on this thing?" asked

Gabbie.

Mark thought back. "About ten years ago, I was do-
ing work on a book about secret societies; it never got
written in the end. I couldn't get a publisher, because two
similar books had bombed. Anyway, I was digging
around for some stuff in Germany, in Munster—where a
secret society called the Holy Vehm had operated in the

late fifteenth century—when I chanced across some let-
ters from a Catholic priest in Ulm, which is near Stutt-
gart, dated October 1903. The priest he wrote to in Mun-
ster was a friend from his seminary days. The letters were
misfiled in the archives of the local diocese and probably
should have been buried deep in a Vatican vault. They
told of some 'trials' and hinted at execution. The priest in

Ulm was deeply disturbed by both the events taking place
in his parish and the Church's reaction. That was the first
hint I had that something very unusual had taken place
in the south of Germany at the turn of the century.

"What I've been able to piece together is pretty much
what I told Phil and Gloria before: All sorts of pagan
practices were revived." He fell silent for a minute. "Peo-
ple were returning to a set of beliefs rooted in Gotho-

Germanic culture and myth, some involving primitive
rites centered on the worship of the White Goddess:

much like the druidic practices of ancient Britain. From
what I could discover, it got pretty bizarre for a while.

There were hints of terrible things . . . even, possibly,
human sacrifice." Again there was a moment's reflection,
as if he was uncertain what he should say next. Then he
relaxed and said, "It fired my imagination. I've since
worked on other projects over the years, but always had
it in the back of mind that one day I'd find out what the
hell went on back in Germany eighty-five years ago." He
smiled in recollection. "When I finished my book on voo-
doo two years ago I decided to take a vacation. I guess
my subconscious was at work, for I picked Germany. I
did the Oktoberfest in Munich, then wandered over to

Ulm to poke around. Again I got lucky. I couldn't get a
thing out of the local Catholic or Lutheran church
records, but I found a little bit in the archives of the local
paper about a group of local businessmen who had sud-
denly departed for the States, Canada, and Africa. That's
what put me on to Kessler and his cronies." He shook his
head. "Whatever they were involved in, they took great
pains to cover their tracks, and some records were lost in
both world wars. I couldn't even get agreement from
story to story on how many men were in ... whatever

they were in. Sometimes it was as many as twenty, some-
times as few as ten. And they changed names—even na-
tionalities along the way, if they could.

"I chased three others of that group to dead ends,
losing track of one in Alberta, Canada, another in New

South Wales, Australia, and the third in what was then

German East Africa. Then I followed Kessler. If I'd
picked old Fredrick first, who knows? I might have un-
covered some of this stuff earlier. But it doesn't matter
now." There seemed to be some hidden meaning in those
words, and Gabbie was about to comment on his mood
when Mark pressed on. "When I came back from Ger-
many, I spent a few weeks in New York, called Gary
back from Seattle, and moved to Pittsville. We started
poking around after news of old Fredrick Kessler, trying
to uncover the truth. And at last it looks like it just may
happen."

Gary returned, carrying three large books under one
arm and several more in a book bag in the other hand.

"Well, I may not be able to decipher those scrolls, but I'm
as equipped as I'll ever be."

Mark put down his cup of coffee. "Good; let's get
started."

10

Gloria stuck her head through the basement door and
said, "Mark! Are you two going to work all night?"

Mark looked up from where he sat with open note-
book, translating one of Kessler's books, and glanced at
his watch. "It's after eight?"

"Yes. You've worked straight through dinner." Mark
recalled her announcing it and his saying he'd be up, then
proceeding to forget to eat. "Aggie's here, and getting
ready to go home. Why don't you two call it a day and
come up for a bite and a nightcap?"

Gary stood slowly, limbering joints stiff from sitting
on a concrete floor, and said, "I'll second that."

In a few minutes they had put the basement in order,
even to the point of closing and locking the door to the
secret room.

Upstairs, Phil offered both a brandy and Gloria gave
them plates of reheated dinner. Gary asked, "Where are

Gabbie and Jack?"

Phil shrugged, but Aggie said, "Over at my house, I
expect."

Phil sipped his drink, then said, "Well, we're dying to
know what you've uncovered."

Mark and Gary exchanged glances and Mark said,
between mouthfuls, "I'd prefer to dig deeper before I
make any guesses about what we've found."

Gloria took him by the arm and steered him to a
chair. Sitting him down, she said, "But you're with
friends, so you don't need to worry about having to re-
tract later what you say now, and if you don't share, I'll
bop you one over the head with the biggest book down
there." Her bantering manner did little to disguise her
concern.

Mark smiled as he held up a hand in a defensive pos-
ture. "All right, I give." His smile slowly faded as he
paused; at last he said, "I've got a pretty wild idea." He
glanced at Gary, who seemed content to follow his lead.

"But keep in mind we may have to modify our theories
as we go. It may turn out Kessler was someone like us
who was investigating, something like an amateur histo-
rian."

"Who hides his work in a secret room?" scoffed Aggie.

Gary said, "A paranoid amateur historian?"

They laughed, then Gloria said, "So what's your wild
story, boys?"

Mark said, "I've only managed to translate a part of
one book—we're skimming to get the sense of these
things, not being particularly exhaustive. But it seems all
those books and scrolls are related to some sort of ...

tradition."

"Tradition?" said Phil. "I don't understand."

"Maybe a religion of some sort, a cult. Remember I
was investigating secret societies when I stumbled across
the letter that first began all this. Anyway, if Kessler and
his cronies were responsible for, or at least involved with,
all the weird business in Germany at the turn of the cen-
tury, then that was only part of something much larger."

"Can you be more specific?" said Aggie, obviously fas-
cinated.

"Not until we've spent several weeks translating.

Some of those documents, if authentic, date back a long
time."

"How long?" asked Phil.

Gary said, "Those Pahlavi scrolls to the eighth, maybe
seventh century. A couple of the Greek are ... maybe
centuries older. Maybe as far back as first century B.C."

"Is there a problem with condition?" asked Gloria.

"I've read those old scrolls can crumble."

"No," said Mark. "These are in surprisingly good con-
dition. Someone's ensured they were stored well. If you
check that room in the basement, I think you'll find it's
been insulated against cold and dampness. Also . . .

they may be copies, not originals. We'd need the equip-
ment to test the materials—parchment fibers, ink or
whatever they used to write with—to be sure. But since
they're that old, we're running into the usual problems
with ancient documents: scribes who misspell, who have
their own little shorthand, or who use provincial dialect.

The chance of screwing up is pretty high." He sighed,
started to speak, halted, then started again. "Phil, I don't
like saying this, but ... I would think it best to keep
this secret for a while longer."

"You said something earlier," said Gloria. "Would
you mind elaborating?"

Mark said, "I ... I'm not sure, but it's possible
someone"—his hand swept about in a general gesture—

"might be interested in all this."

"If those documents are as old as you seem to think,"

interjected Aggie, "I'm sure any number of historians
would be interested."

Mark shook his head. "No, I mean someone might be

interested in keeping things hushed up." He put aside his
now empty dinner plate and sipped a brandy.

Gloria looked upset. "Do you—"

Mark interrupted. "Probably not. I'm saying 'just in
case,' and I can't emphasize that enough. Don't get wor-
ried over this until we know for certain."

Aggie shrugged. "Mysterious Mark Blackman."

Mark seemed on the edge of a sharp retort, then said,

"Sorry. I'm tired. Really, I don't think there's anything
to worry about. Let's just say I'm being overly cautious,
okay?"

Phil said, "Okay by me. I'd rather take it slowly any-
way. I've a book to finish, and a house full of historians
would be a little disruptive."

Gary drank his coffee and said, "It's going to be a
while before we know exactly what we've got here, any-
way. I'm cracking this Russian thing, a church letter,
from down around the Black Sea somewhere, and it
keeps referring to things the reader's supposed to know
about. I get phrases like 'I agree with your conclusion,'

and I don't have a hint what that's about. I hope the
letter that the writer's answering will be there, so I know
what he's agreeing to." His bantering, pained tone made
them all laugh.

"Do you find a lot of stuff like that in this sort of
work?" asked Phil.

"We don't usually do this sort of work. There're centu-
ries of collecting in your basement," said Gary. "There's
stuff from all over the world. We've got letters, scrolls,
books written in Hebrew, classical Latin, Church Latin,
ancient Greek, Old High German, Middle High German,

Middle English, others I don't even know what they are,

Chinese, Japanese, Korean, or some mix of Asian lan-
guages. At some point we're going to have to farm some
of this out to experts, people who can get the translations
right." He looked knowingly at Mark. "Soon."

Mark shook his head no. "Not until we have an over-
all sense of how this stuff is likely to fit into a larger
pattern, how it all hooks together. There's some central
core of ... something here.

"If we were archaeologists from the future, and we
blundered into part of a library, we might struggle for
years before we figured out that the only things the sec-
tion we found had in common was that the authors were
listed alphabetically. Or we might hit nonfiction and find
the section on contemporary politics. Those books,
scrolls, and letters are about something. Once we dis-
cover what that something is, a cult, religion, secret gov-
ernment organization, whatever, then we'll get into the
detail stuff."

Aggie rose. "Well then, I'm for home."

Mark and Gary agreed it was past quitting time, and
bade Phil and Gloria good night as well. They walked

Aggie to her car, then followed her out the driveway.

As Mark's car pulled away, Phil said, "Secret societ-
ies, huh?"

Gloria was quiet, then said, "And weird documents.

It's all kind of scary, somehow."

Phil looked at his wife. "Scary? I would have said
exciting. And there's still the question of the gold. Maybe
that wasn't such a story after all."

Almost sarcastically, Gloria said, "Want to get a
shovel and go look for buried treasure?"

Grabbing his wife playfully, he swung her about and
said, "Got all the treasure I want right here." He kissed
her, slipping his hand down to squeeze her rump. Gloria
remained tense, not returning Phil's playful affection.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

Gloria put her head on Phil's shoulder. "Mark's lying
to us, Phil. He's been covering something up since he set
eyes on the room."

Phil looked down at his wife. "Aren't you making a
bit much of this? Aggie told us Mark likes to keep quiet
on his work. He's even said he doesn't like talking about
it. He's just being cautious."

Gloria sighed. "Maybe you're right." But she knew he
wasn't.

11

Gloria hung up the phone. "That was Mark."

Phil, sitting behind his desk, looked to where his wife
stood in the hallway and said, "What's up?"

"He's flying out to New York tonight. He says they've
hit a wall, so they're going to consult with some people.

Gary's taking copies of some of the more exotic stuff to
his friends at the University of Washington and Mark's
going to talk to some people he knows at NYU."

Phil was alerted to an odd note in his wife's voice.

"Something worrying you, hon?"

Gloria stood hugging herself and shook her head as if
clearing it. "No, I don't think so. It's just. ..."

"What?"

"I don't know, but I had the strangest feeling when

Mark hung up that . . . that I'd never hear from him
again."

Phil began a quip, then stopped himself as he realized
that his wife was really disturbed. He rose and went over
to her. "Hey, Irish, what is this?" he said softly, taking
her into his arms and holding her gently.

"You haven't called me that in years," she said. She
rested her head on his chest. "It's just a cold feeling."

Phil hesitated a moment, then reached around his wife
and picked up the phone. He dialed as Gloria said,

"What?"

"Wait." The phone at the other end rang, then was
picked up. Phil said, "Mark, Phil. When are you leav-
ing?" An answer came, and Phil said, "Well, look. Why
don't you and Gary both come by, then we'll all drive up
to Buffalo together for dinner? Then we'll hang out with

Gary in the airport bar until his plane leaves. That way
he won't have to sit around the terminal by himself for
two hours. And you won't get stuck for long-term park-
ing fees. No, no trouble. We'd enjoy it." He hung up.

Gloria said, "What was that?"

"Mark's plane leaves at ten tonight and Gary's catch-
ing the red-eye at midnight. And this way you can shake
that feeling you'll never see Mark again." He glanced at
his watch. "You can see him in about two hours. He'll be
here at five."

Gloria smiled. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For not making fun."

He shrugged off the remark as the door in the kitchen
banged closed behind the twins. "Ma!" echoed through
the house as Patrick announced his brother's and his ar-
rival. The swinging door opened and the twins marched
into view, Sean holding a bunch of envelopes. "Mail's
here," he informed them.

Phil took the mail as Gloria said, "Guess who baked
some tollhouse cookies today?"

With a shout of approval, the twins moved with their
mother toward the kitchen while Phil employed the silver
letter opener that Aggie had given him to discover how
much this month's American Express bill would prove to
be. The opener reminded him of Aggie and he shouted to
his wife, "Better call over to Aggie's and tell Gabbie we'll
need her to watch the boys tonight." He shook his head.

Without fanfare, Gabbie had begun spending nights over
there and for the last few days had hardly been seen by
the Hastings household, except in the barn. No matter
how much in love with Jack she might be, she'd never
neglect the horses. Then Phil glanced at the last letter in
the stack; he looked at it again, staring at the return
address as if for a moment he couldn't believe his senses.

Then he shouted, "And tell her she's got a letter here.

From her mother."

12

Gabbie's face was an unreadable mask as she finished the
letter. Folding it slowly, she looked at her father and
began to laugh. "Mom got married."

Phil blinked and said, "She's married?"

Gloria watched the reaction with interest. The only
subject in Phil's past that had been off limits had been

Corinne. Phil had given Gloria the barest facts and re-
fused to discuss his first marriage further. When they had
begun dating, Gloria had worried that Phil carried a
torch for his first wife. She quickly learned that was as far
from the truth as anything could be. Gloria knew there
was a lot of hostility and anger still dormant within Phil,
but there were also other feelings, feelings not shared. It
was the only thing Gloria felt left out of where Phil was
concerned.

Gabbie continued her laughing, a deeply amused
sound tinged with a note of bitterness. "She married

Jacques Jeneau."

Gloria's eyes widened. "The French millionaire?"

Phil's mouth turned up at the corners, and his eyes
brimmed. For a moment Gloria feared he was on the
verge of crying, but suddenly he threw back his head and
laughed. He was nearly convulsing, laughing so hard he
fell back over the arm of the small couch opposite his
desk, landing with a thud. He lay back, laughing.

"Jeneau!" he croaked.

Gabbie's laughter echoed her father's and she had to
wipe a tear away as she became caught up in her father's
hilarity. Their laughter bounced back and forth, feeding
off itself, until Gabbie had to sit down and hold her
breath to stop.

Jack, who had been quietly standing by the hall door,
said to Gloria, "What's so funny?" She shrugged, indicat-
ing ignorance.

Phil lay back, arm over his eyes, for a moment, his
laughter diminishing to a continuous chuckle. At last he
took a deep breath and then sighed. Gabbie covered her
face with her hand, wiping away the wetness on her
cheeks. Jack politely asked, "Who's Jacques Jeneau?"

Phil sat up, also wiping tears from his face, as he said,

"Ah, therein lies a tale."

He got up and went to kneel beside his daughter. He
put his arms around her shoulders, hugging her tight, a
rare display of physical affection between them. "You all
right, kiddo?"

Gabbie's laughter had halted and she looked at her
father, her eyes red from tearing. She sniffed and nodded.

"Yup." She kissed him on the cheek, then said, "Some
joke, huh?"

Gloria said, "If it's not a bother, what's so damn
funny?"

Phil continued to kneel beside Gabbie. "Jacques

Jeneau is a French playboy who spends his time with
slow boats and fast women. His hobbies are losing yacht
races arid divorce suits." He sat on the floor, his arm
resting across Gabbie's knees. "We met him at a recep-
tion in New York, in '66, I think. It was some charity
thing. Anyway, Corinne got a fair share of invitations to
those affairs because of her family, even though we were
poor and just getting by. And we went to a number of
them—the ones we didn't have to contribute to get into,
anyway. There were always plenty of free drinks and
pretty good buffets. At this one Jeneau made a pass at

Corinne." He smiled in remembrance. "This was before
she got radical, but even then she called him a parasite.

We saw him a half-dozen times after that, and every time
he came on to her. We treated it like a joke. He's been
chasing her on and off for twenty years. Look's like he
finally caught her. Some joke."

Gabbie said, "The joke is this letter." She sighed and
looked at Jack. "So much for the grande dame of the

Left. Will you look at that engraved stationery! It must
have come from some designer shop in Paris, for Christ's
sake."

Gloria couldn't stand it any longer and took the letter
from Gabbie's hand. She read it, then said, "So she's
sorry for the lost years and wants you to come visit?"

Gabbie stood. "It's a little late." She went to stand
next to Jack, who put his arms around her.

"Don't be too hard, Gabbie," said Phil as he stood up.

"Maybe she's mellowed in her old age."

"If she married Jeneau, she didn't mellow; she mold-
ered." She made a face. "I met him at a rich people's
reception at Grandmother's. He made a pass at me! And

I was all of fifteen!"

Jack grinned. "So? You were probably pretty hot stuff
for a fifteen-year-old, or is he just a dirty-old-man type?"

"Old?" Gabbie sighed in resignation. "No, in fact he's
gorgeous. Like a Robert Redford with big brown eyes
and ginger hair, with perfect grey at the temples. And a
body like a gymnast's. All dripping with Gallic suavity.

It's just he's so damn obvious. He's used to having
women throw themselves at him. I think he was halfway
shocked and amused when I walked away from him."

"Like mother, like daughter," said Phil. "He's been
intrigued with Corinne for years. I guess he just couldn't
stand being turned down."

Gloria tapped her chin with the folded letter. "As the

Chinese say, 'May you live in interesting times.' Well, it's
been yucks, kids, but if you're going to have any dinner, I
still better check on the roast. Mark and Gary should be
here soon." Passing Gabbie, she handed back the letter.

Phil headed toward the doorway, saying, "It might
not be too bad a honeymoon, kids. The South of France
isn't hard to take."

Gabbie looked at Jack. "What do you think?"

"I think we'll do what you want. We could always
work it so we pass through Nice for a day. Cocktails on
the yacht; that sort of thing. Then we could split if it gets
too uncomfortable."

Gabbie sighed. "I'll think about it. Maybe we should
see Mom, at least once."

Phil said softly, "Ah, now you know where she is,
maybe you should invite her to the wedding?"

"I'll think about that, too." With a small hint of an-
ger, she said, "She didn't invite me to hers."

Phil put his hand on his daughter's shoulder. "I un-
derstand. Whatever you want, okay?" The sound of a car
approaching the house intruded. "That'll be Mark and

Gary. We'll be back after midnight."

Gabbie nodded. "Have a good time."

Gloria appeared and took her coat from the closet as

Mark knocked on the door. Quickly Gloria gave last-
minute instructions about dinner and stuck her head into
the parlor to say good night to the boys. Soon Mark's car
was heading out of the driveway and Gabbie and Jack
were alone in the study.

Jack studied Gabbie's face in the soft glow of the
porch light coming in the window and wondered what
was going on in that complex head of hers. He knew she
was enduring mixed emotions where her mother was con-
cerned, but he also knew she'd decide to do what was
right for her, with no bullshit or apology. It was one of
the qualities that made him crazy about her. She sighed
and put her head on his shoulder, without words, and
they fell into that warm glow simply being together gave
them, while from the parlor the sound of gunfire in-
formed them the twins had discovered something divert-
ing among the hundred-plus channels Phil's dish could
pull in. For a quiet time nothing was spoken, then Gabbie
kissed Jack lightly on the cheek and said, "Come on,
lover. Let's feed the monsters." With a mock groan at
being forced to quit the comfort of the couch, Jack rose
and followed Gabbie to the kitchen.

OCTOBER

1

Gabbie rushed down the hall as the phone rang for the
fifth time. She was dripping wet and furious as she at-
tempted to keep the towel wrapped around her. As she
sped past the twins' room, she said, "Thanks, brats!"

Sean and Patrick looked up from where they were
reading comic books and exchanged questioning glances.

They had no idea what she was talking about. They had
both been off in a four-color world populated by cos-
tumed superheroes and space adventures, and something
as mundane as a phone ringing was not going to break
their concentration. Patrick looked out the window,
heavily streaked by rain, and silently wondered, Is it ever
going to stop?

"Sure," said Sean. "Just in time for school on Mon-
day." Neither thought it odd they shared that silent com-
munication from time to time. They had been doing it
since birth.

Patrick returned to his comic, grumbling inaudibly.

School was more than a month old and the rain had
seemed constant since the second day. Either it was pour-
ing, or the ground at the park was too muddy to play
ball. Now another Saturday was almost shot. They
hadn't played an inning in three weeks and both were
feeling deprived. The kids at school didn't want to play
baseball much anymore, anyway. It was football season,
and while both twins liked touch football, it wasn't the
same as a good baseball game. It was a sure sign the
summer was long gone, the next an impossibly distant
time away. Besides, next year was Little League, and
while excited at the prospect of organized play, the boys
also sensed that some element of freedom was slipping
from their young lives.

Sean studied his brother. His own sense of gloom was
reflected back by Patrick's, but with that reflection came
a darker shadow. Sean knew Patrick still seethed inside
to get back at the Bad Thing, but hoped that with school
occupying his energies Patrick would become content to
wait through the last two weeks of October, until No-
vember 1, when all the Good People left. But deep within
he knew it was unlikely. Patrick was an open book for

Sean. Sometime soon Patrick would act.

Gabbie stormed back in the other direction, halting
long enough to say, "Damn salesman! If the phone rings
again while I'm in the bath, one of you monsters better
pick it up or I'll. . . ." She let the sentence go unfinished
as her little brothers showed nothing resembling concern
over the vague threat; she hadn't the faintest notion of
what she'd do if they didn't. And the towel was small
enough that it didn't quite cover most of what Gabbie
wanted covered. The comic struggle with the towel un-
dermined her attempt at looking menacing. She gave up
and left.

Patrick observed, "She takes a lot of showers and
baths."

Sean nodded. "Girls do that. They don't like dirt."

With that sage insight they returned to their comics.

After a while the phone rang again. Sean looked up
and saw that Patrick was lost in the latest adventures of

Wonder Woman. He listened and heard Gabbie's voice
echo down the hall: "Get the phone, damnit!"

Sean rose and hurried to the phone, picked up the
receiver, and said, "Hello."

"Patrick? Sean?" said the voice on the phone, made
scratchy by long distance.

"Sean."

"This is Mark. Is your father home?"

"No. Mom and Dad are shopping. They'll be back for
dinner."

"Is Jack or Gabbie there?"

"Jack's coming over. Gabbie's in the bath. You've
been gone a long time. When you coming back?"

"Soon. I'm in Germany. Now listen carefully, Sean. I

want you to give your dad a message. It's important. I
don't know when I'll be back. ..." A squeal of static
erupted, then Mark said, ". . . but regardless of when,
tell your dad to leave the stuff in the basement alone until

I get back, no matter what he finds. And if he finds any-
thing else, anywhere on your property, tell him. . . ."

Again static obscured his words. "It's very important
that he doesn't touch anything. You got that?"

"Sure. You're in Germany and Dad's not to mess with
the stuff in the basement."

"Okay. Now, tell your father I've got some of the
translation of the parchment and some other new infor-
mation—" A sudden loud burst of static sounded as
lightning flashed outside; the phone went dead at the
other end. Sean listened for a moment as series of clicks
sounded, followed, after a long silence, by the dial tone.

Something in the tone of Mark's voice and the sudden
silence on the phone disturbed Sean. He held the phone
until it began a recording telling him to hang up. He did
so and headed back toward his room.

Gabbie opened the bathroom door, allowing a cloud of
steam to escape, and said, "Who was that?"

"Mark. He's in Germany."

Gabbie emerged from the bathroom wearing a white
terry-cloth bathrobe, a puzzled expression on her face.

"He called from Germany?"

Sean nodded. "Yeah, he's in Germany. He said to
tell Dad that he shouldn't do anything in the basement
until he got back."

Gabbie toweled her hair. "I wonder what that's sup-
posed to mean. Germany? I thought he was in New York
all this time. Was there anything else?"

"Yes. . . ." Sean thought a long moment. "But I for-
get."

"Great. Well, you better remember before Dad gets
back. When's Mark coming here?"

"He said he didn't know." Without further comment
he entered his room and returned to the latest adventures
of the Batman. For a long time Sean scanned the brightly

colored pages, but he couldn't shake the odd quality in

Mark's voice. Sean couldn't judge such things, but he
thought Mark had sounded scared.

2

Phil wasn't pleased by the lack of agreement about what
had happened. He said, "So he said not to do anything?"

Sean nodded.

"Anything what, honey?" asked Gloria.

Sean struggled to remember. "He had something for
you, I think. Anyway, he said he'd tell you when he got
here."

Gloria regarded the pouring rain outside. "But he
didn't say when that would be?"

Sean shrugged. "He just said soon."

Gabbie ate silently. She had avoided responsibility for
the lack of a complete message by insisting on her right
to an uninterrupted bath. The boys were old enough to
write down messages. Her father had agreed in principle,
but he still looked irritated with his daughter. He had left
her in charge.

A knock on the back door was followed by Jack's en-
trance. He was dripping but smiling. "You ready?"

"Wait a minute," Gabbie said, jumping up from the
table. "We're running late tonight."

"We've got time. The movie doesn't begin for another
hour."

"No, you leave now," said Gloria. "With this rain I
don't want you rushing, and I know how Gabbie drives."

Gabbie ran from the room and up the stairs. Gloria re-
garded the dripping Jack. "Why in heaven didn't you let
her pick you up? Even with that slicker, you're
drenched."

Jack winked. "Because if I'd stayed at Aggie's, Gab-
bie'd have waited until the last minute to collect me,
and I know how she drives, too."

"I heard that!" came down the stairs.

"Gabbie says you're taking off for a few days," said

Gloria.

Jack unbuttoned his slicker. "First thing tomorrow.

I've got an old friend at Fredonia who's going to help me
organize my material, then prep me for my second orals,
week after next."

"This is it, then?" said Phil.

Jack nodded, betraying a slight nervousness. "If I get
past these orals, I advance to candidacy. My doctorate
won't be automatic, but it'll be just a matter of doing the
work right. But this is where they wash out the students
they don't think can cut it, the final culling of the herd."

"You'll do fine," commented Phil.

Gloria changed the subject. "Mark Blackman called.

He's in Germany."

"Germany?"

"If Sean heard right, he's been in Germany for the last
two weeks."

Jack looked confused a moment. "This all has to do
with the stuff in the basement, I guess. Germany? Fancy
that."

Phil said, "I guess." He put down his fork. "That still
doesn't clear up the mystery of what happened to Gary. I
expected him back a few days ago."

Patrick looked up from his plate, a guilty expression
on his face. "He's still in Seattle."

Phil said, "How do you know that?"

"He called."

"When?"

"Last week. I forgot to tell you. He said Mark had
gone to Germany from New York and he was going to
stay in Washington for a while."

"I think tomorrow I buy an answering machine." Phil
was caught between anger and resigned amusement.

"With five people living in this house, why isn't it hu-
manly possible to get messages. . . ?"

3

Gabbie jumped up at the sound of a car coming up the
drive. She let the book she'd been reading fall to the floor
as she peered through the window. Jack was barely out of

Aggie's car when she was flying down the porch steps to
leap upon him. He staggered back against the fender of
the car, dropping the book bag he had been carrying. He
held her up as she kissed him. When at last she broke
away, he said, "Hey. I've barely been gone a week."

She kissed him again, lingering and hungry. "It
seemed like a month." She said with a grin, "I'm so damn
horny, I can't believe it."

Jack returned the grin. "We'll have to do something
about that." She stuck her tongue in his ear, something
she had discovered made him absolutely crazy, and he
jumped and shivered. Quickly he disentangled himself
from her. "But not until tonight, you shameless hussy."

Over her mock pout he said, "Aggie's got some local
matrons over for tea. She's picking brains for her book
again. Unless everyone here's gone off somewhere?" he
hopefully asked.

"No such luck. The twins will be home from school in
an hour and Gloria's doing kitchen stuff. Dad's in play-
ing a game on the computer, though we're all supposed
to think he's hard at work." She pinched Jack on the
rear. "We could grab a blanket and sneak off to the
barn."

Jack jumped and laughed. "You are insatiable,
woman." He kissed her. "And those brothers of yours
have radar. They'd come rolling into the barn at the
worst possible moment. Besides, it's starting to get wet
and the barn roof leaks, and it's cold. Now, be good!"

Hugging him again, Gabbie grinned. "Good? I'm
great. You've said so yourself."

Jack laughed in resignation. A scattering of drops an-

nounced the arrival of a rainstorm that had been glower-
ing in the sky all day. "Let's get inside," Jack said.

She put her arm around his waist and they walked
toward the house.

In the den, Phil was hunched over before the com-
puter, concentrating hard on what he read on the screen.

After a moment he opened the bottom drawer of his
desk, pulling out a pencil and a legal pad. He consulted
his notes and typed in the instruction to return him to
where he left off last. Somehow, some way, he was deter-
mined to finish this and, without help from anyone, get a
perfect score of 400 playing Zork. He looked up and
smiled at Jack. "How are things?"

"Pretty good. I think I'm ready for my orals next

Tuesday. My friend Mike came up with questions I don't
think even Aggie could have thought of. Speaking of Ag-
gie, I thought I'd hang out here for a few hours before
going home. Her coffee klatch should be finished by
then."

"Good," said Gabbie. "We can put the time to good
use."

"What good use?"

"We've still got a bunch of trunks in the attic we
haven't opened. Let's go poke around and see if we can't
scratch up something interesting."

Jack said, "Toward what ends?"

"Who knows? Maybe we can find something that will
help out Mark and Gary when they get back." It was
already three weeks into October, and Mark and Gary
were still on their respective sojourns seeking insights
into the odd findings in the Hastingses' basement. "Gary
called a couple of days ago. He's bogged down with his
linguist friends in Seattle. And he's lost track of Mark
and wanted to know if we've heard from him."

"Lost track?" mused Jack. "That's strange."

"Gary didn't seem particularly distressed. He said

Mark often gets sidetracked while traveling. He must've
uncovered something diverting after he said he was about
to return. So I volunteered us to go snooping in the attic.

Anyway, it'll give us something useful to do this after-
noon."

Jack shook his head. "All right. You've talked me into
it, you silver-tongued devil."

Phil's attention had already returned to his computer
screen. "Have fun, you two," he said absently.

Gabbie said to Jack, "Come on, let's go into the attic
and poke."

Presenting an evil grin as they climbed the stairs, he
whispered, "You know that sounds dirty."

A short elbow to the ribs was her only answer as they
headed for the stairs to the attic.

4

It seemed impossible. If you tried to get through the gas-
filled room with a lit torch, you blew up, but if you put
out the torch and moved in the dark, the hideous grue
got you. Phil was diverted from the computer screen by
the sound of rain on the window. He glanced over and
discovered the sprinkle had become a steady downpour.

Then the sound of water striking glass was cut by Gab-
bie's and Jack's voices. He glanced at his watch and saw
he'd been playing for almost an hour and a half. Quickly
he saved his location in the game and turned off the com-
puter.

Jack entered with a roll of paper. "Phil, take a look at
this," he said.

Phil studied the paper for a moment. "It's a map of
the property." He noted the yellowish color and condi-
tion of the map and added, "And it's an old one from the
look of it."

Jack pointed to a title block in the lower right corner
and said, "Nineteen hundred and six, according to this.

That's about when Fredrick Kessler bought the prop-
erty."

Gabbie said, "The barn's in a different place. And it's
smaller."

"Must have had a new one built later," observed Phil.

He read the small notations and said, "It's certainly the
original plot plan for the property. There's no gazebo and
no tool shed beside the barn, and the drive heads off at a
slightly different angle." Something about the map both-
ered him, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was.

He looked up to see Jack studying him. Jack said,

"You too?"

"Something's funny about this map, Dad." Gabbie
shook her head.

"Yes, but what?"

"It's like something we saw already, but different,"

observed Jack.

"I don't recall seeing any maps of the property, except
at the bank when we bought this place, and those were
the little ones provided by the land title company."

Gabbie looked hard at it, as if by force of will she'd
make it yield its secret. Then her expression turned to
one of understanding. "I've got it!" she shouted.

"What?" asked Jack.

"Stay here and I'll show you." She ran from the room
and Jack and Phil could hear the basement door under
the stairs open. They heard her footfalls on the wooden
stairs to the basement, then the distant sound of the door
to the secret room being opened. In a moment she was
back with a parchment. "It's this odd thing we found
when we helped Mark." She unrolled it and they again
regarded the strange unmarked vellum with its odd lines
and circles. "Look at the seven lines at the right and look
at the underlined words on the map!" Her tone was ex-
cited.

Jack said, "Gabbie, you're a genius! It's an overlay.

Watch." Jack laid the translucent vellum atop the map.

"By pressing, you can see the map underneath."

Phil looked and said, "Barely."

"Maybe they didn't have onionskin paper back then,"

said Gabbie.

"Or they wanted something that would last a little

longer," said Jack. He pointed. "Look at these seven lines
on the right."

Each line on the vellum underlined a word of descrip-
tion on the map, part of a notation made by the records
clerk when the map had been filed at the turn of the
century.

"That coil of lines wraps right around the base of Erl

King Hill," said Jack. He moved the overlay and read the
paragraph below. It began, "From the median line of
county road 15, at a distance of exactly two miles south
of the junction of state road 7, to the point described as a
meeting of lines extending from. . . ." It went on
describing the property limits of the farm using geo-
graphical locations of the day. The word "to" had been
underlined. The entire paragraph was strictly pro forma
legal description, but the last line read, ". . . the prop-
erty commonly known as Erl King Hill," with the words

"Erl King" underlined, completing the message.

Gabbie read the seven words aloud. " To the home of
the Erl King.' What's that mean?"

"I think it's a code within a code," ventured Jack.

Gabbie and Phil looked at him questioningly. " "The
home of the Erl King' meant something to Kessler and
maybe some others, but . . . you know, in case someone
like us found the map and the overlay, we'd still not
know what it showed the location of."

Phil's eyes followed the long lines and saw that the
larger circle was located a half mile behind the house.

Pointing to the coil with circles design, he tapped it with
his finger. "What's that?"

Jack's voice sounded excited. "I don't know. But the
large circle is at the base of Erl King Hill." He looked at

Phil and Gabbie. "Know what I think?"

Phil said, "You think that's where Kessler buried his
gold?"

Jokingly Gabbie said, "What happened to 'X marks
the spot'?"

"That's a long shot," commented Phil.

"What else could it be?" asked Jack. "Why this much
trouble to mark one place on the side of a bald hill? And

this overlay and code business. There's something hidden
there."

Phil looked at the other lines. "What about this other
circle here?" He pointed to a smaller circle on the map,
located about a hundred feet or so to the east of the larger
one.

Gabbie moved the vellum aside and read a note on the
map. "That's where that big oak stump sits. See, here it's
noted as 'a lightning-struck oak, needing to be cut.' "

Phil grinned as Jack's smile faded. Phil shrugged. "If I
was burying gold, I'd put it somewhere I could find with-
out the map, like the base of an easy-to-find tree stump."

"Then what's this other circle?" wondered Jack.

Phil returned to his seat. "Maybe a covered well? Or
some other mundane thing a property owner might like
to know about."

Jack shook his head. "Not with all this other secret
bullshit going on, Phil. Look at all these weird lines and
things. One of these two circles is where Kessler buried
his gold. I'll bet on it."

Phil laughed. "Well, if you want to go digging, you
have my permission. Just fill in the holes when you're
done, okay?"

Jack smiled, half self-consciously. "Well, okay." To

Gabbie he said, "Come on, let's go take a look."

"In the rain!" she said in disbelief.

"We'll just poke around, nothing serious. All right?"

With a groan of resignation, Gabbie threw up her
hands and said sotto voce to her dad, "Watch him stop in
the barn for a shovel."

Gabbie followed Jack from the room and Phil sat
back, half-amused and half-curious. Maybe in a little
while he'd don his raincoat and go out and give Jack
a hand. He flipped on the computer and returned his
attention to getting through the gas-filled room without
blowing up.

5

"Dad!"

Phil was out from behind his desk and moving toward
the kitchen the instant he heard the excited tone in Gab-
bie's voice. He pushed open the door and halted when he
saw his daughter. Gabbie stood dripping wet, covered
in mud, while Gloria and the boys looked on in astonish-
ment. "You've got to come. We found something!"

"What?" said Phil, not believing what he had just
heard.

"Beneath the stump, like you thought. We poked
around there and found a hollow among the roots. Wa-
ter's been eroding the ground for years. Jack only had to
stick the shovel in and it collapsed. He moved the mud
around, and after digging less than a foot, he hit the top."

"Top of what?"

"I don't know," said Gabbie. "There's something
down there. We shined the light down there and Jack's
digging for it now. I couldn't tell what it was, Dad, but
it's big."

Phil said, "I'll get my coat."

Gloria said, "I'll get mine."

The boys were dashing toward the hall—where the
raincoats were hung—in an instant, and Phil halted
them. "Hey, where do you think you're going?"

"Aw, Dad," began Patrick. "We want to come and see,
too."

"Wrong. You guys stay here and watch TV or some-
thing, and listen for the phone. And write down mes-
sages!" he shouted after the disgruntled boys as they left
the kitchen.

Within minutes the three adults were hurrying across
the Troll Bridge. They discovered Jack digging at the
stump a short distance from the bridge. Phil studied the
hole Jack had dug. It had filled with water, and Jack

hastily dug at the side until a small channel was fash-
ioned to lead the water away. Then he knelt and shined
the heavy rubber-encased flashlight into a depression un-
der the stump. Phil hunkered down and peered into the
hole. A glimpse of an odd shape greeted him as the water
washed the dirt from atop something in the hole. For a
long minute Phil was silent, then he stood up while Glo-
ria and Gabbie regarded the hole.

"What do we do, Dad?" asked Gabbie.

"Let's see if we can wrestle this thing out." He mo-
tioned for Jack, who put down the shovel and knelt be-
side Phil. Together they reached in and each took a grip
on what felt to be a large wooden chest. They pulled, but
the thing wouldn't move. "Christ!" swore Phil. "This
thing weighs a ton."

Jack began digging around the box, while Phil played
the light over the chest. Soon Jack stood knee-deep in
mud as he moved shovelfuls up and over the edge of the
hole. Phil motioned for Jack to push away some dirt from
the front and said, "That thing's got a handle on it. Gab-
bie, there's a rope in the trunk of the car. Would you get
it? Jack, use the shovel to make a ramp in the mud." She
took the keys and ran off, while Phil shined the light on
the chest and Jack continued to dig furiously.

By the time she returned, Jack had dug out a smooth
ramp of dirt down to the chest, angling under the old
stump. "If it weren't for this rain," Jack observed, "this
would have taken hours." Still he was panting, and under
the hood of his slicker perspiration ran off his forehead
with the rainwater. "Let's see if we can pull it out."

They tied the rope to the metal handle closest to the
ramp. Phil and Jack pulled, and when no movement was
apparent at first, Gabbie and then Gloria grabbed hold.

They pulled, but the chest didn't budge. Jack yelled for a
halt and sat on the ground in the hole. He stuck the
shovel in between the chest and the ground. He then
jumped up and leaned on the handle.

"What are you doing?" shouted Phil over the now
pounding rain.

"Suction. I'm trying to break the vacuum between the
chest and the mud."

Phil nodded and stepped down on the handle, his foot
next to Jack's, adding his weight to the shovel. After a
long minute of the two of them putting their full weight
on the shovel, it moved. Phil barely avoided falling on
top of Jack and jumped back. Jack pulled out the shovel
and scampered out of the hole. He signaled the others to
grab the rope and they all hauled on it. The footing was
slippery, but after a long pull the chest moved slightly.

Then it halted. Jack said, "It's like the roots of the stump
are holding the box in place." He jumped back into the
hole and used the edge of the shovel to slash at the roots,
to little effect.

After a few minutes of futile hacking, Gabbie said,

"I'll get the ax from the barn." She dashed off and re-
turned shortly with both the ax and a hatchet. Jack spent
the better part of a half hour cutting at the roots atop the
box. Several loud clangs informed them there was metal
on the box.

Jack tossed the ax out of the hole and went at it with
the hatchet. After he thought a way out of the root tangle
had been secured, he said, "Let's try it again." All four
grabbed the rope. They moved in concert and slowly it
came out from under the stump. As it continued to slide,
momentum aided their efforts, and once it cleared the lip
of the ramp Jack had dug, it slid cleanly into view. It was
a wooden chest two feet on each side, fastened round by
two iron bands, with iron reinforcing at the corners. The
metal was brown with rust but still looked substantially
intact; silver glints peeked through scars formed by

Jack's ax blows. There was no apparent latch or lock,
simply an iron hasp over an iron ring. Without waiting,

Gabbie said, "What's inside?"

She knelt and opened the lid, while Phil shined the
light down on her. She lifted the lid, revealing the inte-
rior. Shimmering reflections danced from the golden
coins that nearly filled the chest to overflowing. Softly

Jack said, "No wonder it was so heavy."

Gloria said, "Shit! An honest-to-God treasure chest!"

Gabbie said, "Kessler's gold. It's real."

Then Phil began to laugh, and in a moment all were
whooping and hollering. After this short burst of enthusi-
asm, Gabbie said, "What do we do now?"

"I think we go back to the house and have dinner,"

said Phil.

Gloria looked up at her husband. "You think we
should tell someone?"

"I'll call Darren in the morning and have him start
looking up laws on property rights or mineral rights or
salvage rights or whatever the hell else it is that applies
here."

"Darren?" asked Jack.

"The family lawyer," said Gabbie.

"For all we know," added Phil, "we might have a

German national treasure here, or something someone
else has a legal claim on. So let's get it safe into the house
and find out. Until then we keep our mouths shut, and I
mean especially the twins. Now, come on. Let's get dry
and fed."

Jack pushed the mud back into the hole, causing it to
fill quickly. He then grabbed one of the two handles of
the chest, and he and Phil lifted. It was heavy but, free of
the mud's pull, manageable. They returned across the
bridge, heading back to the dry and warm kitchen at
home.

Among the trees two pairs of eyes followed their
travel. The tall figure held the small black one, cradling it
like a baby. Long fingers stroked the leathery hide of the
thing's stomach, then paused. With a sudden jab that
brought forth a squeal of pain from the small one, the tall
being with the mad eyes said, "Ahh! It is near!" The
sound was one of frustration. Gripping the black thing by
the neck, he spun it around to face him and said, "Soon,
my pet. Soon."

With a half toss, half slap, he deposited the little black
creature on the ground. The Bad Thing struck the mud
with an audible splash, but turned and rolled, scampering
to its feet, already moving to do its master's bidding. "Go
and watch, small one," he whispered, his voice an echo of

ancient breezes. "Go and keep it safe until the deed is
done." Then he threw back his head and howled in plea-
sure, his shrieks hidden by the rolling thunder in the
skies. Then, with a twinkle of light in the gloom, he was
gone.

6

The rain had halted the next day. As Phil hung up the
phone, he laughed, a short amused bark. "Darren wasn't
amused. He thinks I'm crazy. But he's going to look up
whatever information he can about lost treasure, as he
calls it, and he'll get back to us. He did say not to move it
until he gets back to us. Which should take a few days
because, as he puts it, he's got to waltz around with the

IRS and the police without letting them know what's
going on. Otherwise one or the other's likely just to seize
everything and let us go to court to get back any share
we're entitled to."

"Do you think it's safe?" asked Gloria.

"Sure. Jack filled the hole with mud, and after the rain
there'll be little sign of digging. Besides, how many peo-
ple have come tramping over that way since we moved
in? Just some of the boys' chums from school, and Jack.

No one knows the chest is in the basement. It'll be all
right down there for another few days."

Gloria sat on the couch opposite Phil's desk. Gabbie
and Jack hadn't come in from a ride, their first in over
two weeks, and the boys were off at school—after a long
lecture on not sharing the news of the gold with anyone.

Gloria said, "Do you think we should call Gary?"

"Sure, if I knew how to get a hold of him. Maybe I
could track him down through the University of Wash-
ington's Linguistics Department." Phil studied his wife.

"What's on your mind?"

Gloria sat quietly. "Phil, I'm scared. I mean down to
my booties scared. Stuff's going on around here that's

. . . impossible to explain. I don't know. But with what
happened to Gabbie, and all those things Mark and Gary
said about Kessler, and the way Ernie was killed. . . ."

Phil came from behind the desk and sat next to his
wife, putting his arms around her shoulders. "Look,
honey, there's a simple explanation for all this, I'm cer-
tain. I don't know exactly what it is, but I doubt there's
anything terribly menacing about it. Sure, the thing with

Gabbie was frightening, but Mark said she was coming
out of it with no apparent problems, and now she's got

Jack. That rapist is probably a thousand miles away by
now. And this mystery of Kessler and his buddies in Ger-
many? Well, I think it will all turn out to have—"

"I know, a perfectly rational explanation." She
crossed her arms. "Look, maybe somebody's going to
come looking for that gold."

Phil shrugged. "Why now? The house was empty for a
long time between when Herman Kessler left for Ger-
many and we moved in. Anyone who knew about the
gold could have waltzed in and dug it up without anyone
ever suspecting. Besides, who else could know about it?

I'm sure this is the gold Mark told us about, that Fred-
rick Kessler used to make those shady loans."

Gloria seemed unconvinced, but she halted her protes-
tations. Something gnawed at her, a deep sense of fore-
boding. Her thoughts were diverted by the arrival of the
twins, home from school. They wandered in and Phil
said, "Hi, guys. How were things today?"

They both shrugged in that shared gesture which indi-
cated it was nothing to talk about. Sean said, "Robbie

Galloway got sent home for tearing Maria Delany's
sweater."

Gloria tried to look interested, but her thoughts were
on her disquiet. Patrick said, "Ya, he was trying to tickle
her. He likes to tickle girls. The teacher says he's got to
have a talk with Robbie's father."

Phil smiled knowingly as Gloria threw her eyes heav-
enward. Under her breath she said, "Let's not have any
early puberties in this household, please, Lord."

Phil said, "Well, finding Mark's out of the question, so

I'll try to track down Gary, somehow, and let him know
what's going on." To the boys he said, "Does anyone
know where Gary's staying in Seattle?"

Patrick said, "Lupinski's."

"Who?" said Gloria.

"He knows this guy from college," explained Sean.

"He told us. The guy works for the SuperSonics. Gary
used to go to a lot of games with him. He said that's
where he got his neat jacket and that's the guy he stays
with." Almost guiltily he added, "I asked if he could get
us jackets like his."

Phil glanced at his watch. "It's noonish on the Coast.

I'll call Seattle information and get the SuperSonics of-
fice. . . ." He called and got the number, then dialed it
and waited until the ring at the other end was answered.

"Hello, may I speak to Mr. Lupinski, please?" He nod-
ded as he was put on hold. After a moment he said, "Mr.

Lupinski? My name is Philip Hastings. . . . How do
you do? I'm trying to track down Gary Thieus. ..."

Phil's eyebrows raised. "He is? Please." After a long sec-
ond he said, "Hey, Gary, how're you doing? I didn't
think I'd find you this easily."

He listened silently for a moment, then said, "No, ev-
erything is fine here. But are you ready for a shock? No,
nothing terrible, thank heaven. It's just that Jack and

Gabbie have uncovered Kessler's gold." He grinned at
the response on the other end, and even Gloria could
hear Gary's exclamation as Phil held the receiver away
from his ear. "No, I'm not kidding, old son. That odd-
looking piece of vellum you and Mark found was an over-
lay to a map Kessler had stashed in a trunk in the attic.

Jack and Gabbie simply went to where some marks on
the map indicated, dug a bit, and voila, gold."

He hung up with a chuckle. "He said, 'I'm on my
way,' and hung up. He'll call from Sea-Tac airport and
let us know when he'll be landing in Buffalo."

Gloria stood up. "I think I'll make a pot of tea. Want
some?" He indicated yes as she crossed to the door.

"Come on, guys, let your dad get back to work." The

boys moved past their mother into the hall. Standing by
the door, she said, "And, honey, thanks."

"For what?"

"For telling me everything's all right."

As she and the boys vanished from sight, Phil leaned
back in his chair and sighed. The twins exchanged
glances which asked what that was all about, but despair-
ing of understanding grown-ups, they decided to find
something entertaining to do and quietly left. Phil hoped
fervently that he hadn't been blowing smoke at Gloria
just to soothe her nerves. Since Gabbie's assault, he had
also been feeling something alien, something disturbing

. . . something impending.

He pushed aside those feelings, judging them nothing
more serious than being sensitive to Gloria's worries. He
turned his computer on, booting up the word-processing
package. Zork was put aside for a while, both because of
his frustration in not getting through the gas-filled room,
and because he had a notion for another book and
wanted to put some things down on paper. He chuckled
to himself at that last thought, considering the electronic

"paper" he was using. He put a fresh disc in the second
drive and began to write. Soon he was lost in thought and
caught up in the excitement of a new project begun.

7

Gary whistled in disbelief at the sight of the open chest
on the kitchen table, his tired eyes almost lighting up.

"I'll be damned." He had taken the red-eye in from Seat-
tle to Buffalo.

Jack, who had picked him up at the airport, said,

"Something else, ain't it?"

Gloria handed Gary a cup of coffee, saying, "I've got
to admit when you and Mark first told us all those stories
about Kessler and the rest, I half didn't believe it. But

with the junk in the basement and now this, well . . .

you've got to believe."

"Any idea what it's worth?" asked Phil.

Gary took out a coin and examined it. Years of rain
had deposited a slight silt crust on it, as the chest was not
waterproof. No one had touched the coins since they had
been carried two nights before. Gary washed the coin off
in the sink and dried it with a paper towel. His eyes
widened. He yanked the roll of towels off the holder and
began furiously cleaning the dirt off coins at random,
laying them out on the table. "I don't believe this."

Phil said, "What is it?"

"I don't know what half these coins are, but I recog-
nize a few." He pointed to a tiny coin resting upon the
paper towel. "This is worth maybe a thousand dollars to
a collector."

"Really?" commented Phil, beyond surprise at any-
thing at this point.

"It's a five-dollar gold piece, and the only reason I
know it's a collector's item is because of a term paper I
wrote in high school. I've seen some of these others in
textbooks." He held up a large coin. "Unless I'm mis-
taken, this is an imperial Austrian mark, from the late
nineteenth century. This one"—he indicated a rough coin
sitting next to the five-dollar gold coin—"is a Spanish
real, about seventeenth-century. And this little guy here
is an eight-escudo piece from"—he squinted at the faint
lettering—"Peru. Spanish colonial period." He shook his
head. "These few are worth easily ten thousand dollars or
more, Phil." As if suddenly weary, he pulled out a chair
from the table and sat down. He pointed to a coin that
was almost worn smooth. "I think that one's Roman."

"So all these have collector's value?" asked Gloria.

"I doubt if more than one coin in fifty in that box isn't
worth a lot more than the price of the gold used to make
it. Some, like this Roman baby, are maybe worth hun-
dreds of times their weight."

Suddenly the implication of what Gary was saying
sunk in. Phil's mouth opened. "My God. That means this
box is worth ..."

"Maybe a million," Gary finished.

"What do we do?" asked Gloria.

"I think," said Gary as he stood up, "you call your
lawyer back. Me, I think I'll go home to get some sleep.

I've got to call back to Seattle and give some more in-
structions to the guys and girls working on translating
those photocopies I gave them. I left in something of a
rush." He half smiled, fatigue evident on his face. Softly
he added, "And maybe Mark'll call again one of these
days. I'm not worried, but . . . well, I just wish I knew
what he's digging up in Europe."

"Yes," said Gabbie, from where she sat on the
drainboard. "What have you guys come up with on those
documents?"

Gary shrugged. He appeared to be weighing some-
thing, as if unsure what to say. At last he said, "Nothing
that makes a lot of sense yet. But pieces are starting to
fall into place. The best I can judge, Mark was right
about there being some sort of secret organization." He
seemed about to add something, but stopped.

Gloria noticed and said, "What?"

"Nothing, really," replied Gary. "I'm just tired."

Gloria regarded Gary a moment. "No, you were going
to say something. What?"

Gary sighed deeply. "Okay, just for a moment, sup-
pose there was some organization Kessler was involved
with. They might know about the gold. And they . . .

well, they might not like the idea of someone else's dig-
ging it up."

Color drained from Gloria's face, and she threw a look
at Phil as if Gary's statement refuted his reassurances of
only a few days before. "Maybe we shouldn't tell any-
one?"

Phil said, "That cinches it. I'm going to call the police.

I'll put this all in the police property room. Then I'll tell
the paper about the gold, making sure Malcolm Bishop
prints that all the gold is moved. If someone's after this
gold, they can try to knock over the police station."

Gary said, "Don't be rash, Phil." Phil's expression
showed his surprise at Gary's remark. "I mean, it sounds

good to me." He seemed to be forcing a lighter tone to his
voice. "You know, I gave up an exhibition game between
the Sonics and the Lakers to see all this. But it's worth
it." He grinned weakly. "I was coming home soon any-
way. I've got to take a trip up to Canada shortly—maybe

I'll leave tomorrow—to check up on some things Mark
asked me to look into on my way back from Seattle. So,
no rest for the wicked." He paused, the smile fading.

"Look, what I meant was that maybe your lawyer will
consider it rash to tell anyone about all this, even the
police. Maybe you should call him back?" Phil consid-
ered and Gary added, "Well, can someone drive me
home?"

Phil rose. "Sure, I'll get my coat."

Once outside the house, Phil said, "Something really
eating you. What is it?"

Gary opened the car door and got in as Phil slid be-
hind the wheel. He was silent a long time while he con-
sidered what to say. He was still struggling with what he
and Mark had uncovered in the last month. So much of
what they had learned was so utterly fantastic, so outside
the normal bounds of experience, that even Gary could
scarcely believe it. And he was fearful about Mark's ab-
sence. He decided to wait a bit before sharing more than
was necessary. Perhaps if Mark wasn't back when he re-
turned from Canada, then he might tell Phil what he
knew.

Gary looked over to discover Phil regarding him in-
tently. He said, "I didn't want to say anything in front of

Gloria. She seems a little ... on edge these days."

"Well, this stuff in the basement, and the gold ... it
all adds up to some pretty spooky possibilities."

Gary thought about the tape Mark had made, that
night in the woods, and for a moment wondered if he
wouldn't feel better sharing what he knew with someone.

He decided to stay with his decision to wait until after he
returned from Canada, and said, "I can't argue with
that." He let silence pass between them until Phil started
the car and put the transmission in gear.

As they rumbled down the drive toward the road,

Gary stared off into the distance. Finally he said, "I
didn't mean to upset Gloria back there, Phil."

Phil made a noncommittal noise.

Gary thought about whoever had almost ridden Mark
down and the mysterious youth who had saved him, and

Mark's claim that Jack's infected shoulder was the result
of his being elf-shot. There were possibilities here that
deeply disturbed Gary. He was silent until Phil pulled up
before the house he and Mark rented. As he reached for
the door, he said, "Well then, I'm off to the Great White

North tomorrow. If I discover anything that has a bear-
ing on the gold I'll call; otherwise I'll talk to you when I
get back."

Phil said good-bye and, the entire way home, couldn't
shake the feeling that the discovery of Kessler's gold was
destined to be more curse than blessing.

8

Gabbie sat at the kitchen table, attempting a rough orga-
nization of the coins. She constantly consulted a pair of
primers on coin collecting she had fetched from the local
library, which both lay open on the table beside her. The
largest pile was German coins, but many others were
mixed in. British, French, and Spanish coins from the
seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries
abounded, but some were much older. Gabbie held out
one. "This is Greek, I think."

Jack took it and said, "Look at the color. It's full of
impurities, almost red in places."

"Copper," said Gloria from the sink. "That's how
they make red gold."

"It's really old," said Gabbie. "And these look like

Roman over here."

Jack sat down next to Gabbie. "Someone's been gath-
ering this gold for a hell of a long time."

Phil entered the kitchen; he had returned from taking

Gary home and had walked into the house just in time
to answer the phone. "Darren called. He's flying out."

"Really?" said Gloria. "He must think this is impor-
tant stuff to get him out of L.A."

"Important enough he said not to tell anyone about it.

He'll be in Buffalo tonight. He's having a notary public
meet him at the hotel, first thing tomorrow. They'll be
here about ten. He says he wants statements under oath
from all of us. He says the best thing to do is to dump
this on the IRS, hold our breath, and wait. If no one else
has a claim, and there're ways of checking that out, he
says, then we'll get it all. We'll have to pay taxes, but
under the new tax laws we'll keep more than half. He
said otherwise the feds might simply take it and let us
bring suit to get it back, which could keep us in court for
years."

Jack said, "Half? That's still a lot of bucks."

"Do we call the IRS, or does he?"

Phil said, "He said, 'Do nothing, big en, little oh tee
aitch eye en gee.' "

Gabbie said, "Daddy, some of these coins are very
rare. There's a couple here that this book say are worth
twenty, twenty-five thousand dollars just for one." She
grinned. "This is something else. Now I know how those
guys who found Tut's tomb must have felt."

Gloria said, "Cursed." The others looked up with star-
tled expressions, and she said, "Just joking, folks." She
looked out the window at the deepening rain and won-
dered why she felt so empty. Somehow she couldn't share
in the others' wonder at discovered treasure. Something
stirred in the woods, a brief flickering of movement, and
was gone. For an instant she felt cold pass through her:

what her mother would have called "someone walking on
my grave." Then the feeling was gone, leaving behind a
residue, a strange mixture of foreboding and resignation.

Something was about to happen and she was powerless to
stop it. No one could stop it.

Among the trees, under the mantle of rain and wind,
they moved. The tall one with the mad eyes, who led,
stood closest to the edge of the woods. He looked down

upon the human home, with its metals and electricity,
and considered. To his companions he said softly, "Soon
they will move the hoard off this land, thinking to keep it
safe." With a grin, like the rictus of a death's-head, he
turned to face his followers. "Then shall we roam unfet-
tered once more." The sky spit lightning and boomed its
annoyance, and the glade was empty, as those who had
assembled only an instant before were suddenly gone.

They vanished into the woods, fading from view like the
drops of rain flowing into puddles in the mud.

9

For three days the Hastings house became a camp. Dar-
ren Cross, the Hastingses' attorney, had taken one look
at the gold and called in a private security agency. Two
somber, large, and intimidating men were brought in to
ensure that no unpleasant surprises occurred. One was
constantly walking perimeter around the house and barn
while the other stood quietly in the corner of the kitchen,
overseeing the work. At three in the afternoon, they
would be replaced by two equally somber, large, and in-
timidating men who were relieved in turn at eleven by
another pair who stayed until seven the next day, when
the first two returned. All six men were polite but taci-
turn, refusing to engage in conversation. Sean was con-
vinced they were CIA.

Darren Cross took depositions from the entire family,
including the boys, then packed the notary off with
healthy bonuses to ensure silence. He called in an ap-
praiser to develop as clear a picture of worth as possible,
as well as an inventory. The coin dealer had almost
fainted at the sight of the chest's contents. After only an
hour's examination, he had urged that a colleague be
called in, maintaining some of the coins were antiquities
and outside his expertise. Darren had acquiesced, but

only after making sure that security was not compro-
mised, which slowed things down considerably.

The two coin dealers had been housed in the boys'

room, at Darren's insistence, to minimize the chance of
the story's leaking prematurely. The boys were bunking
in their sister's room, while she was staying with Jack at

Aggie's. Now the two men had finished the tally and,
after several minor arguments, had agreed on the final
figures.

Cross, a fat, balding man who thought fashion began
and ended with the three-piece grey-pinstriped black suit,
sat in the living room, Phil at his side. Gloria sat on the
arm of the couch. Nelson Toomes, the first coin dealer
consulted, and Murray Parenson, the antiquarian, were
sitting in chairs on the other side of the coffee table.

Darren looked at the papers that summarized the find.

At last he said, "To all appearances, this is something of
a major find, I take it."

Parenson, thin and afflicted with a chronic nervous
smile, said, "That is certainly the case. Some of the coins
in Mr. Hastings's possession may be one of a kind. There
are sixteen that are unique. For that reason their values
are hard to determine—we'd only know their true value
after seeing what they'd fetch at auction. But despite
those small oddities, the bulk of the coins in question
have some clear historical value. That value varies from
trivial to profound, but there are fewer than a dozen
coins worth only slightly more than their gold weight.

Those are a few of the more common American and Brit-
ish coins minted in the early part of this century."

Toomes, the coin dealer, interrupted. "Those may not
have historical value, but they have collectors' value."

"What's the bottom line?" asked Phil.

"The bottom line is that you're a very rich man," said

Cross. "Before, you were simply well off. Now you can
retire if you choose."

"How much rich?" asked Gloria.

"We shall have to bump heads with the IRS. They will
treat this as found money, much like gambling winnings.

They will also closely audit the sales figures. And the
market will fluctuate slightly." He glanced at Toomes.

"Very slightly. There are not enough of a single coin,
same year and minting, to affect its market value in any
significant way."

"So, for the moment, we'll accept these figures." He
passed the paper to Phil and pointed at the bottom num-
bers.

Phil read, blinked, and reread it. Softly he said, "Two
million dollars?"

"And some change," said Cross. He pushed his glasses
up from the tip of his nose. "About three hundred thou-
sand dollars' worth of change. After taxes, closer to one
point four million. Though we can shelter a bit of it, and
set up a corporation for you and stick some more in a
tax-deferred pension. But you'll give almost a quarter to

Uncle."

Phil said, "How do we do this?"

It was Toomes who answered. "There are several ma-
jor firms across the country who can buy up to a million
on the spot. By setting up a syndication of four or five of
them, we could take the entire find off your hands for a
lump price. The other option is to sell on your behalf,
brokering for a fee. You might realize a small price ad-
vantage, but it could take a great deal longer, perhaps up
to a year to dispose of all the coins."

Gloria said, "Darren?"

"Sell it in a lump, Gloria. You'll lose less than 10 per-
cent by a quick sale, and regain that by investing advan-
tageously over the time it would take to sell it by the
piece. Also you'll have it off your hands and off your
mind."

"Can you do that?" Phil asked Toomes.

Toomes said, "I'll need permission to forward copies
of the inventory we've created, but we'll have no trouble
establishing a syndicate. We should be able to agree on a
price within a week and make an offer."

"There's no offer," said Cross. "You have the inven-
tory. We'll discount 20 percent for cash. For the sake of
simplicity, call the change three hundred thousand. We'll

ensure some provision for changes in the market over the
next ninety days—the period of time the police will insist
the gold be impounded pending any claim. Assuming no
such claim is forthcoming, on day ninety-one deliver a
check to my client in the amount of one million eight
hundred forty thousand dollars and you can send the

Brink's truck to pick up your gold. Otherwise, we'll pay
your appraising fee and contact your competitors and see
who else is willing to establish a syndicate. I assure you,
gentlemen, the more work I do, the higher the final price.

Should we go to auction, you know the end price will be
at least 30 percent higher than the price we will take
today. But you must agree now."

Toomes didn't look pleased, but he said, "That should
be acceptable, I expect."

Cross smiled a small, tight-lipped smile. "Anything
else, gentlemen?"

Parenson said, "There's the matter of those unique
coins I mentioned. May I urge you to consider withhold-
ing them from sale. By donating them to museums, you
could realize some tax advantage, and they'll be held in
trust for the public rather than buried in some private
collector's vault."

Toomes seemed on the verge of protesting, but Cross
cut him off by saying, "I see here that no value was estab-
lished for those coins, because of their uniqueness. It
seems, then, we were speaking of the value of the collec-
tion less those ... ah, sixteen coins." Toomes was
clearly becoming irritated. "We shall let you know, gen-
tlemen," Cross said. "If we choose to sell the coins, Mr.

Toomes, we shall ask a price adjustment. Otherwise, we
shall consider your suggestion, Mr. Parenson. Now, I
thank you for your good works, gentlemen, and I'll have
a car round to return you to the airport." He glanced at
his watch. "You should be leaving within ten minutes if
you're to catch your planes."

They left, and Cross said, "I depart tonight, Phil. I've
let far too much work go idle on the Coast while we've
played treasure hunter. I think all is well in hand here."

Phil said, "I don't know how to thank you, Darren."

"You don't have to thank me. You're about to pay for
my grandson's college education. And he will go to Har-
vard, I expect." Phil laughed. "Now I will go pack, while
you call the police. They will want to send a car, and you
will insist we bring the gold in ourselves. They shall send
a car and escort us as a compromise. We shall provide an
inventory and they will want their own property-room
people to match the coins to the inventory, which should
prove amusing. Then we shall have a final dinner, and I
will go back to California. These chilly nights are bother-
ing my arthritis." Without further remark, he trundled
up the stairs to pack.

Gloria said, "I'm glad it's over."

"You've been quiet all week, kiddo. Troubles?"

Gloria said, "It's been Alice in Wonderland time
around here for two weeks. And I'm worried about

Mark. He's been gone a lot longer than Gary expected—

Gary won't say so, but he's getting worried, too. I'm
afraid something may have happened. And I'm still wor-
ried about what Gary said."

Phil hugged his wife. "It'll all work out. Now we've
this gold business over, we can get back to normal. Loud
kids, leaky roofs, a wedding next spring—you know: reg-
ular stuff."

She sighed and hugged him back. "Hope you're right.

Oh, there's a school Halloween party the boys want to go
to. They need some permission slip signed."

"No problem." He stopped and thought. "Hal-
loween's only five days off, isn't it? We'd better stock up
on candy."

"Nope. No trick-or-treaters. Some trouble a few years
ago with bad candy, so now they have the school parties

—one at the primary school for the little guys and an-
other at the high school for the big kids. All we have to
do is deliver them and pick them up."

Phil said, "That's simple."

Gloria felt another chill of anticipation, the same that
had been troubling her since the gold had been found.

Shrugging it off, she said, "Well, we still have to eat.

Lunch?"

He smiled. "Thought you'd never ask." Phil slipped
his arm around his wife's waist and walked with her to-
ward the kitchen.

10

The police car's motor rumbled, being slightly out of
tune. The two officers were relaxed but alert as they ob-
served Phil and Jack lift the wooden strongbox into the
trunk of Phil's car. Moments later, Phil and Darren were
inside the car and it was crawling down the drive toward
the road. Gloria watched it pull away and turned back
into the house, closing the door behind her.

From the woods another pair of eyes watched the cars
as they moved along the narrow drive to the edge of the
property. Phil's car hesitated at the road as cars passed.

When the way was clear, it swung out into traffic and
picked up speed, the police cruiser following closely.

With a note of satisfaction, echoing menace, the
watcher in the trees whispered, "The Compact is bro-
ken!" With a spin and a glimmer, he vanished. His com-
panion, hanging from a bare branch above, watched with
glowing yellow eyes as the cars disappeared over the hill.

The Bad Thing didn't understand all its master's con-
cerns, for it was a simple creature, its intelligence blunted
over the years by pain and perversion. But it knew its
master was happy, and that was good. That was very
good. Perhaps now the master would let him have the
dog, or the girl, or better yet, one of the two boys. With a
slight sigh, and nursing odd visions of murder in its
twisted heart, the Bad Thing crawled up the side of the
tree, vanishing in the russet-colored foliage above.

THE FOOL

11

The twins tried to settle in and fall asleep, but couldn't.

The wind outside was making odd sounds. The weather
had turned cold and blustery in a way alien to them. It
was a mean and stinging wind, sucking warmth from the
body when it struck, despite the new quilted down jack-
ets purchased from Sears over at the mall. The wind
seemed to have started blowing within moments of their
father taking away the gold that afternoon. And there
was an electric quality to it, a sizzling hum as it tor-
mented the leaves and branches of the tree outside the
window. It made Sean feel as if he was holding his
breath, waiting for something to happen, as if something
was coming closer every minute and now almost upon
him. In the upper bunk, he absently rubbed the fairy
stone Barney had given him, comforted by its presence.

Putting aside his disquiet, he softly called his brother's
name.

"What?" came Patrick's sleepy reply.

"What you going to wear?"

Patrick knew Sean was speaking of the Halloween
party the following Saturday. In the chaos surrounding
the discovery of the gold, no one had talked to the boys
about costumes. Then, suddenly, Mom had remembered.

They were to have made up their minds by breakfast, and
no changing once decided, no getting upset because the
other's idea sounded better. There was a momentary
pause, then Patrick said, "Dunno. What?"

Sean understood his brother. "Pirate. Captain Billy

Kidd."

Patrick laughed. "You dumbass. It's Captain Kidd.

Billy the Kid was the outlaw."

Sean lay back staring at the ceiling, feeling slightly
embarrassed. "You know what I mean. What are you
going to wear?"

"I don't know," answered his brother, his voice be-
traying an odd irritation. "I was sort of having this
dream when you woke me up."

"You weren't asleep," replied his brother, refusing to
allow Patrick the opportunity to cast blame.

"Was too," insisted Patrick, but instead of pressing the
argument, he said, "In the dream I ... saw this guy in
a neat knight's suit. You know, armor and swords and a
horse. Maybe I'll go as a knight."

Sean said, "Dream?"

"Yeah, a creepy one. But the knight suit was neat. It
had these horn things, you know, like deers've got, on the
head. And the guy rode a neat horse. And he was shin-
ing."

Sean didn't answer. He had lain awake while his
brother had the dozing dream. But in Sean's imagination
he had seen the alien knight, despite his attempts to turn
his thoughts away from the figure. He had watched in
silent darkness as the figure had become more concrete in
appearance, more distinct every passing minute in his
mind. But Patrick was wrong about the dream, or vision,
as Sean thought of it. It hadn't been creepy. It had been
terrifying. Sean almost audibly sighed. Patrick was often
amused by what frightened Sean. The more timid brother
hid those things from Patrick, for it was the one area
where Sean felt inadequate. He might be more sensitive
than his twin, but like all children everywhere, he felt the
need to avoid being labeled different by anyone in his
peer group. There's nothing worse than being called

"wimp," "spaz," or "nerd" by your classmates.

The twins lapsed into silence. Soon Sean was in a half-
dreamy state, lulled in part by his brother's rhythmic
breathing as Patrick quickly fell asleep. But each time
sleep approached Sean, a change in the wind, an odd
noise—the house creaking, perhaps—something would
yank him awake again. For a long time this condition
persisted. Sean forced himself to close his eyes. For a

while he lay silent, attempting to sleep, but he only man-
aged a restless half-doze. The fluting wind outside her-
alded something approaching, getting closer by the min-
ute. Sean tossed fitfully, unable to rest, for each passing
minute the feeling grew stronger. Something was coming.

Sean's eyes snapped open and his little heart pounded
as he sensed the impending arrival of something terrible.

Then a gasp of fear jerked him rigid, as he was struck by
a suddenly overwhelming sense of danger. It wasn't com-
ing! It was here!

It was the same terror as the night the Bad Thing had
come into their room, but it was now ten times worse.

Sean lay frozen, afraid to look, barely able to breathe.

There was an odd sound in the corner, a movement, a
slight scrape of weight shifting against the wall, but it
also echoed with an overtone like music, alien and terri-
fying. Then the smell of flowers and spices reached Sean.

With a sharp intake of breath he pulled his covers up to
his face, peeking over to look across the room.

Someone stood in the corner.

Hidden in the darkness of the farthest corner, he was
motionless, but his outline could be faintly seen. Then he
moved slightly. A hint of silver-blue shimmers, like lumi-
nosity on a warm ocean tide at night, flickered across his
body, as if the act of moving released energies. Instantly
after being seen, the luminosity faded and the shape
faded into shadows, motionless, silent, and unseen, but
there.

Sean felt him there. Cold terror clutched at the boy's
chest. He fought to will breath into his lungs, so he could
shout, but sound lay beyond his ability. He could not
move. Time ceased to pass and in the boundless space
between moments he lay trapped, motionless, petrified by
the knowledge that something waited across the room,
unmoving, soundless, invisible, but its presence made
known by an aura so chilling it froze the boy's heart. And
it stood only three strides away. Sean's teeth began to
chatter and his hands shook as he clutched the blanket
under his chin. Then, with a sound little more than a
strangled sigh, the thing in the corner moved.

Sean could make out no detail of appearance; he could
see only the faint blue shimmer briefly across the thing's
body, as if dim phosphors were painted on a featureless
black mannequin. The silhouette was of a tall, thin man,
his body moving with the controlled flow of a dancer, his
muscles as smooth as unrippled water. Details of appear-
ance, color of hair and eyes, tone of skin, shape of face,
were obscured by either inky blackness or bluish glow.

All this was insignificant to Sean. He only knew the man
was there for the boys.

And he knew one other thing: This blue-glowing, dark
man was an evil far beyond the Bad Thing.

The dark man moved to stand in the middle of the
room, his face almost but, maddeningly, not quite seen.

The shape of his head was long, the chin somehow too
narrow, but no detail of eye or lips, hair or brow showed.

He laughed, a distant, wind-hollow echo, a sound from
ages past. Sean lay motionless, the covers pulled up to his
face, as his stomach knotted at the sound. He followed
the movement of the dark man as he slowly walked to-
ward the door near the head of the bunk beds. The boy
following with his eyes until the dark man was at the
limit of his field of vision. From the corner of his eye,

Sean suddenly caught a glimpse of a face. He turned to
look again and detail vanished, as if to look straight at
the man lost one the ability to see him. Sean sat up,
terrified that his movement had somehow betrayed him,
but unable to remain motionless. Still he could see only
the hint of a figure in the room. In silent fear, Sean
turned his head away. As he did so, the man's face reap-
peared for an instant. Sean tried to avert his eyes, as if
not looking would make the faintly glowing, spectral fig-
ure go away, but he couldn't. His gaze was trapped and
held by a terrible fascination. He sat motionless save for
his trembling, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his
teeth chattering. For an instant he could make out fea-
tures in the dim mask, as the man smiled. His teeth were
perfect, meeting in a grin like a skull's, seeming to glow
in the black face. And in that death's-head grin Sean saw

terror and madness come to steal Patrick and himself
away, before the features vanished again.

With a silent gasp, a gulping of breath, Sean flattened
his back against the wall, halfway between the foot and
head of the bed. He tried to close his eyes and will away
the vision, but couldn't. All he wanted to do was curl up
in a ball and hide in a warm safe place. But he could not
move. He was held motionless by something alien to his
child's nature. He was frozen by hopelessness.

The dark man stepped forward, closing the distance to
the bedside, as if to get a better look at the boys. Other
shapes moved at his feet, as if smaller creatures accompa-
nied him. Sean forced muscles locked with rigor to move
and slowly turned away, his cheek and side pressed
against the wall, watching the terrifying man from the
corner of his eye. "Patrick," he barely got out in a hoarse
croak. Then the man stood beside the bunk beds.

Softly, with a voice like a thousand whispers, the man
spoke. "Two." It was a hot summer night's breeze giving
voice to a word and that word was despair.

To Sean it felt as if a hand had reached into the pit of
his being and seized him in a searing grip that would
never let go. Then came the small, mad chuckle and

Sean's eyes watered with tears of fright. His stomach
knotted again, as if he was going to vomit, and he swal-
lowed hard, forcing back the sour taste rising into his
mouth. He wished nothing more than to scream for

Mommy and Daddy, but no sounds came forth. The
scream was trapped within, fighting to escape. He
couldn't take his eyes from the figure by the bedside. Seen
this close, the man was glowing, surrounded by a faint
nimbus of silver-white light, cut with blue energies, his
features still unseen. But now Sean could see the sugges-
tion of eyes in the black face.

The dark man bent down, a moment out of Sean's
view, and the boy felt an odd, cold stab in his chest, as if
the hand that had reached inside a moment earlier had
torn something precious from deep within. He knew the
man had Patrick! Sean felt the scream within battering
against whatever held it in check, frantic to get out. Sean

swallowed hard, his throat constricted in fear, and man-
aged to gulp down a breath of air.

Then the dark man rose up before Sean, Patrick lying
asleep in his outstretched arms. Suddenly the man shifted

Patrick, holding him cradled like a rag doll in his left
arm, as his right hand snaked forward toward Sean.

In a hoarse whisper, little more than a dry croak, Sean
said, "Mommy."

A whispering echo played in the room, mocking him
as it sang, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy," getting fainter
and fainter.

The faint, glowing hand hesitated and the dark man
withdrew it. In a harsh whisper he uttered a single word.

"Ward."

Sean gripped the fairy stone tightly, shaking his head
as he repeated his almost inaudible cry: "Mommy."

Again came the mocking echo, repeating the word over
and over, softly, quietly, offering no hope of being heard
outside the room.

The dark man, his ghost voice sounding like a thou-
sand fluting reeds in the wind, spoke. "Remove it."

Sean suddenly moved, his skin prickling with an alien
fever, as if this dark terror radiated heat. He scuttled to
the head of the bed, trying to get as far from the glowing
black figure as he could. He pushed himself as deep into
the corner as possible, his small feet scraping against the
sheets and covers. Tears ran down his face as his eyes
were locked, staring at the invader. Patrick nestled in the
man's arm like a kitten and his eyes were vacant, his
expression slack-jawed. He seemed without color, faded
to grey half-tones. "The ward, boy!" The voice was as
soft and quiet as before, but more commanding. When

Sean remained motionless, the dark man signaled toward
him.

Suddenly the Bad Thing sprang from the floor to the
foot of the bed. It scampered forward, to squat before

Sean. Large brown eyes, surrounding whites a luminous
yellow, were set in a face like a demented monkey's, with
the fangs of a baboon seeming to glow as it grinned at

Sean. Its body looked like a tiny man's, but with too

many joints in the too long arms and legs, and its skin
was a sooty charcoal color, like an ancient mummy's or a
bat's. It stank of things dead for ages, and its hot and
repulsive breath blew in Sean's face as it made slobbering,
sucking sounds. A taloned hand reached for the boy, but
hesitated.

Suddenly another figure leaped up from below, and

Sean's heart jumped. Patrick stood crouching upon the
foot of the bed. Then Sean saw that it wasn't Patrick, but
some evil caricature of himself! The boy was physically
identical to Sean, but was nude, and his head moved in an
odd fashion, much like a monkey's in the way it turned
one way and another as he regarded Sean. The doppel-
ganger absently played with himself as he watched Sean,
again like a monkey in the zoo. An evil leering grin was
fixed in place as he reached out to touch Sean. Like the

Bad Thing, when he came close to the ward he yanked
his hand away.

Sean's eyes were wide, whites showing completely
around the irises, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

His nose ran and his mouth worked silently. The crea-
tures seemed to struggle against something as they
reached toward the fairy stone around the boy's neck.

Once, twice, three times in turn, each tried to grasp the
ward, only to halt scant inches away. At last the Bad

Thing turned to face the dark man and spoke. Its words
were twisted, a mockery of human speech, slurred and
thick, as if the tongue were the wrong size and the mouth
filled with cotton. "Master. Hurts." The false Sean's
mouth opened wide and he hooted, a mad monkey sound.

Sean's tremble turned to more violent shaking, a near-
uncontrollable palsy throughout his body. His skin
burned with a poison fever. A miasma of evil washed
over him, filling his nostrils, forcing breath from his
lungs, choking him, threatening to drown him in mind-
less panic. Sean's jaw worked as he struggled to cry for
help, but all that came forth was short, pitiful yelps, al-
most inaudible against the wind howling outside.

Sean saw the Bad Thing turn to regard him once

more, and again the clawed black hand came forward, as
if to touch him.

For a terror-torn instant, Sean's mind sought to flee
his body, and he felt himself almost lift from the bed by
force of will. Like an overwound watch spring, the ten-
sion became too much to endure. Like a captive animal
crashing the bars of his cage, he sought escape and, find-
ing none, redoubled his fury. Again the Bad Thing
reached toward the boy, and withdrew his hand. Sean
whispered, "Mommy."

The strangled note of a tormented violin mocked him
as the Bad Thing grinned and repeated the word.

"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy," it sang, its breath filling

Sean's nostrils with the stench of decay, its face set in a
happy mask, as if something in that word amused or
pleased it. The mock Sean mouthed the word as the Bad

Thing sang it, but the sound produced was an animal
grunt.

Then the dark man leaned close, until his face was
scant inches from Sean's. Suddenly he was alight, in an
intense glow that hurt Sean's eyes. And for the brief in-
stant of that shining brilliance, Sean saw the face of the
man. Eyes, set in deep sockets, locked with Sean's and

Sean felt his mind twist, as a long, low, pain-filled sound
at last escaped the boy's lips. For in those eyes Sean saw
lightning dance, as electric-blue orbs sought to burn his
soul. A beauty so pure it was terrifying greeted Sean in
that instant, something alien, beyond the ability of the
human mind to accept. And in that instant Sean wanted
nothing more than to give up all will and go with the
man, and in that rush of unexpected longing came a de-
sire so concrete Sean's body rocked. For that desire was
something he was not ready for, something reserved for
changes not yet come, when love and tenderness turned
to passion. But now it struck Sean with a wanton heat, a
hunger so intensely sexual that his body could not inter-
pret his desires. Sean found his child's penis stiffening
unexpectedly, while his body shuddered and his skin
prickled with chill bumps. Perspiration poured off his
body, soaking his pajamas. He looked over at his false

twin and found a leering creature squatting a few feet
away, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he fondled
himself, rocking from side to side, a reflection in a be-
fouled glass made solid. The evil twin's eyes were wide
like Sean's, but, rather than terror, his expression was
one of perverted, inhuman desire.

Sean's heart pounded in his chest and he could endure
no more. His bowels contracted, and his tiny erection
vanished as his bladder emptied. His stomach spasmed as
if a knot were pulled tight. And in that instant of blinding
light, of adult longings shocking his child's body, of beau-
tiful passions twisted to black lust, Sean knew a thing. It
was a thing that he had thought he had known before,
when the Bad Thing had first come to their room, or
when Patrick had been swept away in the storm. But
those encounters had been but grey shadows compared to
this ultimate black. The thing Sean knew was horror. It
had passed through him and surrounded him, and now it
was made solid. And it stood before him in the guise of
the being he would ever after know as the Shining Man.

That recognition triggered the release of all that was
trapped inside.

Sean screamed.

Beyond anything he would have dreamed possible, he
screamed, a sound to pierce the soul. He screamed so
loud that it seemed his mother's voice was answering
before the sound had finished echoing down the hall to
the stairway.

Time froze for Sean, and a dozen images came crash-
ing in upon him. The light about the Shining Man van-
ished, returning him to darkness surrounded by a faint
blue glow. He moved, and Sean glimpsed his face from
the corner of his eye. For an instant Sean saw an inhu-
man expression of hate so evil and demented that nothing
in the world could frighten the boy after seeing that. Sean
continued screaming. The Bad Thing tumbled back,
away from the sudden sound, unsure of what to do, while
the false Sean rolled backward with a monkey's shriek, to
fall out of sight, landing at the foot of the bed.

Sean could see the Shining Man holding Patrick in his

arm like a baby doll. His brother seemed pale, without
color. Sean's screaming continued. From the hallway he
could hear his parents calling his name and his brother's,

Gabbie's voice asking what was wrong. Bad Luck was
scrambling up the stairs, his bark challenging anything
that would harm his family. Sean continued to scream.

The Shining Man again stepped toward Sean, reaching
for him. He snatched his hand away, as if conceding Sean
was beyond his ability to capture. A hollow sigh of resig-
nation was followed by the distant voice saying, "We will
meet again." Then came a laugh so chilling it punched
through the scream.

Sean knew despair.

The Shining Man retreated into the corner. The Bad

Thing and the false Sean scurried to stand at their mas-
ter's feet, while the Shining Man held Patrick in the
crook of his arm as if he weighed nothing. The remaining
glow around him faded, and gloom drank all sight of the
four figures in the corner.

Then the room light blazed into being and Gloria
stood in the door. She froze for an instant as she saw the
dark creatures crouched in the corner beneath the man
figure that held one of her sons in his arms. All were still
shadows, as if the room light couldn't quite vanquish the
murk. Then the dark figures were gone. Gloria paused in
mid-step, blinking in confusion, not believing her senses.

The instant passed. Gloria shook her head slightly, as if
clearing her vision. She glanced down to see Patrick still
in his bunk, asleep, as she moved to the bedside. Reach-
ing for Sean, she said, "Honey! What is it?"

Sean shivered and quaked, unable to control himself.

He had wet the bed and filled his pajama bottoms. His
eyes refused to focus. His mouth was wide, the jaw flex-
ing as his throat-tearing shriek continued, saliva running
down his chin, and his body was drenched in sweat. His
breath was sour with fear. He could only make one
sound: the scream.

The scream became reality for Sean. It was something
tangible in a world twisted to insubstantial insanity. He
could hide within the scream, cover himself in it, wrap it

around his family and shelter all within its folds, shaped
and molded into a safe place to hide. His throat was raw,
and his body ached with tension and pain where fear
tried to seep through the skin like a thick burning poison,
but the scream continued, reassuring and real. It filled
the room, surrounding him and his family with a con-
crete barrier, as real as wood, or stone, or steel. The
scream went on and on, for Sean knew that the moment
he stopped, the Shining Man and his companions would
come back and get Sean's mother and father and Gabbie.

Phil entered the room and came to the bedside; Gab-
bie stood in the doorway, her expression one of alarm as

Phil knelt by the lower bunk. Gloria reached out to
touch Sean, but the boy pulled away, as if trying to
crawl deeper into the corner. "Sean! What is it, baby?"

Her voice rose, as if her disorientation at what she
had glimpsed as she entered the room was being com-
pounded by his terror. "Baby, what is it? Please stop
screaming. It's all right." Her eyes were brimming and
her face reflected the pain and the fear she felt within
him.

Sean wanted to tell her it wasn't all right, and he knew
his mother understood it wasn't all right, she was only
saying that; he could see that in her face, but he knew he
couldn't stop the scream to tell her. If he stopped, they'd
all be trapped by the Shining Man. All he could do was
point at the corner, point and scream. He pointed and
tried to make them understand. His right hand pointed
and his left pounded the wall, to make them understand.

He rocked back and forth and shook from side to side,
hitting the wall to make them understand. Gloria stood
with her hand poised halfway to her son, made helpless
by something beyond her ability to comprehend. In her
son she saw torment visited upon the innocent and she
stood powerless to help him. Sean screamed.

"Oh my God!" cried Phil, and Gabbie gripped the
doorjamb, her knuckles whitening.

"What!" demanded Gloria, almost jumping with
fright at his tone.

"Patrick's unconscious. He's burning up with fever.

Oh God. Gabbie, call the hospital and tell them we're
coming." Phil bundled Patrick in a blanket and carried
him down the hall.

Gloria forced herself to reach out and touch Sean, and
said, "He's burning up, too." Spurred by the need to care
for her son, she ignored the wet blanket and the soiled
condition of his pajamas and swept the still-shrieking boy
into her arms, gathering the blanket around him. Letting
the urgency of the moment banish from her memory the
confusing, frightening sight that had greeted her at the
door of the boys' room, she raced down the hall after her
husband.

Gabbie hurried back into her room and grabbed the
receiver off the phone by her bed, dialing the operator,
asking to be connected to the hospital emergency room.

From outside she heard her father's car starting up, then
the tires spraying gravel as he sped down the drive. And
into the night, seemingly long after she stopped hearing
the car, Gabbie could hear Sean screaming.

12

The emergency room staff was ready even before Phil's
car had halted before the hospital entrance. Phil held

Patrick's limp form while Gloria carried Sean. He had
not stopped screaming the entire way to the hospital, but
his throat was worn to the point where he could manage
only a faintly scratchy, hoarse sound. The E.R. staff's
professional detachment was unexpectedly reassuring to

Gloria, as if whatever was wrong with her boys was only
an interesting problem to be solved, nothing to get ex-
cited about. The boys were placed on examining tables.

Each boy had two nurses beside him. The young doctor
in charge, a thin man with a slight New York City accent,
listened to the nurse reading vital signs while he ex-
amined the boys. He ordered a mild sedative to calm

Sean, then became alarmed when the nurse read him Pat-
rick's temperature. "One hundred six."

In calm tones he said, "Okay, it's spiking. Let's get
him monitored and bring that sucker down."

A nurse wheeled over a digital thermometer and in-
serted a rectal probe into Patrick while another began
rubbing him down with alcohol. The LED readout on the
thermometer's display showed 106.2. After a few minutes
it rose to 106.4. "Doctor," said the nurse in a calm, pro-
fessional manner. "It's going up."

The young doctor glanced at the machine, nodded
curtly once and said, "Right; let's pack him in ice."

They picked Patrick up and put a rubber sheet under
him. A male nurse brought out two large buckets of ice
and began putting handfuls around Patrick, while an-
other nurse held the rubber sheet to keep the ice from
spilling from the table. When the ice was covering Pat-
rick, she folded the sheet across his body. The doctor
turned away from Patrick to examine Sean. Gloria said,

"What are you doing to Patrick?"

To Phil the doctor said, "Why don't you take a seat in
the waiting room and I'll be with you in a minute." When

Gloria seemed ready to argue, he said calmly, "Lady,
we've got a couple of very sick kids here. Let us take care
of them, all right?"

Phil guided his wife from the room and they sat on a
vinyl-covered couch. The only sound beside the soft
voices of the emergency room staff was the whir of a loud
electric clock on the wall. Phil glanced at it and saw it
read twelve-twenty in the morning. Phil's fog of concern
was pierced by the realization that Gloria was trembling.

Gloria kept her eyes upon the emergency room, where
strangers worked quickly to save her children, but her
mind's eye kept seeing a remembered image, a strange
momentary flicker of darkness in the corner of the boys'

room when she had first entered, and the certainty, for
just an instant, that Patrick had been in the corner, sur-
rounded by that darkness. She couldn't put that image,
or the feeling that somehow it was something dimly re-
membered from her own childhood, from her mind. She

sighed and steeled herself against the doctor's confirming
her worst fears, that somehow her boys were lost to her
forever.

Phil reached out and gathered his wife to him, letting
her rest her head on his shoulder. He attempted to reas-
sure her with a squeeze, but both knew there was no
reassurance for either of them this night. They settled in
to wait.

13

Jack passed coffee around. He and Gabbie had arrived
twenty minutes after Phil and Gloria. Gabbie had called
over to Aggie's and he had come at once. He had scouted
out a coffee machine and brought a cup for everyone.

Gloria's sat cooling before her as she leaned forward in
her seat, motionless, eyes fixed upon the door to the E.R.

A half hour after Jack and Gabbie arrived, the young
doctor came from the emergency room, a file under his
arm and a mug of coffee in his hand. Gloria almost
jumped to her feet. "How are our boys, Dr. . . . ?"

"Murphy, Jim Murphy, Mrs. Hastings." The doctor
sat opposite them in the waiting area. He sipped the cof-
fee, and Gloria suddenly became aware she was the only
one standing. She sat as Dr. Murphy opened the file and
said, "The boy who was conscious—"

"Sean," supplied Phil.

"Sean," continued the doctor, "was pretty agitated.

But besides a high fever—with no obvious cause—we've
found nothing wrong with him. We've sedated him and
are moving him to the pediatric ward. If nothing turns up
in a day, he can come home. The other boy"—he glanced
at the file—"Patrick, is another matter. He had a spiking
fever, over a hundred six and . . . well, we've got it
down, but we need to watch him closely." Even as he
spoke, two orderlies were wheeling Patrick out of the

E.R.

Gloria watched the gurney roll out of sight and said,

"Where are you taking him?"

There was a note of panic in her voice that made the
doctor look at her a long moment before answering.

Softly he said, "We need to watch him very closely. We're
moving him to intensive care."

Immediately panic was apparent in Gloria's eyes. "In-
tensive care! My God, what's wrong!"

The doctor attempted to be reassuring. "Mrs. Has-
tings, Patrick had a very high fever. We've lowered it to
around a hundred and one degrees, but we're keeping it
there for a while. With a very high fever, the body often
loses its ability to regulate its own temperature. We just
want to watch Patrick closely for the rest of the night as a
safety measure." He glanced back at the forms Phil had
helped the admitting nurse fill out. "The truth is we
don't have a clue to what is wrong with your boys. We
can rule out a lot of things just due to their not having
any complaints before bedtime. It might be some odd sort
of food poisoning, but the rest of you weren't affected."

"Dr. Murphy, the boys were fine at bedtime," said

Phil.

"I know, Mr. Hastings. My guess is we've got a pretty
rugged virus that hits hard and fast. But until we get
some lab work done in the morning, we are only guess-
ing. All we can do now is make the boys comfortable,
stay alert, treat them symptomatically, and begin work
first thing tomorrow. And the rest of you should take it
easy. If it is a virus, something they picked up at school,
it may hit you as well in the next few days. If any of you
start feeling poorly, at the first sign of a symptom I sug-
gest you check back here at once. If it's a virus, it's a
nasty customer."

Gloria seemed unable to move or speak, her eyes wide
with an almost panic-stricken look. She seemed to shiver.

The doctor said, "Ma'am, we're doing everything possi-
ble." She didn't speak, managing only a tiny nod. The
doctor said, "I'm going to write out a prescription for a
tranquilizer, Mr. Hastings. I think it might be a good
idea for you and your wife to each take one tonight. We

won't even begin to have a picture of what's going on
until tomorrow afternoon."

Gloria leaned heavily against Phil, who said, "Thank
you, Doctor."

The doctor rose and crossed to the nurses' station,
where he scribbled on a prescription tablet. He handed it
to Jack. "You can fill this at the pharmacy in the front
lobby. They're open all night." Jack hurried off. The doc-
tor said, "You folks really should go home. I'm afraid
this may take a long time. You should count on Patrick's
being here for a few days at least."

Gloria leaned against Phil, her head on his shoulder.

She closed her eyes a moment and again saw the image of
the darkness in the corner of the boys' room. A faint
memory of a sound, like wind chimes in the distance, and
a vague spicy smell of flowers were recalled, and for an
instant she felt a stab of panic.

Gloria stood disoriented, as if trying to focus her vi-
sion. Phil saw the panic in her eyes. He held tight to her
hand and said, "It'll be all right, honey. They're doing
everything possible."

Gloria seemed not to hear her husband. She looked
wildly around the room. Suddenly she let out an an-
guished cry. "Patrick!" She moved forward, as if to run
toward the ICU. Gabbie and Phil restrained her, and her
voice held a hysterical note as it rose in pitch.

The doctor yelled to the nurses' station for a sedative,
which a nurse quickly produced. He injected the frantic

Gloria, and within a minute she lapsed into a half-dazed
state. Jack returned with the prescription and took in at
once what had occurred. The doctor said, "I think you
should all get home and salvage whatever's left of a
night's sleep. And before you come back, you might do
well to take one of those pills I prescribed, but have
someone else drive you."

"Thank you," said Phil. He said to Jack, "See Gloria
and Gabbie get home, will you?"

Gabbie put her hand upon her father's arm. "Dad?"

"I'm staying."

The doctor was about to protest, but something in

Phil's eyes caused him to relent. "All right, I'll pass word
to the nurses on the Peds floor that you're allowed to
spend the night in Sean's room. But the ICU's off limits."

Phil looked as if he was going to object, but the doctor
said, "That's not negotiable. No visitors in the ICU
longer than ten minutes and then only during visiting
hours. No exceptions, Mr. Hastings."

Phil agreed and sent Gabbie and Jack off with his wife.

He thanked the doctor and took the elevator up to Pedi-
atrics, noticing from the directory on the elevator wall
that the ICU was two floors below. He checked at the
nurses' station and was told that Sean was in room 512.

He went there and found Sean asleep in a semiprivate
room. The other bed stood empty.

Phil leaned against the railing of the bed. He looked
down at his little boy's face, and in Sean's face he saw

Patrick's. He hid his eyes and began to weep. Through-
out his life Philip Hastings considered himself a rational
man, one who had had to deal with the craziness of a first
wife with a capricious nature and a career in a field where
abrupt and unpredictable changes were the norm. He had
thought himself a man able to cope with the unexpected.

But this was bringing him to his knees.

Never comfortable with displays of strong emotion,

Phil struggled to pull himself together. He considered the
empty bed for a moment, then decided against it. Some-
thing about using a hospital bed repulsed him. He
crossed to the large chair next to Sean's bed and settled
in. Within a few minutes the late hour and emotional
fatigue took its toll and he drifted off to an uneasy doze.

Phil felt himself adrift in a grey landscape, a place of
half-light dotted by lightning-shattered black trees, a
murky and lifeless forest where shadowy figures moved
just outside the range of his vision. Odd-sounding whis-
pers, almost understandable, tantalized with their near
familiarity, but comprehension eluded him. Then a dis-
tant voice called to him. It was Patrick! He could hear
him calling, "Daddy!"

Phil sat bolt upright, heart racing, as the calm voice
on the hospital's public address system repeated its mes-

sage. He blinked, found himself bathed in a cold sweat,
and shook his head to clear his foggy brain. The voice
again repeated its message. "Code Blue, ICU. Dr. Mur-
phy to ICU, stat."

Phil was moving past the nurses' station before the
duty nurse could speak to him. He passed the elevator
and took the stairway down, two steps at a time. Two
floors below Sean's room he pushed on the crash bar of
the large door and entered a lobby. Double doors pro-
claimed he stood before the ICU and that admittance was
restricted. He pushed through and found himself next to
a nurses' station composed of six sets of monitors, oppo-
site a glass wall through which he could see six beds.

Over one a group of doctors worked furiously, while a
nurse charged out to intercept Phil.

Without apology, she roughly grabbed him. "Sir, you
cannot stay here."

Phil, half-numb, allowed himself to be pushed back
through the doors by the small woman. Outside he said,

"What . . . ?"

"The doctor will speak to you as soon as he's able."

She hurried back through the doors and left Phil alone in
the waiting area.

An hour later Dr. Murphy came out and sat down
before Phil. "Mr. Hastings. . . ." He paused. "Look,

I've never been good with bedside manners, so I'll just
come out and say it. Patrick's had what we call a cardiac
episode."

"A heart attack?" said Phil in disbelief.

The doctor looked fatigued. "Not quite. A mild fibril-
lation. It's under control, and we're watching him
closely. The boy's body has undergone a lot of punish-
ment in the last six hours . . . and sometimes things like
this happen. A lot of the body's regulatory functions get
fouled up."

"But he's okay?"

"As far as the cardiac part is concerned, I think so.

There are some tests down the road we can do to deter-
mine if there's been any permanent damage to the heart
muscles. But. ..."

"What?" said Phil, feeling a dread certainty something
terrible had taken place.

The doctor rose. "Come with me, Mr. Hastings."

Phil followed the young doctor back into the ICU and
saw another doctor and several nurses standing in the
hall between the nurses' station and the beds, watching
the displays above Patrick's head with rapt expressions
on their faces.

With a note of fatigue in his voice, Dr. Murphy said,

"Mr. Hastings, Patrick's fever was terribly high and
lasted . . . who knows how long? I'm afraid we may
find some pretty serious neurological damage."

"Neurological?" Phil whispered, as if the word was
alien, the meaning unknown.

"Brain damage, Mr. Hastings," said the doctor, obvi-
ously finding the words distasteful.

Phil's eyes closed as he winced at the words. "How
badly damaged?" he asked quietly.

The doctor shook his head. "Normally, I wouldn't
think he'd make it."

"What do you mean, 'normally'?"

Dr. Murphy pointed to the array of machines attached
to Patrick. The screens were alive with dancing lines,
flipping around at a frantic rate. "See those monitors,

Mr. Hastings?" Phil nodded. "They tell us what's going
on with Patrick, moment to moment."

He crossed to one screen next to the bed. "This is an
electroencephalograph, an EEG." His finger pointed to
three jagged lines on the screen, moving furiously. "If

Patrick were brain-dead, these would be flat."

"Then he's all right?" said Phil.

Murphy said, "Mr. Hastings, I'm only a second-year
resident. Right now I don't know my own name. I've
never seen anything remotely like it—and I doubt our
resident neurosurgeon has either. This is as far removed
from a normal brain wave pattern as anything I've seen
in any text on the subject. Right now I can't even begin
to tell you what's happening with your son."

"Is Patrick all right?"

Murphy crossed back to Phil's side, took him by the

arm, and steered him back toward the door to the waiting
area. "Mr. Hastings, I don't have the faintest idea." He
took Phil outside.

Phil sat down and looked at the doctor. "What do we
do?"

"First thing tomorrow, I'm going to call in Dr. Win-
gate, he's head of service in neurosurgery. He may be
able to figure out what's going on, but beyond that I
don't have a clue."

Phil sat back. After a minute he closed his eyes. The
doctor sat there a long minute at his side. Then a call
sounded over the public address, announcing another
emergency in E.R. Dr. Murphy stood up. There was
nothing more he could do here.

While Phil sat numbly outside, one of the ICU nurses
glanced through the glass at Patrick's bed. For a brief
instant she could have sworn she had seen a flicker
around the boy, as if some sort of energy had glowed
forth, then faded. She chalked it up to the frantic Code

Blue and fatigue, and all the weird displays. She glanced
over at Patrick's monitor screens, duplicates of the ones
in his room, and shook her head. If anything went wrong,
how would she know? The screens were unreadable. She
looked at her watch and saw she would be off in two
more hours; then it would be someone else's headache.

She returned to filling out her half-hourly reports.

In the bed behind the glass, beneath the white sheet,

Patrick's feet moved, an imperceptible flexing of muscles
as if, in a dream, he was dancing in glee, and a tiny smile
creased the corners of his mouth for an instant. Then the
movement stopped.

14

Gabbie stood in the doorway, looking down at her father
as he sat staring at Sean. Jack had dropped her off at the
entrance while he went to hunt up a parking place. She

had arrived a moment before. She looked over her fa-
ther's shoulder at the sleeping boy, who moved restlessly.

Finally she said, "Dad?"

Phil looked up and Gabbie felt as if her heart were
about to break, seeing the pain in his eyes. She hurried to
his side and knelt. Gripping his hand, she said, "Dad?"

With a voice made hoarse by emotion he said, "Hi,
honey."

Gabbie's eyes brimmed with tears, for without his say-
ing anything else, she knew something terrible was hap-
pening with Patrick. Gabbie fought grief for a long, silent
time, until Jack quietly entered the room.

As if by signal a nurse arrived to inform them there
were too many people in the room. Something in her
manner triggered Gabbie. Like fury embodied, the girl
stood to confront the nurse and snapped, "Where's the
doctor?" She kept her voice low, but her tone was sharp.

The nurse, a veteran of many a tragic scene, was nev-
ertheless caught off balance by the girl's sudden, angry
tone. She backed off a step. "I'll have Dr. Murphy paged

. . . miss."

Jack came up behind Gabbie and said, "Patrick?"

Gabbie only nodded her head slightly, and she felt

Jack tense as a sad and resigned sigh escaped from his
lips. Shortly after, Dr. Murphy appeared. Gabbie spoke
softly, but there was no hesitation as she asked, "Doctor,
is my brother dead?"

Dr. Murphy glanced past her at Phil, who nodded.

The doctor motioned for Gabbie and Jack to join him in
the hall. Outside of the room, he said, "No, Miss Has-
tings, your brother isn't dead. He suffered a terribly high
fever last night, which seems to have done something odd
to his higher brain functions. Right now we've got him
hooked to a battery of monitoring devices, but to be hon-
est, we don't have a clue to what's going on with your
brother."

"Is he going to be all right?" Gabbie demanded.

The doctor seemed uncertain for a moment. "Miss, we
just don't know yet."

Gabbie stood as if struck. Then at last she softly said,

"When will you know?"

"We're having Dr. Wingate, our very best neurosur-
geon, look at him right now. He's very sharp. He'll . . .

level with you and your dad. I noticed that Patrick had
been admitted for some cuts a while back and you indi-
cated John Latham was your doctor. He'll be here
shortly and I'll speak to him first thing. They'll come talk
to your dad."

Gabbie nodded as she glanced through the door at

Phil. He sat staring at Sean's face, seemingly oblivious to

Gabbie's conversation.

With a sick feeling inside, Gabbie said, "Thank you,

Doctor." She went to her father's side, leaning over to
hug him.

Dr. Murphy watched her and for a moment consid-
ered what a stunning young woman she was. Then, put-
ting aside a momentary flash of interest, he considered
the presence of the attentive young man. To him he said,

"She's something."

Jack said, "Well I know, Doctor," as he left to follow
her.

In Sean's room, Gabbie sat oblivious to the discomfort
of the chair arm she perched upon as she hugged her
father tightly. Jack came up beside her and put his hand
upon her shoulder. No words were spoken. All they
could do was wait.

Two floors below, a nurse glanced through the glass
partition at Patrick. As she looked away, she caught a
glimpse of movement and quickly looked back. The boy
lay exactly as he had since she had come on duty, but
somehow she had thought, for a moment, that he had
moved. Imperceptibly, perhaps, but she couldn't shake
the feeling that he had moved. She glanced at the read-
outs from Patrick's monitors, but the chaotic displays
were still unreadable. Shrugging off the feeling, she mut-
tered to herself, "Too many years to be getting jumpy. I
think I need a vacation."

In an alien land, Patrick struggled to hear a distant
voice. His mother's? Then the voice faded and his atten-

tion returned to his surroundings. So strange, he thought.

The black trees and the distant stars, the fragrances on
the warm wind. Thoughts came like light fighting
through a dim and heavy fog; Patrick knew something
was wrong, but he didn't know what, and in an odd de-
tached way, he really didn't care. He let his mind
wander, and soon the voice was forgotten.

15

Dr. Theodore Wingate examined the printout from the
computer with the data from the monitoring station at
the ICU. Dr. Latham stood behind the neurosurgeon
while he examined the fanfold paper. Dr. Murphy was
with Patrick.

Phil sat with the doctors in Wingate's office. Gabbie
and Jack were due to arrive soon to pick up Sean, who
was going to be released today. Gloria was home, under
sedation, being looked after by Aggie.

Wingate had a rough manner, all grumbles and com-
plaints, but Phil had quickly seen through him: Teddy

Wingate was a considerate, kind man, a competent neu-
rosurgeon who put on a constant show of being beset and
put upon by everyone he met. But behind the bluster was
a warm person who had everyone on a first-name basis
within a minute of introduction. He put down the read-
outs and pushed up the small Ben Franklin glasses that
had migrated to the tip of his nose. He had a roundish
face and his hair was prematurely white, which set off his
ruddy complexion. He seemed to be constantly struggling
inside his rumpled suit to find a comfortable position. In
a soft voice he said, "Phil, I don't know what this all
means."

Phil sighed. He found this uncertainty oppressive, and
with each passing hour he found himself becoming in-
creasingly impatient. "What do we do?"

"We wait," said Wingate softly. "Phil, Patrick under-

went a severe fever, which damaged his brain in some
way." He glanced at the readouts. "Apparently, higher
functions are scrambled. His brain activity is ...

unique. I can't even tell you what's making his heart
pump and his lungs breathe. He's over that cardiac crisis,
but why he's even alive. . . . Phil, I don't know what
the hell I'm talking about. It may be there was some sort
of brain . . . short circuit that will sort itself out. It may
be he's . . . gone for good. But I just don't know. I can't
begin to guess what we're looking at with these readouts.

I'm sorry."

"What am I to do?" Phil asked in a hoarse whisper.

"What the rest of us are doing: wait," said John

Latham. "You'd better go home, Phil. You need the
rest."

Phil nodded mutely. He knew he'd have to face Glo-
ria. But what could he tell her? Phil had not known her
father, who had died two years before Phil met Gloria,
but conversations with Gloria and her mother had
painted a pretty detailed picture of him, both before and
after the cancer had been diagnosed. A powerful, larger-
than-life man, one who took pleasure in vigorous
pastimes—camping, riding, hunting, sailing, a man who
had taken up long-distance running at the age of fifty—
that man had been reduced to depending upon strangers
to hold his bedpan while he cried in pain, and shame. It
was more than Gloria could manage to talk about her
father's death. And Phil knew the thought of Patrick's
being helpless was a terror that far overshadowed death
in her view of things. Steeling himself for the painful
ordeal, Phil started to rise. "You're probably right. . . ."

He was going to say good-bye, but suddenly the enormity
of this not knowing struck him. He collapsed back into
the seat with a wounded cry of pain, an agonized sob
from the depth of his broken soul. "Oh my God! He's just
a baby!" Dr. Latham reached out and held Phil's shoul-
der, trying vainly to add whatever comfort he could. Sud-
denly Phil's crying turned into a tormented question.

"What am I going to say to Gloria?"

After a long, painful time, Wingate said, "Go on
home, Phil. I'll call your wife if you like."

Phil shook his head, looking up with red eyes. He
suddenly seemed self-conscious. Dr. Latham took a box
of Kleenex from atop the desk and handed it to him.

Phil blew his nose. "No, Teddy. Gabbie and Jack are
coming. . . ." He glanced at a wall clock and said, "Shit.

They're probably here by now, waiting outside." He rose,
slightly wobbly.

Dr. Latham motioned him back to the chair. "I'll get
them."

"No, I'd better be the one." As he moved toward the
door, Phil said, "Thank you, both of you."

Dr. Wingate said, "Phil, I really wish there was some-
thing we could do. Truly I do."

Phil left and both doctors seemed to let go of some-
thing, to sag a little now that the grieving father was
gone. Dr. Latham said, "Never gets any easier, does it?"

"No," Wingate answered quietly. "When I was a resi-
dent, we had a brilliant intern rotate through our service.

The kid was so damn smart he made me feel stupid—no
easy task, as you know. When he had finished rotation,

I tried to sell him on joining our service the following
year. I remember his answer. He said, 'Neurosurgery? I
didn't become a doctor so I could watch my patients
die.'"

Nodding in understanding, John Latham said, "Truth,

Teddy. That's why I'm happy to be just a G.P. Well, I've
rounds," and he moved toward the door. "I'll see you—"

Suddenly the door opened and Dr. Murphy stuck his
head in. "You'd better come quick!"

Both doctors followed Murphy through the hall to the
stairs. Even the stout Wingate ran up the stairs to the

ICU. Pushing through the doors, they were greeted by a
raucous, animal-like shriek. Patrick was sitting up in
bed, an evil grin on his face, hooting and yowling. He had
torn off his hospital gown and sat in bed, one hand
clutching his groin. With the other he was rubbing a dark
substance in his hair, while he laughed maniacally. The
sensors from the various monitoring devices had been

pulled off and cast aside; now they dangled from the ma-
chines.

One of the nurses stood by the door, while another
furiously cleaned off the front of her white uniform. Win-
gate looked to the nurse with the towel and said, "Nancy,
what happened?"

With a look close to murder, the young woman said,

"I was checking the leads to the machine when he woke
up. The screens were impossible to read, so I didn't have
any warning."

As Wingate went in to examine Patrick, Murphy said,

"What's that all over your uniform?"

The nurse said, "Shit. Can't you tell from the delight-
ful odor?"

Dr. Latham said, "He did that?"

Fighting to retain some vestige of professional poise,
she said, "I felt something grab my right breast and
looked down. He was awake and had defecated in the
bed. He was rubbing it on my breasts."

Latham's expression was open disbelief. The nurse's
voice had modulated to something almost calm, but her
expression was openly wrathful. Latham couldn't imag-
ine what could have caused this strong a reaction. Nancy

Roth was a trained, experienced nurse and had dealt re-
peatedly with the nastier side of nursing. She'd had to
clean patients before, been vomited upon, had blood spat-
tered on her. Nothing as mundane as excrement would
cause a tenth part of the distress and anger she exhibited.

"What else?" he asked.

The woman's eyes remained controlled storms of rage.

"I pulled away and the . . . patient," she said, "was
masturbating." Her voice softened, and her tone turned
from anger to confusion, and her expression turned to
distress. "And he gave me a ... look."

Murphy and Latham both glanced through the glass
partition to where Wingate and another nurse were at-
tempting to examine the shrieking child. The nurse con-
tinued her narration. "Doctors, I don't know if I can tell
you. . . . I've been looked at. ... Doctor, he had an

expression on his face that . . . it's nothing you should
ever see on a kid."

Both doctors turned to watch the nurse. Dr. Murphy
said, "Nancy, what do you mean, a look?"

"He looked like a sailor at a topless bar. No, it was
worse." Her manner became less angry, more confused.

"It was an obscene look." She glanced at Patrick, then
averted her eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if
she was embarrassed. "I know he's just a kid, but . . .

it's like he was ready to fuck." Both doctors exchanged
questioning glances. Waving her hand in resignation,

Nurse Roth said, "I know. It's impossible. But . . .

something's not right. The patient. . . . Doctors, I don't
know what it was. But it was sick. And he tried to grab at
me when I tried to restrain him." She blew out her
cheeks as she sought to control herself. "I ... he
reached up right between my legs . . . like some filthy
degenerate. Uh!" The last was a sound of pure revulsion.

She tossed aside the towel. "I've got to change."

"Go on," agreed Latham. The nurse left as Wingate
returned. To Murphy he said, "Find Phil Hastings before
he goes home." As the young resident nearly ran from
the room, Wingate shouted after, "And for Christ's sake,
tell him to get ready for another shock." Wingate and

Latham turned and watched Patrick through the glass of
the ICU, as the shrieking, howling child struggled with
the three nurses who were attempting to clean off the
excrement he had rubbed all over his body.

16

Phil stood before the door in the psychiatric ward, wait-
ing for Gloria and Aggie. With the news that Patrick was
revived had come hope reborn, then dashed again.

Through the small glass window, Phil could see Patrick
sitting on his bed, again naked, since he tore off any
clothing that was put upon him. He sat rocking back and

forth, holding his penis, while he hooted and shrieked, all
the time with eyes fixed on the television on the wall high
up and across from his bed. The television was behind
safety plastic, so all the food and excrement Patrick had
thrown at it had only managed to coat the plastic with a
multicolored mess that seemed to detract little from Pat-
rick's enjoyment of the program.

Phil felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to Gabbie
behind him, with Jack at her side.

Teddy Wingate and another doctor entered the ward
and came up to Phil. "I've given the charts over to Dr.

Webster, our head of service in psychiatry."

Phil shook hands. "What's happened to my son?" he
asked.

Dr. Webster replied, "It's too early to tell, Mr. Has-
tings." Seeing Phil's dissatisfaction with that answer, he
said, "I think Patrick's brain damage has left him with a

. . . baby's mental function. A sixth-month-old or so."

Phil sagged against the door, ignoring the sounds com-
ing through. "What can we do?"

Webster looked over the chart. "We'll do more testing
and see what we can do about mitigating some of this
violent behavior. Look, I'll talk to you later today, all
right?"

Webster turned away without waiting for Phil's reply
and moved through another door. Gabbie turned to her
dad and said, "I don't like him."

Wingate said, "Peter can be abrupt, but he's good."

Seeing the doubt on Gabbie's face, he repeated, "Really,
he is good."

Gabbie said, "I want to call in a specialist."

"Who?" asked Wingate without embarrassment.

"Who's the best?"

Without hesitation, Wingate said, "Michael Bergman,
down at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. He's done more
work in odd brain dysfunction than anyone. And he's got
this prototype magnetic response imager, which will give
you a lovely color picture of what's going on inside Pat-
rick's head. This puppy's portable, or at least two strong
men can carry it. It's the first one smaller than a room."

"He's the best?" said Gabbie.

"For this weirdness," said Wingate, "no doubt. I met
him once at a conference. He's one very sharp customer."

"Then I'll get him."

Murphy smiled. "You can get him to come here?"

Gabbie nodded. "You just watch me. Can I use your
phone?" Wingate nodded and led Phil, Jack, and Gabbie
from psychiatry. Once inside Wingate's office, Gabbie sat
behind the desk, reached over, and picked up the re-
ceiver, dialing the outside operator. She instructed her as
to billing and waited as the phone at the other end rang
several times. "Helen? Gabbie. I need to speak to John."

After a moment Gabbie's features clouded, and she said,

"Then interrupt the meeting. This is vital." The voice at
the other end started to say something, and Gabbie said,

"Don't fuck with me, Helen. My little brother is very sick
and I want John on this line in sixty seconds, or you can
start looking for a new job in sixty-one. Clear?" In less
than a minute she said, "John? Gabbie Hastings. Listen,
do we have a company plane anywhere near Baltimore?

In Washington? Good, have someone tell the pilot to fly
to Baltimore as soon as possible. I want—" After a mo-
ment she said in icy tones, "Now listen: My little brother
is very ill and I want a plane to fly a specialist here as
soon as I track him down." Again came a response.

"Screw the stockholder. I own 51 percent of Larkercorp
and if I want to use a company jet for personal reasons,
then I damn well will. The corporation can bill me, if you
think that will keep the board happy. Now, please have
the pilot alerted, and as soon as the doctor is there, I
want him flown to Buffalo. No, the airport here can't
handle a jet. I'll have someone ready to pick him up. The
man's name is Dr. Michael Bergman, at Johns Hopkins.

Use someone at Larker Foundation to get to him. He's
got some sort of a prototype machine. . . ." Wingate
spoke and she repeated, "A magnetic response imager.

We need that here, too. Pay him anything, John, or get
him a million-dollar grant or something. Just get him
here." She gave him the particulars of where she was and

Dr. Wingate's name. A short silence passed, and she said,

"Thank you. Oh and, John, sorry about the meeting. And
tell Helen I'm sorry about being such a bitch."

She hung up. "He said he'll take care of it. Now we
need to wait for Dr. Bergman's call."

Jack said, "I'm impressed."

"It's just money, Jack. Nothing to be impressed with."

She smiled faintly.

Dr. Wingate said, "Can you get him a grant just like
that?"

"Grandfather and Grandmother established the

Larker Foundation for all kinds of research. I'm sure I'll
have no problems getting a grant." She sighed and re-
turned to sit next to her father.

Wingate said, "I've some papers to push, so forgive me
if I'm not social while we wait." Less than a half hour
later, the call came.

Wingate answered at once. "Dr. Bergman? You don't
remember me, but we spoke briefly once. ..." He
smiled. "Well, I'm flattered you do. Look, what we've got
is one pretty sick little boy, and he's got the damnedest

EEG's I've ever seen, and some very odd behaviors; it's
just weird enough to be of interest to you. If what I've
read is accurate, it might be just the thing for that new
magnetic imager you're working on." He listened. "I
know it's a prototype, Dr. Bergman. But don't worry
about its breaking. The kid's got a rich sister." He
winked at Gabbie. He listened, then said, "No, she wants
you to fly here. He's too . . . violent to risk moving.

She'll have a plane waiting for you and your equipment."

There was a long answer, then Wingate spoke again.

"Now, how long? Good, see you then." He hung up. "I'll
be go-to-hell. He'll be here tomorrow."

Phil looked at his daughter with an unreadable expres-
sion. Softly he said, "Thanks, honey. I don't know
what—"

She cut him off. "It's okay, Dad." She fought against
tears and barely held her own. "Patrick's my little
brother."

Phil said with a faint smile, "You know, for a minute
there you sounded just like your Grandmother Larker."

Considering Dr. Murphy's observation the day before,

Jack said, "I bet she was something, too."

Phil said, "That she was. That she was."

Dr. Wingate said, "Well, Gabbie, you realize that
should our Dr. Bergman break his toy along the way,
you're buying him a new one?"

She said, "If you can help Patrick, I'll buy you both a
new one."

Wingate grinned. "I'll remember that, pretty girl, I'll
remember." Standing up, he said, "I'll run along. I've got
patients to see to. Use the office as you like."

Gabbie turned to her father, reaching across the space
between the two chairs to hug him. "It'll be all right,

Dad."

With a soft near cry of pain, he said, "God, I hope
so."

Gabbie nodded to Jack that she wanted a moment
alone with her father. Jack nodded back and left the
room. When they were alone, Gabbie said, "Dad, will
you go home for a while? You're exhausted. And Gloria's
been really stressed out. I don't know what's going on,
but she's said some pretty weird things. She'd feel better
if you were with her, I think. When she comes to get

Sean, go home with her."

Phil said, "I'm afraid to, Gabbie. I ... I don't know
why, but somehow I feel like I'm needed here." He
looked at his daughter through red-rimmed eyes and
whispered, "He needs protecting."

Gabbie's eyes narrowed. She began to say something,
but a faint echoing memory intruded, a hint of chimes
and music and the almost recalled scent of flowers and
spices. She felt herself grow flushed, and stood up. Saying
nothing, she gripped her father's shoulder and squeezed.

Then she leaned over and kissed his cheek, ignoring the
stubble. Putting her face beside his, she could feel the
warmth of a tear between her cheek and his. Whose it
was she didn't know. "I love you, Dad," she said softly.

"I love you, too, kitten," he whispered. Without fur-
ther words, she left her father alone, knowing that his
feeling about Patrick's needing protection wasn't just an

emotional reaction to the child's illness. Somehow there
was danger, danger around them all, and it hadn't fin-
ished manifesting itself. Gabbie had felt it and Gloria
knew it, and now her father sensed it as well. Jack stood
waiting out in the corridor and she came to him, and
without words he took her in his arms. For a moment she
felt safe and she wished that feeling would endure.

Gloria and Aggie came into view and Gabbie hugged
them both while Jack opened the door and informed Phil.

He kissed his wife and said, "Sean seems fine. They can't
find anything wrong with him and he can go home now."

Gloria, looking drawn but otherwise composed,
seemed to pick up at that news. "Good. Patrick?"

Phil took his wife by the arm, leading her past the
others, who followed a short distance behind. He took
her up the stairs one flight, then down the long corridor
to the psychiatric ward. Before he took her to the door of

Patrick's room he said, "You've got to be strong, honey.

Patrick's changed."

Gloria's eyes grew wide. "Changed?"

"He's had some . . . brain damage."

With an animal cry, Gloria turned to push past her
husband, and thrust open the door. A nurse on duty a
distance off began to protest the unauthorized entry as

Gabbie shouted, "Get Dr. Latham!"

Phil, caught off guard, was slow in reacting and en-
tered as his wife rushed to Patrick's side. The nurses had
attempted to clean him up, but he had urinated in his bed
and the room reeked with the ammonia odor. He sat
holding himself, rocking back and forth, watching the
television. He turned to face his parents and the look on
his face froze both in their tracks. There was something
so alien on his features that they could not bring them-
selves to cross that last few feet. Phil reached out and put
his hands on Gloria's shoulders, and she cried out, "Pat-
rick!"

Lying in the soft darkness, Patrick heard the distant
voice again and for a moment felt a note of alarm. Then it
fled as the dark servant returned. Patrick's thought be-
came diffused again as he settled back into the dark flow-

ers that surrounded the master's bed. A few of the others
there stirred fitfully, slumbering through the day until
night fell in the world of light and it would be time to go
again and play. For the first time since coming here, Pat-
rick felt a strange sense of pleasure at that prospect. Then
a thought intruded. There was something about outside.

. . . The thought vanished as the dark servant settled
into the blooms next to Patrick. The boy considered the
sick-sweet odor of the dark one and noticed it was not as
repellent as he had once thought. As sleep returned, Pat-
rick wondered at that, and at how quickly he had ac-
cepted the creature he had once called the Bad Thing as
his companion. The dark creature reached around Pat-
rick, its clawed hand resting lightly upon the boy's stom-
ach, and for the first time Patrick felt an odd comfort in
the touch of the leathery skin. And for the briefest instant
he wondered at the familiar voice that had roused him.

17

Phil hovered outside the examining room. No one said
anything as long as Phil stayed out of the way. Everyone
knew the torment he felt as he watched through the small
glass window. It was now noon. The doctors had been
working over Patrick most of the morning and were fin-
ishing the last of the tests they had begun. Gloria was at
home with Sean, who showed every indication he was
recovered from his illness. The boy had insisted that his
nightmare had been real, something about a shining man
and a bad thing. The story seemed to unnerve Gloria, but

Phil knew it was only the product of fever delirium. Now
the nearly exhausted father waited to hear the latest on

Patrick. Phil absently wondered what had happened to

Gabbie and Jack, then recalled they had undertaken the
shopping for Gloria, as well as mailing some bills Phil
had left on his desk, and would return shortly to the
hospital.

Patrick lay strapped down to an examining table, in
the room set aside for Dr. Bergman's magnetic response
imager. The four doctors, Wingate, Bergman, Latham,
and Murphy, with a pair of male nurses and two techni-
cians, watched lines dance across graphs on three large
color screens and several smaller monitors. Patrick
looked tiny in the midst of all the machinery around him,
his face a contorted mask of anger barely seen for the
sensor ring that looped around the head of the table. He
shrieked and hooted like a demented monkey while the
orderlies kept him from pulling at his restraints and in-
juring himself. Phil felt his stomach knot each time he
witnessed these displays. His baby looked like some alien
thing in there, and there was nothing Phil could do to
help him. For an instant Phil was revisited by the image
of the first night, of Patrick caught in some distant, dark
place. Phil took a deep breath, and for the first time in
the nine years since he had quit—since Gloria's preg-
nancy—he wished for a cigarette.

Phil could see the doctors speaking but couldn't hear
what they said. He looked at the back of Michael Berg-
man, who insisted everyone call him Mickey. Bergman
was a dashing man in his fifties, wearing an expensively
tailored Italian silk suit under his hospital coat. His hair
was styled, a dapper steel-grey, and he sported a small
mustache. He moved around the machine to examine a
dozen sensors attached to a large metal ring that encir-
cled the examination table and Patrick's head. He traced
the lines back to the machine and made sure everything
was plugged in properly. Before he moved away, he
couldn't resist gently running his hand over the child's
cheek, a grandfatherly impulse. He snatched it away,
barely in time, as Patrick tried to bite it.

At last he came to the front of the console and studied
the graphs. After a few moments he motioned the other
doctors outside, while an pair of burly orderlies began to
unhook Patrick from the restraints.

Bergman and Wingate, followed by Murphy and

Latham, left the room. Phil said, "Well?" expectantly.

Wingate said, "Come along, Phil. We need to talk."

"I've got to check on some other patients," said Mur-
phy to Phil. "We've had an unexpectedly hectic time in

E.R. the last two nights. I've been playing hooky so I
could watch the interesting stuff."

As he began to leave, Phil said, "Dr. Murphy? I. ...

Just thanks. And you didn't flunk bedside manner."

The tired resident managed a wan smile. "One can
only try, Mr. Hastings." He looked past Phil to where the
usually voluble Dr. Wingate stood patiently waiting with

Drs. Bergman and Latham and gave Phil a reassuring
squeeze on the arm. "Believe me, Bergman's the best
there is. If anything can be done, he'll do it." Phil nodded
in agreement as Murphy left.

Phil accompanied the doctors to Wingate's office.

Teddy Wingate heaved himself into the chair behind the
desk, and Phil and Bergman also sat. Dr. Latham stood
near the door.

Bergman sighed. "Phil. I have had many hundreds of
cases in the last twenty years. Now you've handed me the
strangest case I've ever seen." He waved at the printouts.

"These make anything else I've seen look downright nor-
mal."

"What is it?" Phil asked, reluctant to assume any-
thing, lest he find hope again crushed.

"According to my brain response imager . . . your
son doesn't have a brain."

Phil couldn't bring himself to speak. Bergman said, "I
just ran a bunch of tests to make sure nothing got busted
in transit, and the machine's fine. But according to my
readings, nothing remotely normal is happening inside

Patrick's skull."

"What do you mean?" asked Phil at last.

The doctors exchanged glances. "I don't even know
my name today, Phil," said Wingate. "The EEG shows
all the same garbage we've gotten all along. But Mickey's
machine shows no electrochemical brain response to
stimulation." He tapped his glasses upon the desk top.

"Either one of the two machines is lying, or we've some-
thing here that begs all rational explanation."

Phil looked confused. "I ... don't understand."

Wingate said, "Mickey?"

"My imager shows you what's happening in the brain,
electrochemically. The field of nuclear medicine has been
making strides in a lot of areas, and recently we've been
working hard on magnetic resonance imaging. Most
magnetic imagers are great for showing soft tissue, quite
a bit better than X rays, in fact, with none of the risks.

My particular machine is a variation that maps chemical
shifts in those soft tissues. It's an analog computer image,
a re-creation based on energy state changes being tracked
through the brain. If you were to watch the screen while

I clapped my hands loudly next to someone's ear, you'd
see a color shift indicating the brain's response to the
stimulus. We're presently mapping dozens of volunteers
at Johns Hopkins, trying to develop a catalog of 'normal'

responses. Someday we'll use this machine and others
like it to identify trouble spots in the brain before they
become life-threatening."

Teddy Wingate chimed in, "And to diagnose other
things, like epilepsy, learning disorders, maybe even psy-
chosis-inducing brain dysfunctions and autism."

"Maybe. But now we're just beginning," finished

Bergman. He leaned back. "What we have so far is a
general diagnostic tool. We can look at someone's brain
responses and say, 'This guy falls into the range of nor-
mal responses,' or 'outside of the normal range.' We can't
yet say, "This fellow's developing Alzheimer's,' or 'This
child's dyslexic.' At least, not for a long time.

"Now, EEGs measure electrochemical impulses, using
sensors on the head. My machine actually tries to track
what the chemical changes are. With Patrick, the EEG
shows us that something's going on; at least, there's
enough energy being picked up by the sensors to screw
up all the graphs. But my imager says there's nothing
chemical going on inside Patrick's head. One says the
brain is working, in a unique, messed-up sort of way, and
the other says there's nothing inside his skull. If my ma-
chine is right, either Patrick's got a vacuum tube full of
electricity between his ears or he's dead." Almost bitterly

he added, "And for a corpse he's certainly loud. I don't
know if I can explain it any better."

Wingate said, "You've heard the expression, The
light's on but nobody's home'?" Phil nodded. "Well, this
is as close as I've seen to that being the case."

Bergman said, "Phil, it is impossible for Patrick to be
breathing and have no brain chemistry. Even if his higher
functions were totally burned out by the illness, leaving
only the brain stem functioning—a Karen Anne Quinlan
kind of thing—we'd still track a lot of brain chemistry.

So we have to assume my machine is busted—despite all
my diagnostics saying it's fine—and that Patrick has suf-
fered some sort of gross brain damage, which explains all
these unexplainable EEGs." He looked at some of the
printouts left on Wingate's desk and said, "Though what
the hell these mean is beyond me."

"That doesn't make sense," said Phil.

"Right," said Wingate. "It doesn't make sense. We've
a patient who's given us nothing like normal reactions to
what he's been through."

Phil said, "What can you do?"

"Watch him," said Wingate. "I'd like to keep him here
a few more days, then we can talk about moving him to a
fully equipped, long-term psychiatric facility."

Bergman nodded. "I'm going to stay here awhile.

Maybe when I've watched him for a few days longer, we
can begin to make sense of all this."

Wingate sighed, obviously fighting off a feeling of de-
feat. Phil said, "What are his chances of improving?"

Bergman was the one who spoke. "I can't even begin
to hold out the prospect of any improvement, Phil." He
looked thoughtfully down at the papers. "We don't even
know what's wrong physiologically. And it's been a while
since I've studied abnormal behavior pathologies."

Wingate nodded in agreement. "There are some things
he's doing which would suggest autistic behavior. The
constant masturbation is classic self-stimulating behav-
ior, as is the rocking back and forth."

Phil shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "I was wonder-
ing about the sex thing."

Bergman said, "We don't know it's sex like you'd nor-
mally think of it. Though the way he grabs at the nurses
makes me think it may be, despite his youth—that's why
we turned his care over to the male nurses and the order-
lies. Still, clutching the penis is a common enough behav-
ior in male babies. But the hooting and the laughing and
the rest, it's. ..." Bergman's eyes got a distant look.

"What?" asked Phil.

"For a moment, when Patrick tried to bite my hand

... I could have sworn I saw intelligence in his eyes.

Like the whole thing was some sort of big game." He
closed his eyes and rubbed them. "I'm sorry, Phil. I
shouldn't put my own fatigue delusions on you. You'll
think Patrick was possessed by a dybbuk if I keep this
up."

Phil shook his head in frustration. "I'd be thankful if
he threw up pea soup and his head twisted around. I'd
call an exorcist and we'd be done."

Latham said, "Phil, we can only imagine the torment
this is for you and Gloria. Go home, and we'll keep an
eye on him for a few more days. I'll arrange for a transfer
to Tonawanda State Hospital, or a private institution if
you like, but let's hold off until after"—he glanced at a
calendar on the wall—"let's make it Monday the second
of November, all right?"

Bergman rose. "I agree. We must fall back on the old
and slow but tried and true—observation, different medi-
cations, therapy—and see what happens. It's either that
or magic." Latham and Wingate also made as if to leave
the office.

Phil rose and followed the three doctors out of the
room. Gabbie and Jack were waiting just outside. Gabbie
kissed her father on the cheek as he said, "Is . . . there
really hope?"

Dr. Bergman said, "I'm tempted to spout the old saw

'Where there's life ..." but . . . I'm afraid all I can say
is we don't have the faintest idea. We just don't know."

"What now?" said Gabbie to her father.

"We go home, tell Gloria what's going on." He
paused, looking at his daughter and future son-in-law.

"And we make some plans." Jack nodded, knowing that
he was talking about long-term care for Patrick. Phil
forced himself to smile. "Come on. I think I could use a
day off from here." Without further words they walked
toward the outside door.

Latham turned to Wingate and said, "Teddy?"

The usually talkative Wingate had been unusually
quiet since returning from the psych ward. "I didn't want
to say anything in front of Phil, but have either of you
noticed one other odd thing about our little patient?"

"Just what I said," answered Bergman. "I thought I
saw something in his eyes."

"That's it," said Latham. "Sometimes he's looking at
things like he knows what's going on. Is that what you
mean?"

Wingate shook his head as he began to walk off. "No,
not that, though I get that feeling, too. It's just that being
around the kid more than a few minutes gives me a most
unprofessional case of the creeps."

Latham and Bergman exchanged glances, but neither
commented on Teddy's remark.

18

Patrick stood in the center of the circle, his eyes un-
focused and glazed. Around him moved figures of dark
aspect, things that defied the eye's attempts at definition.

Sounds were muffled by a dark fog, and, above, faint
lights pierced the gloom. Then a presence manifested it-
self, something so terrible it could not be endured. Pat-
rick turned slowly to look at the approaching horror, and
his eyes remained blank. Then the terror was upon him,
sweeping him up and carrying away.

"No!" shrieked Gloria, sitting up in bed. Her heart
pounded and she swallowed a sob. She glanced around
and saw Phil's side of the bed empty. She knew she'd find

him asleep on the couch in his study, the television going
as he slept through some cable news show or another.

Then the sound of Sean's voice intruded. "Mommy!"

Gloria ran to her son's room. He was sleeping in Pat-
rick's bed, as he had since returning home. Gloria sat on
the bed next to Sean, gathering him to her. He cried, a
pitiful, aching sound. "I had a bad dream," he sobbed
into her shoulder. "About Patrick."

With her tears mingling with his, she said, "I know,
baby. I know."

Gloria held her child as Gabbie appeared in the door.

"Is he okay?" she asked sleepily.

"Yes," said Gloria, her voice strained. "Go back to
sleep, honey."

Gabbie hesitated an instant, then trundled back to her
room. "Can I sleep with you?" asked Sean.

Gloria barely spoke agreement as she led Sean back to
her bedroom. The boy climbed up into the bed shared by
his mom and dad and snuggled into Phil's pillow. Gloria
got back in, missing Phil terribly, but knowing that, once
wakened, he'd be all night getting back to sleep.

Gloria watched Sean as his breathing turned deep and
regular. They shared an understanding of something dark
and beyond Phil's understanding, something felt, not
known. They knew that all the science and doctors in the
world wouldn't get Patrick back. Fighting off a despair so
terrible it could hardly be borne, Gloria tried to return to
sleep, letting the sound of Sean's breathing lull her. Sleep
took a long time to arrive. And images of dark places and
lost little boys took a long time to depart.

19

Gabbie peeked out the window at the sound of the car in
the driveway. "It's Gary!" she shouted to the others. Jack
and Phil were in Phil's study, quietly discussing long-
term care for Patrick. Aggie was in the kitchen, helping

Gloria with tea, while Sean watched television in the par-
lor.

They all met Gary at the door, and Gabbie gave him a
hug. "You look bushed."

"Would you like a cup of tea?" asked Gloria.

"How about I bum a drink off of you, instead?" asked

Gary.

"No sweat," answered Phil.

They entered the living room, where Aggie Grant de-
posited a tea service on the table before the couch. Gary
removed his topcoat and glanced around the room. He
saw the tension and said, "Is something wrong?"

Gloria's eyes began to tear and she inclined her head
at her husband. Phil explained about Patrick's illness.

Sitting down, Gary said, "That's terrible, Phil. I'm really
sorry. Maybe I should—"

"No," interrupted Phil. "You sit tight. It won't help
anything if you take off."

"So how are you?" asked Jack.

"Tired." He sipped the drink Phil handed him.

"Thanks. I'm tired and I'm worried."

"Why?" asked Phil.

Gary said, "Mark's vanished."

"What are you talking about?" asked Gabbie.

"Mark's disappeared somewhere in Germany." Gary
paused, then said, "It's tied in to that business about

Fredrick Kessler being a member of some organization or
another. I talked to Mark back when I was in Seattle and
he was still in New York, and we compared notes. I sent
him copies of the translations we got from the parch-
ments. They're no more bizarre than a lot of other an-
cient religious stuff looks to us modern types. But Mark
came across something in New York that sent him to

Germany. He didn't say what. I know him well enough,
however, to know he was truly disturbed. And," he said
with a sigh, "sometime since I last talked to him, he's just
vanished.

"He called me in Seattle from his hotel in Munich and
asked me to investigate a friend of Kessler's who had
settled in Canada. I went to Ottawa, then London, On-

tario, then back to Ottawa. I called his hotel in Munich
at the agreed-upon time, and he'd checked out. They
gave me his destination, but he never got there. Now,

Mark's jumped off the track before, side excursions that
last a week or two, but he always gets word to me where
he can be reached. This time . . . nothing."

Gary sipped his drink while the others exchanged
glances. Phil asked, "Should we try to contact someone
in Germany?"

Gary shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe the American
embassy. They might know who to contact." He shook
his head. "But I have a feeling that if Mark's in trouble,
we might not see him again."

Those words had a chilling effect on everyone in the
room. Gloria spoke in almost a whisper. "Gary, you're
scaring me." She remembered the premonition she had
had the night she had last seen Mark.

Gary said, "Sorry, folks. It's just things in Canada
were pretty weird." He sipped his drink again. "What
was the most . . . disturbing about Canada wasn't what

I found but what I couldn't find."

"What do you mean?" asked Gabbie.

"In Canada I kept hitting walls. Kessler's buddy who
had come to Canada was named Hans von Leer. In Lon-
don he changed it to Hans Van der Leer."

"That sounds Dutch," said Jack.

"Right. He was reported in the local papers as a

Dutchman. He showed up about five years after Kessler
came to Pittsville. Where he was before that is tough to
figure. Mr. Van der Leer, or von Leer if you will, went to
a great deal of trouble to hide his origins. Everywhere I
turned I found pages missing from documents, files mis-
placed, notations erased, a thousand things designed to
make it impossible to get a hint as to who Van der Leer
had been in Germany. I think that's some of what Mark
went to Germany to discover: Who was this Van der

Leer, and how did he relate to Kessler and the others
from southern Germany? How was it all tied in to that
business at the turn of the century?

"So I looked hard and came up dry. What's got me

jumpy is ... it looks like Kessler's organization still ex-
ists, is still active."

Gabbie said, "That's scary."

Phil said, "Gary, Mark said something about this se-
cret society business, but not much more. Do you have
any idea of what this might all be about?"

Gary said, "If what Mark thinks is true, there's a
someone, maybe a group, who can confuse your memory,
even make you forget interactions with them." Gary
paused, then said, "No one else answer. Gabbie, what do
you remember about the barn?"

Gabbie looked at the others in the room, confused,
then smiled. "The barn?" She laughed. "You mean like it
needs painting, or the roof leaks?"

"No, I mean like the fellow you met there who tried to
rape you."

Gabbie's expression was one of confusion. "Rape?"

Then slowly her look of perplexity was changed to one of
fright as her face drained of color. Softly, almost inaudi-
bly, she said, "I'd forgotten."

Jack's expression was one of disbelief. "You'd forgot-
ten? How's that possible?"

Gary held up his hand when questions came thick and
fast. "Slowly, folks. I just wanted to demonstrate some-
thing Mark discovered the night we chased the assailant
into the woods. Gabbie's forgotten because the fellow she
met had . . . some ability to make her forget what hap-
pened that night. If I keep prodding, Gabbie will remem-
ber things, but as soon as I stop, she'll begin to forget it
all. I'm not certain, but it may be that if we don't remind
her for a long enough time, she'll completely forget it
ever happened. Maybe"—he looked around the room—

"even deny it happened."

Gabbie said, "If I concentrate, I can. . . . It's weird,
but it's like I can barely remember a movie I saw a long
time ago, or ... a dream I had when I was a kid."

Gary said, "It's more than weird. It's damn near im-
possible. From what little I know about assaults and
rape, you should have everything that happened etched
in your memory in vivid detail—or be in a classic denial,

blanking it out." He sipped his drink. "Mark was subject
to the same thing." He explained what happened the
night Mark and Gary chased the assailant into the
woods, and how Mark couldn't remember without listen-
ing to the tape recording he'd made, until Gary hypno-
tized him to remember. Looking at Jack he said, "How's
your shoulder?"

Jack seemed surprised by the question. "Fine. . . .

Which shoulder?"

"Your right, the one that was infected."

Jack whistled low. He looked at the others. "Damn,
me too."

"Mark . . . palmed some sort of odd little dart. . . .

The doctor thought it was a bone chip, he told me."

Gloria's agitation was obvious. "Gary, what are you
saying? That we've got some sort of crazy people hiding
in the woods out there? Who rape and shoot poisoned
darts and . . . shit, what?"

Gary added, "I don't know if I should be telling you
this . . . but . . . damn it, if Mark doesn't . . . come
back, I don't want to deal with this by myself. Mark
didn't just see a kid in the woods that night." He told
them what he had heard on the tape, and what Mark had
confided in him after hypnosis.

All sat stunned by the description of the riders in the
woods. Aggie was the first to speak. In even tones she
said, "Gary, it's impossible."

"If I hadn't been sitting there watching Mark when he
heard the tape, saw his reaction, well, I'd agree the whole
thing was impossible. I've given a lot of thought to this,

Aggie; either Mark saw the impossible. Or"—he paused

—"his mind was controlled."

Gabbie said, "Maybe riders did come through"—her
voice trailed off—"in costume?"

Aggie said, "Girl, what Mark described is the Wild

Hunt."

Phil said, "Aggie?"

"It's a legend. The riders of the Wild Hunt ride the
woods at night, chasing those who ... are evil, or who
have offended the riders, or—depending on the version of

the legend—just happen to be in the wrong place at the
wrong time."

Phil said, "What is this?" His voice held a nervous
laugh, as if all this was passing beyond his ability to un-
derstand. "Some sort of Irish Ku Klux Klan?"

Aggie's voice showed she was disturbed. "Philip, the
riders are Daonie Sidhe—the Old People, fairies." Phil
blinked. "Their leader is a creature with the head of a
wild stag. They ride horses no mortal may mount. It's an

Irish fairy legend."

"That's impossible," said Jack.

"Dad," said Gabbie softly, "remember the tapestry? It
shows those riders and some of the . . . game hanging
from poles is people."

Phil shook his head. "I'll buy some sort of nut group
dressing up and pretending this stuff . . . maybe. Even
that Kessler and his bunch were run out of Germany for
being found out as a gang of religious terrorists—but
what's this all got to do with Gabbie's assault and Mark's
encounter?"

Gary looked defeated. "I just don't know. Mostly be-
cause I don't know what Mark's doing in Germany. He's
been unusually closemouthed about what he believes. I
can sort of put two and two together because of what he's
had me doing." He sighed. "All I can say is there is
strong evidence that there are people around today who
are still involved with what Kessler was involved with
eighty years ago.

"Suppose this secret group Kessler and Van der Leer
were members of was privy to some secret of mind con-
trol—just play along for a minute—which makes them
cause people to forget ... or gives them the power to
cause people to see visions. Maybe someone else besides
the Shadow has the power to cloud men's minds." Gary's
voice rose at the last, frustration clearly evident. He
forced himself back to calmness. "Sorry, I'm beat. Look,
if such a group once did exist, and they did have some
unusual power, it explains why they can still be around,
still thrive even, without anyone else knowing they're ac-
tive.

"Assume there's nothing supernatural about it at all.

Suppose for a moment Phil's right, and it's a group of
people dressed up and riding around and there's some
rational explanation for the weird qualities Mark attrib-
uted to them. Maybe they used a drug on Mark and

Gabbie—there was certainly some sort of fast-acting drug
on the dart they shot Jack with, from what Mark told
me. You're still left with the fact there's a bunch of pretty
strange jokers getting dressed up and riding around the
countryside at night, doing their best to imitate some-
thing out of Celtic myth. That's what Mark had me dig-
ging around in before you guys found the stuff in the
basement, by the way. He's had me generate pages of
notes on Celtic legends and later Irish and Scottish myth.

Anyway, maybe we've run afoul of Kessler's group, and
this stuff is just window dressing. But until we under-
stand who they are, what they're doing, we don't have a
clue about what we're dealing with. Mark knew more
about this, but he's . . . gone. It's clear, though, that
what happened in Germany at the turn of the century is
happening again here, if to a lesser degree." He was silent
for a minute. "And from what I experienced in Canada, I
think someone's trying to prevent outsiders from discov-
ering what they're up to."

Gabbie put her hand to her mouth. "Oh, Gary, you're
really scaring me now."

"I'm scared too, Gabbie. This is so weird. Weirder
than most of the stuff we usually mess with. And it's
getting harder to understand what we're into as we dig
deeper. The more I uncover, the less I know. I just wish I
knew where Mark was." Gary closed his eyes and rubbed
them. With a shake of his head, he said, "Well, now that

I've made everybody's day, I could use some sleep. So I
think I'll be off."

"Won't you stay and eat something?" asked Phil.

"We've a ham in the oven."

"Thanks, but no. I'm not hungry and I really do need
a nap. Besides, if I know Ellen, she'll want to come by
and fix something, considering I've been gone all but
three days the last month. Give me a day to get it to-

gether, then I'll drop by again. And let me know how
things are with Patrick."

They all stood. Good-byes were made, and as Gary
left, Sean appeared at the doorway, inquiring about din-
ner. Aggie herded him down the hall to the kitchen for a
snack to hold him over, while Gabbie said, "That was
some business. It's pretty scary stuff all right."

Jack nodded. "And there's still Kessler's gold. Maybe
that's what they're after."

"Could be," said Gabbie. "Maybe they don't know
we've already found it, and are trying to scare us off so
they can look for it themselves."

Phil said, "Well, that's the first theory that makes
some sense. If it is Kessler's old buddies looking for the
gold, that would certainly explain away everything—a
hallucinogenic dust, and costumes. 'Cause, until I see
one of these fairies, Kessler's mysterious colleagues make
a lot more sense. But I think I'll withhold judgment, be-
cause even that's a little too strange for me. As weird as
all this conjecture is, I still think the truth will prove a
whole lot simpler than ancient secret societies with mys-
terious mind powers."

Gloria came to Phil's side and put her arms around
him. Softly she said, "No. It all fits together somehow.

We're just not seeing how the pieces mesh. And it has
something to do with Patrick—"

Phil cut her off, afraid of her becoming too emotional
again. "Honey, this is the twentieth century, to coin a
cliche. We're not sitting atop an ancient shrine to

Cthulhu, after all. What we've got is some gold and
strange stuff left over from an odd old immigrant from

Germany, and"—his voice softened—"a tragic illness.

That's plenty for now." He hugged her tight, then in
lighter tone said, "Look, maybe you ought to take Sean
out to the Coast and visit your mother?" The last two
days had been pretty rugged for them all, but Gloria and

Sean seemed to be getting the worst of it. The shock of
seeing Patrick had made her hysterical for hours, and
while she'd gotten a hold of herself, the strain showed.

And Sean had become moody and withdrawn.

Gloria didn't hesitate as she said, "No. Thanks for the
offer, but ... I want to stay close, and it wouldn't be
good for Sean. Let's try to keep things as normal around
here as possible."

"Okay, if you're sure. For now I think I'll go and
catch a few minutes of the news on the tube. Join me?"

With a halfhearted smile, Gloria nodded and went
with Phil to the parlor. At the door he paused and said,

"Jack, in all this craziness, I've forgotten to ask. What
about your orals?"

Jack winced. "Tomorrow afternoon at three. I was go-
ing to postpone—"

"But I wouldn't let him," said Gabbie.

Gloria smiled a half-sad smile. "Good for you, kid.

Well, good luck, Jack."

Phil echoed the wish as they left the room.

Gabbie looked at Jack. "That thing about the assault
was weird."

"You really forgot?"

"All of it. If Gary or you or someone hadn't men-
tioned it, I think I might never have remembered. And
even now I've got to work at remembering."

"It's creepy. I have to work at remembering just how
messed up my shoulder got."

"What do you think of all this?"

"I don't know. Gary was talking some pretty weird-
sounding stuff. Maybe your dad's right. Maybe there's a
rational explanation behind everything." He stood up.

With a theatrical sigh he said, "Look, I'm going to have
to do some last-minute cramming for my exams. I could
use a little coaching, if you don't mind."

Gabbie took his hand. "Later—tonight." She stood
and her expression brightened. "Right now I want a quiet
walk with my fella. Let's stroll down the road. This is the
first non-wet day I've seen in a week, and it's not too
cold."

Jack smiled. "That sounds just about right."

Tugging on his hand, she led him through the kitchen.

With a quick promise to Aggie they'd be back in time to
help with dinner, they headed out toward the road for an

evening walk. Aggie watched them leave while Sean si-
lently ate half of a peanut butter sandwich. Behind the
everyday tableau, she sensed something terrible was ap-
proaching and felt a chill rising in her chest.

For a moment Aggie stood silently, then sensed Sean's
eyes upon her. She fought back the urge to shiver, push-
ing down the sense of impending trouble, and forced her
mind back to the concerns of the moment. She had a
family to feed.

Sean watched Jack and Gabbie leave and turned his
attention to the sandwich. Absently he wondered what

Patrick was having for dinner with the— He dropped
his sandwich on the plate as his eyes widened. With
the. . . . For a moment he had understood something,
then that knowledge had fled. He sat quietly for a long
minute as his heart raced, trying in vain to recapture
what he had grasped for only an instant. He waited a
long minute, hoping for the thought to return. When it
didn't, he sighed and picked up his sandwich, eating it
halfheartedly as he considered that Patrick was being fed
off a plastic plate at the hospital. But he couldn't shake
the image of something dark yet shining in a corner. At
last he put the half-eaten sandwich down and left the
kitchen.

20

Phil stuck his head into the kitchen, informing his wife
and son he was on his way back to the hospital. Gloria
nodded as the door swung closed behind him. Phil main-
tained a degree of normalcy in his outward behavior,
keeping everyone on an even keel.

Phil got in his car and turned the key. The engine
rattled to life fitfully, despite having been run earlier in
the day. Overdue for a tune-up, he thought absently. As
he pulled out of the drive and turned onto the road, he
considered the toll Patrick's illness was having on every-

one. For the last two days Gabbie had taken to fixing

Sean's breakfast and lunch and seeing the house stayed in
order, as Gloria barely managed dinner with Aggie's
help. Despite his preoccupation with Patrick, Phil was
concerned over Gloria's mental state. He didn't know
how to cope with it; the last week had left him too emo-
tionally exhausted to make any rational judgment. He
knew that under more normal circumstances, his wife
would have been constantly at Patrick's side. But she
couldn't deal with this odd creature who was once Pat-
rick. And Phil knew she felt guilty over not going back to
the hospital. Maybe when they got him moved, to a long-
term care facility, or even if they could bring him home
again someday. ... He let the last thought trail off.

Phil knew that somewhere down the line Gloria would
need some sort of help. She moved like a zombie half the
time, or she sat around staring off into the distance. If
anyone spoke to her she seemed to snap out of the mood,
but as soon as she was alone she withdrew into herself
again. She fell asleep about eight-thirty and slept the
clock round, unless she woke up screaming from dreams.

Often her shouts awoke Sean, and he would be brought in
to sleep with his parents. It was almost as if Sean awak-
ened at the same instant. For a moment Phil considered
that. He shrugged off the thought. But until something
concrete occurred—until Patrick's fate was decided—

Phil, like the others, simply held his breath and waited.

As he increased the car's speed, he remembered he hadn't
said good-bye to Sean. Pushing aside a twinge of guilt,

Phil turned the car onto the highway toward the hospital.

21

Gloria absently washed the dishes, staring out the win-
dow, unaware of the quiet boy who sat at the table. Glo-
ria was silently desperate. She couldn't talk of Patrick
without tears, and the few visits to the hospital had been

more than she could endure. Her near phobia about ill-
ness, joined with her pain for her son, was pushing her
beyond her ability to cope. In her own private world
there was a blank space once filled by a boy named Pat-
rick. No one in the family said anything about her reluc-
tance to go to the hospital. Had Patrick been physically
sick she would have stayed at his side. But that unspeak-
able thing he had become, that miasma of ... the un-
holy . . . about him caused her to feel more than grief.

There was a darkness surrounding Patrick, an aura not of
the normal world. Despite her emotional confusion, Glo-
ria struggled to remember; there was something everyone
else was missing, something she had seen. And if she
could only remember it, Patrick would return to her. She
was frustrated to the point of anger by her inability to
remember, and her short temper was making everyone
tiptoe around her. She vaguely heard Sean putting down
his glass of breakfast milk and returned her attention to
the dishes.

Sean was in a pout because his mother wouldn't let
him go outside or to Saturday night's Halloween Party.

He really didn't want to go to the party, he just didn't
want to be sitting around alone—missing Patrick. He
hadn't assimilated his experiences the night he and Pat-
rick had been taken to the hospital; something clouded
his memory, making things dim and hard to handle. Yet
he was on the verge of understanding. Holding the fairy
stone seemed to help. And each day it seemed he could
recall the images faster, and they were more clear. He
had given up trying to get anyone to understand about
the images. They just wouldn't listen. They just didn't
understand. Sean sighed silently.

He gripped the fairy stone in his fist and stared at it.

There was something he could remember about the night

Patrick got so sick. It was a vague shape in darkness,
something that hovered at the edge of memory, some-
thing that had reached out and—

Sean's eyes opened wide as his heart leaped. He re-
membered! The Shining Man! And the thing that looked
like Sean! The Shining Man and the Bad Thing had taken

Patrick! Sean squirmed in his chair, his agitation unno-
ticed by his mother. He had to do something; he just
wasn't sure what it was. And he couldn't do it cooped up
at home. He had to get some help, and he knew where he
might be able to find it. Sean pushed aside the half-eaten
sandwich and said, "Mom, can I go outside?"

"No!"

Sean jumped at the vehemence of her answer. She
looked at Sean through tired eyes and softened her tone.

"No, honey. You've been sick." She thought it best not to
say anything about what Gary had told them. But she
wasn't going to let Sean anywhere near the woods.

"But, Mom. . . ." Sean began, but then his mother
turned to face him, and he saw a new Look, one that
frightened him. She knew! Or at least she suspected. On
some level, conscious or subconscious, she had decided
that one son lost was enough. Sean knew any revelation
to his mother of what he remembered would only in-
crease her resistance to letting him out. He ceased his
complaint and quit the kitchen, finding his way to the
parlor, where he resigned himself to another round of

Saturday cartoons or sports on TV while he puzzled out a
means of getting away. Maybe he could go to bed early,
then sneak out after Mom went to sleep. He sat back on
the floor, his back against a chair, and used the remote
control to turn on the TV. He used the satellite dish
controls to lock in on a college football game. He didn't
care who was playing.

Less than an hour later, Gabbie stuck her head in and
asked, "What are you doing hanging around here, kiddo?

It's a beautiful day outside, Indian summer."

Considering his reply, Sean said, "I was just watching
this game." Casually he stood and turned off the TV.

"Where's Mom?"

"Taking a nap. Why?"

He shrugged. "Nothing. I'm going to the park, okay?

The guys are going to play touch."

Gabbie almost said no, thinking about Gary's conjec-
ture, but she remembered he'd said all the odd goings-on

took place after sundown. "Sure, just be back before it
starts to get dark."

"Sure. I'll be back early." He waved a casual good-bye
and exited through the kitchen, then out the back porch
door. As soon as his sneakers hit the ground, he was off
at a dead run. He sprinted through the woods, reaching
the Troll Bridge in record time. He paused to catch his
breath and felt the evil aura that signaled the presence of
the Bad Thing under the bridge. He removed his fairy
stone from beneath his shirt and clutched it tightly. With
resolution he marched across the bridge. Once across the
creek, he felt a giddy sense of accomplishment. As he
looked back at the bridge, a clear remembrance and cer-
tainty descended upon him. It was his responsibility to
help Patrick. Not his father's, or his mother's, or the
doctor's. None of them knew what the boys had endured,
and none were willing to listen. Whatever caused people
to be the way they were when kids tried to explain things
was working overtime now. Even Sean's dad, who nor-
mally took time to listen, seemed unable to consider for a
moment his son's confused attempts to describe what
happened that night. Now that Sean could tell him ex-
actly, he knew his father still wouldn't allow for a mo-
ment that what the boy said might have some foundation
in truth.

Sean now understood what he must do. He must face
the Shining Man and the Bad Thing one more time. They
still scared him, but he somehow knew that having
reached the nadir of fear that night, he would never be
that terrified of them again. He had confronted them and
survived. And he knew he must do it once more, only this
time it would be battle. Patrick's fate depended upon it.

Sean knew there was only one person who could possi-
bly understand what the boys had faced. Sean raced
through the woods. Running the entire way, he was soon
pounding on the door of Barney Doyle's workshop.

The door opened and Barney looked down at Sean.

"Here then, what's the ruckus?"

Sean blurted, "Barney, it was the Shining Man! Every-
one thinks me and Patrick just got sick. But it was the

Shining Man. He and the Bad Thing came into our room
with these two things that looked like us and they took

Patrick. They'd have taken me, but I had the stone—"

Sean stopped when he saw another figure move in the
darkness behind Barney. Aggie Grant came forward, a
concerned expression on her face.

"What is this?" she said.

Sean backed away, but Barney put a hand on his
shoulder and said, "It's all right, boy. Come in."

Sean allowed himself to be steered into the shack and
saw that Aggie had been consulting a large notebook. He
glanced at her, and Barney said, "Miss Grant's dropped
by on her way to your home, to listen to some more tales,

Sean."

"What did you say about a Shining Man, Sean?"

asked Aggie patiently.

Sean looked at Barney, who never took his eyes from
the boy. Quietly the old handyman said, "The Amadan-
na-Briona."

Aggie spoke softly. "The Fool?" Her eyes were wide
with disbelief. "You can't be serious. Patrick is ill from a
fever."

Barney ran his hand over his face, showing uncer-
tainty, then he spoke, his voice low and controlled, but
intense with an impatient, frustrated tone neither Aggie
or Sean had heard before. "Aggie Grant, there are truths
you'll never find in books, and that's a fact. God has a
plan, and it's only those of us who are filled with pride
who think we know what that plan is. You come around
and ask to hear stories of the Good People. . . ." He
paused, as if struggling for words. "But what you don't
understand is that the stories aren't . . . made up.

They're stories told and retold because they teach. They
teach us how to live with the Good People. They're sto-
ries told first by people who met the Good People"—his
voice lowered—"and lived through the meeting."

Aggie's expression was clearly one of disbelief. "Bar-
ney," she said softly, in wonder, "you don't honestly be-
lieve the old tales, do you?" The man's face was set in a
resolute mask, showing he did believe, as he nodded his

head once. Aggie looked at Sean and said, "I think I
should take you home."

Sean made as if to bolt. "No! I've got to talk to Bar-
ney. Please." Sean pleaded, but Aggie heard an odd note
in his voice: Something else was there, a sense of final
desperation.

Aggie again looked at Barney, unwilling to accept his
statement or Sean's at face value. "Barney, what stories
have you been telling the boys?"

"The more common ones," he answered frankly, "but
nary a word about the Fool. I'd not scare the lads like
that. And I still haven't puzzled out what in fact this Bad

Thing might be."

Aggie sat back on Barney's stool, her eyes traveling
from Sean to Barney and back. Years of teaching had
made her sensitive to the frustration encountered by
youngsters who feel they are not being listened to. She
was thoughtful a long time, then said, "All right, go on."

Sean said, "The night we got sick, we didn't get sick.

The Shining Man and the Bad Thing came into our
room. . . ." Sean continued until he had finished the
narrative of that night.

Aggie listened closely and, when Sean finished, said,

"Sean, what did this Shining Man look like?" An intu-
ition told her that whatever else was happening, before
her stood not a boy who was simply repeating a tale once
or twice heard, or story fabricated to mislead adults, but
rather a boy who was revealing something he believed in
with conviction. Sean believed he had seen what he said
he saw, and Aggie wasn't about to dismiss something this
important to him. Sean described as best he could how
the man looked, and the more he spoke, the more she
became convinced he had seen either a myth come to life
or the most incredible hallucination on record. When he
had answered all her questions, her manner was subdued,
her voice barely above a whisper. "Barney, this is unbe-
lievable. I don't for a moment believe the boy actually
saw the Amadan-na-Briona. You can't possibly believe
that either." Her tone was not one of disbelief, but rather
a plea that sanity be returned, that this impossible de-

scription issuing from the lips of an eight-year-old be a
cleverly rehearsed script, a strange, tasteless, and inexpli-
cable joke. If not, the world was an alien place and man a
blind creature passing through, ignorant of the dangers at
every hand. Aggie's face was pale as she said, "Can you?"

Barney said, "I can. And I do, Aggie Grant. Your
nose is too much in books and not enough in the real
world." He stood and pointed at the window. "Out there
is mystery after mystery and wonders hidden by magics
so profound all your science can't describe it. Our history
tells of when we came to Ireland: how we found the Fir-
bolg and the Tuatha De Danann already living upon the
island, and how we wrested the land from them. The

British and their American children have wandered too
far from their Celtic roots and the Old Knowledge, the
lore before the Church came to save us all. The Britons
are one with the Roman, Saxon, and Norman invaders,
losing their vision of the past. Many of us Irish have
not."

"But—," Aggie began.

"No buts, then, if you please, Miss Agatha Grant,"

interrupted Barney, his eyes distant as he stared out the
dirty window of his shack. "You've heard the tales told
by the old folks. You've written them down, counting
them quaint and colorful. You've not for a moment asked
one person you've interviewed if they believed. Have
you?"

Aggie shook her head. Where she had thought lived a
simple Irishman she discovered resided a man with a
deep appreciation of his cultural heritage and more than
just passing knowledge of simple folktales. He remem-
bered all he had heard and he had been a good listener.

And he passed that lore along. In his own way, Barney

Doyle was a bard, keeping ancient tradition alive. "I sim-
ply assumed . . . ," she said weakly.

"Yes, and that's the word, then, isn't it? Assumed. You
think the old stories nothing but myth and legend. We
know they are true," he whispered. He never took his
eyes from the darkening sky outside. "We'll get some rain
soon, I'm thinking." His voice softened. "What, then,

would you say should I tell you I myself once saw the

Daonie Sidhe, dancing upon a knoll in the moonlight? A
boy I was, not much older than Sean. But I'll never forget
the sight. Both beautiful and terrifying, joyous and sad,
all at once, it was. The music so faint it's a breath on the
wind, and the smell of flowers . . . flowers from another
place. Longings and desires I felt, with fear in no small
measure." He crossed himself. "And danger to my im-
mortal soul.

"They are often gone from sight, the Old People, the

Good People." He looked hard at Aggie. "But they are
still here, with us. They live in the same world, and it's
foolishness itself to deny the truth because it's not conve-
nient to believe."

Aggie felt helpless before the certainty of Barney's
words.

Sean said, "Please, Barney, we've got to get Patrick
back. Where can I find him?"

Barney stared out the window as the afternoon sun
turned the sky the color of yellow roses between the
growing black clouds. "He's with the Fool, lad, and for
all of that, he's as good as lost."

"Who's the Fool?" asked the boy, seemingly unwilling
to accept Patrick as being irretrievable.

Barney looked out from under bushy brows, his eyes
unreadable. But it was Aggie who spoke. "Your Shining

Man, Sean. The Amadan-na-Briona, leader of the Dark

Folk. He's the head of what the Scots call the Unseely

Court, the evil ones among the Sidhe."

Sean, who'd been squirming, said, "But why'd he take

Patrick?"

Aggie watched Barney's face as he looked at Sean,
then her again. "Because they're a wicked and perverse
fellowship, Sean. 'Tis certain, the boy's been a-changel-
inged."

"A changeling?" said Aggie. "But he's in the hospi-
tal."

"That's not Patrick in that room," said Barney firmly.

Sean looked up at Barney and tears formed in the
boy's eyes. Relief flooded through him. At last he had

found somebody who understood. Barney knew that the
thing in the hospital that looked like Patrick wasn't

Sean's brother.

Aggie stood up. "This is all too much for me to take,

Barney Doyle. I'll not sit and listen to this as if we were
talking of a kidnapping." She was obviously disturbed by

Barney's words, and she fought to regain her composure.

"Come on, Sean, I think you should be at home. The
weather's turning, so I'll drive you."

Sean stood up as if making to bolt to the door, but

Barney put a restraining hand upon his shoulder. "Nay,
lad, you'd do well to go." Barney's eyes seemed to shine,
as if on the verge of tears. "There's nothing for it. Noth-
ing you can do. There is no way to go after Patrick." He
waited until Aggie had retrieved her purse and notebook,
and opened the door for them. After they had gone
through, Barney closed it softly. Then he said quietly,

"We're past the age of heroes, Sean. 'Tis a sad thing to be
admitting, but it is the truth."

Sean thought to run away, but Aggie had a lifetime of
dealing with boys of all sizes and temperaments, and a
light touch upon his shoulder stilled the impulse to rebel
in the usually obedient boy. He quietly got into her car
and allowed himself to be taken home.

22

Sean brooded in his room as the setting sun passed be-
hind the old tree outside, throwing twisted shadows
across the wall. He had been quietly desperate since com-
ing back from Barney's the day before. Luckily his
mother had still been napping when Aggie brought him
home. Aggie had been quiet the entire way back. She had
not said a word to Gabbie about what had taken place at

Barney's, as if to speak of the conversation would give
weight to Barney's words. But it was obvious even to
someone as young as Sean that she was deeply disturbed

by what Barney had said, and she did urge Gabbie to
keep Sean home until he'd fully recovered. After she had
left, Sean begged his sister not to tell on him. Gabbie
agreed not to say anything in exchange for his promise
not to leave the house until Gloria said it was all right.

His father was due home for dinner in a short while,
after visiting the thing they thought was Patrick and
checking some stuff with the doctors. Sean fumed as he
rolled over. He had one last shot at getting out, and he
knew that tonight was the night he had to act. He just
wished for a chance to talk to Barney again, rather than
having to wait until everyone was asleep. That would give
him too little time, he was certain. He didn't understand
it all, but he had figured out enough to know he had to
act tonight, and the later he got started, the less time he
had left to do something about Patrick.

The door downstairs shut and Sean jumped up. He
hurried down the hall and the stairs to where his father
stood. Phil looked at his son and smiled. "Hi, sport.

How're things?"

Sean steeled himself against looking too anxious. He
gave his dad a quick hug, then made his pitch. "Mom
won't let me go to the Halloween party tonight." His
tone made it seem the most unreasonable sort of confine-
ment, and was just short of whiny.

Phil moved slowly toward the kitchen. "Look, there'll
be other parties and . . . well, your mom's pretty upset
these days." He stopped and studied the face of his son.

With all Phil's worry about Patrick, he had all but ig-
nored Sean. After a moment he said, "But then, it's been
no picnic for you, has it?"

An odd expression crossed Phil's face and he pushed
open the door to the kitchen. Gloria and Gabbie were
both readying dinner. Greetings were exchanged, and

Gabbie said, "Jack called. He's on his way down, hang-
over and all. He'll be here in an hour." Jack had passed
his orals Friday afternoon, advancing him to candidacy
for a doctorate. He had called to tell her and had wanted
to come back at once, but Gabbie had overruled him,
insisting he let some of his grad student friends take him

out to celebrate, a party that had lasted until late. As a
result, Jack didn't get started until Saturday afternoon on
some paperwork that needed to be on his adviser's desk
first thing Monday morning. That had made driving
down to Pittsville on Saturday out of the question. Gab-
bie had wished she had been with him, but had refused to
leave, with Gloria in such rugged shape.

Phil said, "Honey, I think it's all right if we let Sean
go to the party tonight."

Gloria's head jerked up, a panic-stricken look in her
eyes. Before she could object, he said, "He's been fine for
a couple of days now, and it would do him good to get
out." Sean threw Gabbie a pleading look, silently begging
her not to speak of his encounter with Aggie the day
before. Gabbie shook her head slightly and winked, then
turned her attention back to the salad.

Gloria seemed on the verge of saying something, but
instead turned back to the cooking, saying, "Well . . .

he doesn't have a costume."

Sean jumped in. "I can go as a pirate! I can put a
bandanna around my head and tuck my pants in my rain
boots, and wear one of Dad's belts like this"—he made
an over-the-shoulder motion—"and Gabbie can make me
a scar with lipstick. Please, Mom."

Gloria seemed close to tears, and Phil calmly said,

"It's at the school. They'll be supervised and he'll be
home by nine. How about it?"

Gloria struggled within herself. Something was build-
ing around her and she couldn't understand what it was.

Her intellect said there would be no real harm in letting

Sean attend a supervised school function, but her gut, her
instinct, said there was a terrible risk. Yet she couldn't
articulate those terrible fears, so at the last she simply
nodded, her face drawn and ashen. Sean leaped from the
chair, yelling, "Thanks, Mom!" and dashed through the
door.

Phil went to his wife and hugged her. "We'll drop him
off on our way to the hospital."

Gabbie said, "And Jack and I can pick him up."

Gloria put her head on Phil's shoulder a moment. She

almost understood, recognition hung just beyond her
grasp: Something of awesome power moved in the night,
something that had entrapped her family. They were
overwhelmed by ancient mysteries, dark magics and lost
gold, and creatures not of this earth. Those creatures had
taken one of her sons. And with dread certainty she knew
that tonight she would lose the other. But she also knew
she was powerless to do anything, and those around her,
those she loved most, could never understand. All this
knowledge was tantalizingly close to being articulated,
but something kept that knowledge from coalescing,
from becoming concrete enough to be shared. She simply
closed her eyes a moment, then with a sigh of resignation
said, "Gabbie, will you take the chicken out when it's
done? I think I'm going to lie down for a little while
before dinner." She turned away from her husband,
opened the door to the hall, and left.

23

Sean walked out of the house between his parents. He
was pleased with the makeshift costume. One of Gabbie's
old white blouses gave just the right effect, had the right
collar and everything, and with the puffy sleeves rolled
up looked just like a pirate shirt. His jeans were tucked
into his rain boots and an old belt of his dad's hung over
one shoulder in a fair imitation of a baldric. A red ban-
danna was tied around his head in pirate fashion. Gloria
opened the car door, saying nothing as they got in the
car, her eyes red-rimmed. She had slept through dinner,
but had risen to join her husband and son. She said little,
just repeatedly cautioning Sean to be careful. Sean didn't
notice, as he was busy praying no one remarked on his
funny walk, for concealed in his right boot was his fa-
ther's silver letter opener.

Phil kept up a light banter, as if forcing normalcy on
his family. Sean answered his father's questions as they

drove to the school, making small talk. Phil attempted to
reestablish some sense of normalcy with his son—his sur-
viving son, he thought grimly. Rain began to fall again,
and Phil said, "You should have brought a jacket, son."

"I'll be okay," Sean insisted. "It's only a little way
from the street to the auditorium, and I'll wait inside till

Jack an' Gabbie get me."

"Okay, buccaneer," said Phil, with forced joviality. He
pulled up to the curbside before the elementary school
and watched as Gloria got out, allowing Sean to leave. As
he started past his mother, she reached out and grabbed
him, and for one panic-stricken moment Sean was afraid
she'd drag him back into the car. Instead all she did was
hug him fiercely, all the while silent, then without a word
she let him go and stood in the misting drizzle watching
as Sean walked to the auditorium. With a sudden sense of
melancholia, Phil felt a tear run down his cheek, and he
was visited with the feeling that he was seeing Sean for
the last time. He shrugged off the feeling as being due to
too much stress and fatigue over the last week, and after

Gloria was again in the car, he drove off.

Sean approached the auditorium. The other kids had
already begun to gather. There would be some organized
activities, a lot of booths set up with games of chance—
pitch a dime to win a goldfish, darts and balloons, a
wheel of fortune, beanbag toss, and other stuff—and free
treats for everyone. They'd also have organized games
and records, so kids could dance, though Sean thought
that was something the girls would like more than the
boys.

Sean heard his parents' car pull away and glanced
back to watch as they drove off. The high clouds hid the
last rays of the setting sun, reducing the landscape to
black and grey as the mist turned to a more honest driz-
zle. Sean considered: The party was scheduled to run
from six to nine, so he had to time everything perfectly.

Sean looked about, joined a knot of kids by the door, and
waited.

24

Aggie negotiated the turns in Highway 117, the main
artery down to Pittsville from Interstate 90 out of Buf-
falo. She squinted against the dazzling lights of oncoming
cars, reflected off the slick roadway. The rain had halted,
for which she was thankful, for her old full-size Ford
handled like a battleship on these slick roads. She made
the transition from the state highway to the local road
heading toward the Hastingses' place.

As she passed under the overpass, the classical music
station faded and the rain resumed with a vengeance.

Sheets of water poured down, obscuring everything but
the yellow broken line that ran down the road. Aggie
flipped the wipers to high speed and slowed the car.

There were two bad turns before she reached the cutoff to
the Hastings farm, and she wasn't exactly sure where she
was. Familiar landmarks were nonexistent. With no road-
side lamps, all she could see was the area covered by the
glare of her car's high beams. She rode through a tunnel
of night. Distant lightning flashes caused the radio to
issue raucous noises, so Aggie turned it off.

She drove for a while until she began to wonder if
she'd somehow taken a wrong turn. She was tired from
lack of sleep—she had spent long hours at the Hastings
home the last week. And she had also lived with a bone-
deep weariness born of worry for Patrick. The conversa-
tion with Barney and Sean the day before had put her on
edge, visiting her with an unfocused pensive anxiety. She
had been troubled by a feeling with no name. Since Mark
had called she had a name for the feeling: fear.

Aggie glanced at her passenger, who sat stoically with
eyes forward, saying nothing. Less than six hours before,
she had received a call from Mark Blackman. He had
tried to call Gary, but the younger man was off some-
place for a day with his girlfriend. Mark had tried the

Hastings house, but the phone had been busy. In despera-
tion, he had called Aggie and, with that strange and cryp-
tic long-distance conversation, had plunged her into a
frightening world, a world she had glimpsed for the first
time when Sean had come to Barney Doyle's shack the
day before.

Then another call had come, and with persuasion be-
yond Aggie's understanding, her passenger had con-
vinced her to make the drive to Buffalo, to pick him up at
the airport. And all Aggie knew about this man was he
was German and said he was expected by Mark

Blackman, when he showed up. Aggie had not be able to
articulate her confusion as she agreed to come fetch this
stranger. Some power was at play this night, and that
power was beyond her ability to know fully, but she
could discern part of the whole; she could see how alien
that power was. And recognizing that alien quality added
to her understanding.

What she had at last come to understand, even if only
a part of a larger whole, frightened her, frightened her
more than she would have thought anything could. She
was so concerned over her passenger's presence that she
had to force herself to keep her mind on her driving.

Mark and Gary's speculation about some secret organi-
zation to which Kessler belonged being in existence in
this era was no longer a theory. For a member of that
organization sat in the passenger seat, after a long flight
from Germany. And they were riding down to the Has-
tings place in this terrible storm because somehow this
man must get there before Mark.

Mark had not told Aggie where he was. He might
have called from New York City, or from Buffalo, or
from Toronto. He might have flown in an hour before
this man, rented a car and be just a few miles ahead, or
he could be speeding to overtake them. But however he
was coming, Mark had said it was imperative he reach

Erl King Hill before midnight, yet no one should know
he was coming. And without Mark's saying anything,

Aggie had understood his life was at risk.

And despite her promise to say nothing about Mark's

return, this stranger had overcome her will, had made
her come for him, tell him what she knew, and bring him
to find Mark. Now every shadow held menace, every
dark place a threat of destruction.

Aggie considered what knowledge meant and the
never before understood wisdom inherent in the old saw,

"Ignorance is bliss." The threat of a mugger was unreal
to a farm boy, while it inspired terror in a city dweller.

Such was the price of knowledge. Now threats Aggie
would have dismissed as fantastic and impossible days
ago were a tangible danger, terribly real. She felt the
same as that farm boy would have to find himself sud-
denly in an alley with a gun pointed at his head by a
drug-crazed junkie.

Aggie wished she could have tracked down Gary be-
fore driving to Buffalo and told him to meet her at the

Hastings house. But some force of this man's will had
prevented that. She decided that she'd call Gary as soon
as she got there—assuming her passenger would let her.

She glanced over at him. He had barely spoken a dozen
words, all with a heavy German accent, to her since she
found him at the airport. He looked nothing so much as a
small-town businessman, portly, balding, and wearing an
inexpensive, rumpled suit. All she knew was his name,

August . . . something. She gripped the wheel tighter.

She was scared, for despite the man's harmless appear-
ance, he radiated that alien strength she had sensed all
night.

Aggie blinked several times, wondering where she
was. Then she saw the first landmark, Lonny Boggs's
mailbox. The Hastings place would be two farms up.

They made the first turn in the road carefully, but as she
approached the second, she picked up speed. She spoke
softly to her passenger, saying they were almost at their
destination. All the man said was a half-grunt, which
might have been, "Gut." As Aggie came out of the turn, a
lighting flash illuminated the road.

Something sprang across the road from out of the
woods. For a scant moment Aggie thought it a deer, for
she saw a rack of antlers. An instant later, she was turn-

ing the wheel furiously, for the thing in the middle of the
road had stopped, preventing her passing. The car
swerved and Aggie reflexively hit the brakes as her pas-
senger swore an oath of astonishment in German. Sud-
denly the car was spinning out of control, and Aggie
vainly attempted to turn back into the drift of the auto-
mobile.

To Aggie it was as if everything was instantly moving
sideways. For a second, whatever was in the road was
illuminated by the sweep of the car's headlights, and Ag-
gie saw a figure sitting atop a horse. As the car spun,

Aggie had a brief thought that somehow Jack or Gabbie
was out riding in the rain, then, as the car completed a
circle, the figure was again visible in the lights. It wasn't

Jack or Gabbie. The horse was impossibly white, nearly
glowing in the rain, the mane and tail almost aflame with
golden highlights. And the rider wasn't human. Squarely
atop the shoulders rested a golden helm, topped by ivory
antlers. And in the open face of the helm, a visage of
inhuman features regarded the out-of-control car. Eyes
glowing with their own inner light followed its spinning
path. Aggie's mouth opened in a scream of terror, more
for certain knowledge of what she faced in that instant
than for fear of the crash. Through her own fear she was
dimly aware that her companion was shouting, but not so
much in fear as in anger and warning. Aggie's mind re-
belled at the truth seen, even though she had known what
it was, and she closed her eyes and braced herself against
the steering wheel as the car began to turn over.

As Aggie's car left the road, slamming into a tree, the
rider threw back his head and howled an inhuman laugh.

The noise of the crash was muted by the driving rain.

Aggie sat motionless, in shock for a long minute, then
she shook her head to clear it. Her eyes burned and she
wiped them. Her hand encountered warmth, and she
knew she was bleeding. She glanced toward her passenger
and saw the man's head had smashed the side window,
spider-webbing the glass. Blood was flowing copiously
across his forehead, but the blank, slack-jawed expression
and vacant eyes told Aggie the man was dead.

Somehow the car had landed mostly upright, pointing
up toward the road as it sat on the embankment. Aggie
vainly tried to unfasten her safety belt, her fingers unable
to coordinate to push the simple button. Through the
window, the rain beating down upon it, she could see
movement. As she tried to free herself, waves of nausea
swept over her and she collapsed as her head swam, lean-
ing against the side window, her vision blurring.

Aggie closed her eyes and that made the dizziness
worse, so she forced herself alert and opened them. She
felt an odd detachment and wondered if she was dying.

Upon the road she could make out the rider, a dim figure
in the dark, and she could feel the creature's malevolent
gaze on her.

As the creature spurred his mount toward the wreck-
age, Aggie felt her strength ebb and knew that soon she
would be dead. The rider knew of their coming, and
knew that Aggie's passenger was an enemy. Old tales
remembered, tales now known to be, as Barney had said,
true stories, those old tales made her understand that
destruction rode toward her at leisurely pace. Aggie
found her fear had fled with the certainty of death, but
she felt a deep regret at the price others would soon be
forced to pay.

Then the night was lit by flashing red and blue lights
as another car rounded the corner, a county sheriffs car.

Aggie saw the rider turn his steed and spur it back into
the woods. As darkness began to enfold Aggie, she was
dimly aware of the squawking sound made by the car's
police radio. She thought that someone at Lonny Boggs's
farm must have heard the crash and called in. Aggie
cried out and her voice sounded weak and distant in her
own ear. She fought to stay conscious, since there was so
little time left, only hours.

As darkness closed around her, she thought she could
hear another car approaching, pulling over, then a door
slam. From a great distance away she could hear a voice,

Mark's voice, calling her name. Her last thoughts were,

Poor, poor Patrick. Then she sank into a black void.

25

At seven-thirty Sean walked to the auditorium door and
asked Mr. Hanes, the third-grade teacher, if he could go
to the boys' room. The instructor nodded absently, for
kids had been going in and out all evening. Several boys
were using the rest room, and Sean made a show of enter-
ing one of the stalls. He sat with his pants around his
ankles for what he judged the proper amount of time,
then left. Instead of returning to the auditorium, he
ducked into a side hall, then ran in the opposite direction
from the auditorium, toward the library. He remembered
a piece of trivia he had overheard: During any school
activity, all doors in the building were set so the crash
bars would let people out, even if they couldn't be opened
from the outside. Sean reached the outside door next to
the school library, he pushed down quietly on the crash
bar, and the door opened with a loud click. Sean made
good his escape. Within minutes he was running across
the park, heading for Barney's shack.

It was raining again, heavy and cold. Sean was wet
and chilled when he reached the shack. He hit the door
with his fist, yelling Barney's name.

After what seemed an eternity, the door opened and

Barney stood before him, holding a bottle of Jameson's
whiskey, obviously halfway to being drunk. The handy-
man said, "Ah! Have you come for some treats, Sean

Hastings? I've none, as you no doubt know. Come in,
then, for you're certain to catch your death if you stand
there gawking." The boy entered and Barney sought out
a fairly clean towel and tossed it to the boy, who dried
himself as best he could. " 'Tis a foolish thing for you to
be doing, dashing about in the rain without a coat, Sean,
and you just being over a high fever."

"Barney, I've got to find Patrick. You said the Good

People were leaving tonight!"

"True. At the first stroke of midnight, they'll pack up,
kit and kaboodle, and off they'll go. And by the twelfth
stroke they'll be gone from sight, finding some other plot
of woodlands—God knows where—and some other poor
community to terrorize. God grant that it's the English."

He lifted the bottle of whiskey in salute to that and
drank. Fixing the boy with a still-steady eye, he said,

"Then have you brought a silver arrow and a bow, or a
silver sword, as I told your brother?"

Sean reached down into his boot and pulled out the
silver letter opener. "I got this."

Slowly Barney went down on his knees before the boy.

He took the letter opener and turned it in his hand. It
was silver. He looked at it for what seemed a long time,
then looked at Sean. He let out a soft sigh. Tears welled
up in his eyes as he reached out a shaking hand to touch
the boy's shoulder. "You're bound to do this thing,
then?"

"I've got to, Barney. Patrick will go with them tonight,
won't he?"

Almost whispering, Barney answered, "Aye, and he'll
be lost for eternity, for the chances of finding the Good

People again are scant. I've seen them once and then
once again in my life, and it was a good fifty years be-
tween. And most see them not at all during their mortal
span. But it's a fearful and dangerous thing you're pro-
posing, Sean Hastings. Your parents may mourn two sons
this night. Have you wrestled with that?"

Sean nodded his head curtly, then said, "Where is Pat-
rick?"

Barney got up, taking the letter opener. He turned and
took up a sharpener he used on scissors, shears, and
knives, and put a sharp edge to the blade, paying special
attention to giving it a wicked point. Satisfied the ersatz
dagger was as keen as possible, he returned it to Sean.

Barney fetched a coat from a hook, placing the half-
empty bottle of whiskey in one large pocket and a long
waterproof flashlight in the other. He took down a small
jar and emptied all the screws from it. He searched and
found a lid, then fit it into place. "Then if you're commit-

ted, you'd best go armed with whatever you can find.

Come with me quickly, for there's scant time, in truth."

He started to move, then thought of something. He
pulled open a drawer and rifled through it until at last he
pulled out a string of rosary beads and a cross. " 'Tis an
age since I've had the good sense to pray, Sean, but this
night I'll make up for those lost days."

Barney led the boy out of the shack, slamming the
door behind but not bothering to lock it. He half ran, half
walked, as fast as his old legs could manage, while Sean
trotted beside him. "First," said Barney, "we must go to

St. Catherine's."

He hurried Sean along to the large church on Third

Street, four blocks from the park. Pushing open the large
doors, he whispered, " 'Tis All Saints' Day on the mor-
row, and there'll be those at prayer, so walk softly." He
led the boy through the narthex of the church to where a
font of holy water awaited the congregation. Barney un-
screwed the cap and filled the jar, quickly screwing the
cap back on.

With a motion for silence, Barney led the boy into the
nave. They passed a pair of silent worshippers who didn't
bother to look up as Barney and Sean moved toward the
front of the church. In the transept stood a statue of the

Virgin, before which were burning dozens of candles.

Barney reached the point before the altar and knelt,
crossing himself, and Sean imitated him. Then he moved
to the altar of the Virgin and rummaged through his
pocket for coins. Depositing some quarters in a box, he
took a candle and gave it to Sean. "Light this, and while
you do, pray to Our Lady to watch over you, Sean. This
sort of undertaking must have holy sanctification, or 'tis
doomed to failure. Do you understand?"

Sean nodded. His parents had never practiced, but he
had been to church with his Grandmother O'Brien. He
lit the candle and placed it before the statue of the Virgin.

He closed his eyes and softly said, "Please, Lady, help me
find Patrick and get him back safe."

Barney studied the small boy for a long moment, his

eyes showing approval. "That's as honest as a prayer can
be, in truth. Now we must hurry."

He led the boy down one aisle, past the confessionals.

Outside the church the rain pelted them as they hurried
along the streets, past Barney's shack, then into the
woods. Barney took out the flashlight and turned it on.

"From here you must listen carefully, for the way is peril-
ous. Should you become lost, you'll be lost forever. Do
you understand?"

Sean swallowed his fear and nodded. Barney sighed in
resignation. "Then listen: The way to the land of the

Good People lies under the hill on your property."

"Erl King Hill," said Sean.

"So the German called it. A proper fairy mound it is,
no doubt." They walked slowly through the trees, along
the path the boys used to travel to and from the park.

Sean knew the way and had little trouble following Bar-
ney's lead. The half-drunk Irishman continued his in-
structions. "Facing the setting sun, you walk nine times
widdershins—that's anticlockwise, lad—until you find
the entrance to the land of the Good People." He rubbed
his face, forcing back to the surface long-forgotten lore.

"Once through the cave, you'll find a path."

"Like the Yellow Brick Road?"

"You can think of it that way, lad. But it won't be
yellow. But if you say this: 'By the blessed St. Patrick,

Our Lady, and in the name of our Lord, guide my way,'

you'll find a guide."

"A guide? Who?"

"I don't know, lad, for the stories are confused. It may
be a raven, who you must be leery of, for he is a wily and
treacherous guide who'll try to lead you astray unless you
keep an eye on him and command him to truth. It may
be a man or woman, who'll speak in a foreign language
and may seek to beguile you. Or it may be a child. But
most likely it will be a golden ball of light. Or so the
legends say. Follow it. You must not leave the roadway
save to follow the guide. You must not stop longer than it
takes to catch a breath, or you'll lose your guide. And
you may not trust anyone you meet, no matter how fair

they seem." He thought, then said, "Save one. There may
be a man, called True Tom, so the stories say. He cannot
lie, so if you meet him, you can trust his answers to be
without falsehood. You'll know him by his speech, for
he's a Scotsman, which means he's almost Irish." Then
with a shrug, he added, "At least he's not an English-
man."

Sean nodded, but he was beginning to feel over-
whelmed with the enormity of what he was undertaking.

He just kept in mind what Barney had said, and found
that concentrating on the long list of things to do and not
to do was a convenient way to ignore his fear.

"Now, along the way you may see sights of wonder
and beauty, but never, never leave the path, save at your
guide's bidding. There'll be a house of light and music,
and one whose cornerposts are mighty trees, larger than
redwoods. You'll be tempted to enter, but do not. You
may not return." Barney turned his head away as if seek-
ing to see something in the night, and his red-rimmed
eyes ran with tears. "There are so many stories, lad, and I
can't recall but a tenth part of them. Ah, where have my
wits fled? I can't remember." With emphasis he said,

"Sean, whatever else, remember this one thing. Don't
leave the path, save when you're bid to by whatever guide

God sends you."

They approached the backside of the hill, and Barney
led Sean up the side, shining the light on the wet ground.

He reached down and plucked up a handful of grass.

"What are you doing?" asked Sean.

"Making it possible for you to see what is real," an-
swered Barney, holding out his hand for Sean to see.

"Shamrocks."

"That's clover," said Sean.

"And what do you think a shamrock is, Sean Has-
tings? A bloody California cactus?" He unscrewed the
cap of the jar of holy water. He crushed the shamrocks in
the lid, holding the open jar under his coat. Adding some
holy water, he used his thumb to mix the mess together.

"I don't think any of God's clean rain will dilute this too
much," he whispered, a half prayer. He motioned Sean

close and dipped his thumb in the greenish mess. "Close
your eyes," he instructed. He rubbed his damp thumb
lightly over Sean's eyelids. "Use your hand to cover your
eyes, so the rain doesn't wash the stain off."

Sean did as he was told. Quickly Barney intoned,

"Blessed St. Patrick, watch over this boy and let his eyes
see what is true and what is not. Amen." He said to Sean,

"Without the juice of the shamrock mixed with holy wa-
ter, you'd not be able to resist their guiles. The fairy stone
will keep their hands off your person, lad, and this will
keep your mind free of their glamours and spells, but
only so long as you don't wash it off. Remember, there is
much that is beautiful but false in the land of the Good

People. Be cautious." He emptied out the lid and, still
protecting the holy water, used the falling rain to cleanse
the lid of stains. When he was satisfied he had purged the
lid of foreign matter, he screwed the cap back on the jar.

He handed the jar to Sean and led him toward the

Troll Bridge. "When you reach the end of your journey,
you'll meet the Fool." Barney stopped before the burned-
out oak stump under which Jack had found the gold.

Barney knelt, ignoring the mud, and gripped Sean's
shoulders. "Listen close if you would have any hope for
your brother or yourself. They call him the Fool, for in
the old tongue that is his name, but you can't be thinking
him a silly or clownish fellow. In the old language 'fool'

means one who is unmindful of risk: a wanton, reckless
sort of a rogue with no mind for danger, one who will
dare things no sane man would. And this Fool is danger-
ous beyond contemplation. Do you understand what I'm
saying to you, Sean Hastings?"

Sean nodded, but it was evident much of what Barney
was saying was confusing him. At last Barney said, "Well
then, just be mindful he's as dangerous as anyone this
side of the devil can be, and you'll have the right of it.

Now here's what you must do, lad. You must call him by
his true name. Amadan-na-Briona. Say that name." Sean
repeated the name, and Barney said, "No, that will never
do." He drilled Sean a dozen times until he was satisfied
with the boy's pronunciation.

Barney glanced toward the hill, a black shadow rising
against a broken gloom of trees. "When you say his true
name, you'll have power over him. Not much, but
enough. Command him by our blessed Lord Jesus to give
back your brother to you and let you go free. You must
instruct him, and his followers, to let you go unmolested.

He must do this thing. But be cautious of how you say it,
lad, for you may only command him once." Barney told

Sean exactly what to say, then his face clouded. "I wish
we knew what sort of beastie this Bad Thing of yours
may be, but we don't, so there's no use dwelling on it. If
he comes, he comes. The fairy stone will keep him leery
of you, but you must protect Patrick. Use your dagger
and perhaps some holy water. These creatures were those
who stood aside when Satan led his host in rebellion
against our Heavenly Father. Not so righteous they could
remain in God's heaven but not so evil they deserved hell
with the devil, they were placed in this land between.

Still, they are given to avoiding things holy, so use the
water if you must, but save some. This is most impor-
tant." Barney gripped the boy's shoulders tightly, as if to
impress upon him what he was saying. "Once you've
found your brother, you must pour some of the holy wa-
ter on his head and make the sign of the cross upon his
forehead and say, 'In the name of our Lord, you are free.'

Repeat it." Sean did so and got it right.

"Do not overlook this in the excitement of the mo-
ment. For until you do this thing, Patrick'll be the ser-
vant of the Fool, and he may fight to stay. Then you must
leave quickly, for should there be any way the Fool can
devise to follow after you, any way he can get around
your order to let you go free, he will. And should he
follow you outside the hill, he may take you again. And
that would be for once and for all. No one outside can
best him, save a true bard or some other manner of sor-
cerer, and neither you nor I've the knack of magic. So bid
him stay behind when he frees your brother, for after
midnight he must leave. Now, the last: Do not stop to rest,
even should your guide permit it. Time is not there as 'tis
here. Stop to nap and you'll awaken years from now, no

older but for a night, but hopelessly lost to return, and
too faraway for finding. So keep awake and keep mov-
ing."

Tears filled Barney's eyes and he said, "Ah, 'tis a peril-
ous path you've chosen, Sean. Keep moving, remember
what I've told you, and trust no one save True Tom if you
should chance to meet him. When you've returned, come
out the cave, and move deasil—clockwise—round the hill
nine times and you'll be back. You must be gone from the
hill by midnight, or who knows where you'll come out."

His voice softened, and he hugged the boy tightly. "If I
were a man instead of a drunken old sod I would be
doing this brave thing instead of standing fearfully aside
while a boy goes to do it. You're a fine and courageous
lad, Sean O'Brien Hastings, even if you're only half Irish.

Go now and be quickly back, and may blessed St. Patrick
and the Holy Mother protect you."

With the sign of the cross, and a shove, he sent Sean
off. The boy spun and faced the hill. He moved off to the
right, making a complete circle of the hill. After the
eighth pass, he disappeared from Barney's sight. The old
handyman continued to kneel in the mud, and he took
out the rosary beads and shouted into the night. "I'll
pray for you, Sean Hastings. I'll pray to St. Jude, who
watches over impossible undertakings, and Our Lady,
and St. Patrick . . . and even to that Englishman, St.

George, so he might guide your dagger should there be
need." His voice softened, and he added, "And I'll not
leave until the twelfth stroke of midnight, you dear brave
lad." Ignoring the rain that beat down upon him, and the
mud in which he knelt, Barney Doyle prayed. And he
prayed with a fervency he hadn't felt since a boy.

26

Sean moved away from Barney, shielding his eyes against
the heavy rain. He was conscious of everything around
him, the tattoo of the rain in the trees and the odd echoes
that sound made around him. There was a pungent and
wet piny odor in the air, a damp wood smell so intense it
made Sean heady as he breathed it in. He felt and heard
the plopping of sticky mud reluctant to let go of his rub-
ber rain boots. Gabbie's blouse stuck to his body, and he
felt the chill caress of the wind. He pushed these concerns
from his mind and tried to recall everything Barney had
told him as he moved around the hill, passing from Bar-
ney's sight.

On his third pass, the rain halted, and he lowered his
hand from where it had shaded the grass stains around
his eyes. He saw that Barney looked odd, as if they were
separated by some strange sheet of amber glass.

On his fourth, it got warmer.

On his sixth, there seemed to be more light.

On his seventh trip, the hill was definitely brighter,
while the surrounding woods were plunged into jet black-
ness, so that he could no longer see the kneeling Barney.

The wind was a distant whisper and the odor of pine and
wet earth a faint memory.

On his eighth pass, the hill was an island in space,
with no hint of surrounding countryside. No light or
sound existed beyond the hill.

On his ninth pass about the hill, he came to a cave
mouth. Through it he could see light a great distance off.

Sean paused, took a deep breath, and entered the hill.

27

Sean stepped into the cave in the side of Erl King Hill.

Cautiously at first, he crept down a long tunnel, feeling
his way in the blackness. Suddenly he fell forward, as if
stepping into a huge hole. For an instant he screamed in
terror as his stomach twisted. Then abruptly he was
standing on firm ground. He cried out again as he experi-
enced the jolting change in orientation. It was as if the
world had swung up ninety degrees; he was falling, then
suddenly standing upright as gravity caught up with him.

Sean knew he was someplace else.

He could see nothing save a faint illumination at the
far end of the tunnel. Forcing himself to stop crying, he
felt around in the gloom until he recovered his dagger.

He checked the holy water and was relieved to find the
jar still safely in his shirt. Sean took a deep breath, then
told himself, "Shut up, crybaby." Feeling better for that
admonition, he resumed his travels.

He walked for what seemed a long time through the
darkened tunnel, surrounded by the rich, musty odors of
damp earth. After a subjective eternity, he saw the dis-
tant golden light begin to grow larger. He made his way
to it and emerged from a cave in a hillside.

Sean exhaled as his eyes drank in the alien landscape
before him. Trees too perfect to exist on earth swayed in a
gentle breeze under a sky halfway between blue and
black. It was daylight, but eerily so, as if the light came
from all directions rather than any single source, and at a
quarter normal illumination. It was a hazy beach day
without the glare. And there was something golden in the
light, a shade of champagne color that gently skewed the
eye's perception. Everything within Sean's view looked
dark, yet he could perceive detail.

The boy shuddered a moment and fought off his first
real attack of panic. This was like nothing he had ex-

pected. He had thought of some sort of Walt Disney
place, painted in bright colors of intense hue. Instead he
looked out across a land of halftones, of golden hazes and
soft smokes, every color cut and muted as if he looked
through grey lenses. It was a place of fog, yet that fog
was unseen. Light came gently, as if the rules for light
were different here. No sunlight, Sean thought; ever.

A path, or rather a road, ran from under his feet off
into the distance. It was fashioned of stone, light, almost
white in color. He stood unable to move. He looked off
into the distance and saw some people issuing from the
darker places between trees near the edge of the meadow.

He hadn't seen them a moment before. They moved to-
ward him, as if in frolic, pointing at him and speaking in
an unknown language. Sean's eyes nearly boggled as they
came close enough for him to see detail. They wore all
manner of clothing, from being almost entirely naked to
being covered from head to foot in richly embroidered
period clothing of fine weave and complex fashion. But
all of them had green skin. The wind carried the faint
sounds of laughter, and Sean shivered. It was not the
mad laugh of the Fool, but there was nothing human in
its sound either.

Sean swallowed a giddy fear and reached up to touch
the stain on his right eyelid. He felt the gunk still there,
so if what Barney had said was true, there were green
people running toward him. He swallowed the urge to
cry and spoke the words Barney had forced him to re-
member. "By the blessed St. Patrick, Our Lady, and in
the name of our Lord, guide my way." His voice was
high-pitched, strained by fear, but somehow he managed
to say the words loudly.

Instantly a humming sound filled the air, and the
green people halted their movement toward him. From
the far end of the path an object appeared, speeding along
toward him. A miniature sun hurled toward Sean, but as
it neared he saw it was only bright in comparison to the
muted landscape in which he found himself. It was a
globe of golden light, spinning rapidly, so chat no feature
or detail of its surface was apparent. The green people

spoke softly among themselves, gesturing to the boy and
the golden sphere. It raced toward him with a low hum,
until at last it hovered before the boy. Sean said, "Are
you my guide?"

The globe bobbed, as if affirming its nature, and Sean
said, "Help me. I want to find my brother, Patrick. The

Fool's got him."

The globe seemed to spin erratically for a moment, as
if struck by fear, but after an instant of odd movement it
circled around Sean and began moving down the road.

Sean sucked in a deep breath, realized he had tears on his
cheeks, and wiped them away. With a show of resolution
he didn't feel, he marched after the slowly moving globe,
determined to follow it to quest's end. The green people
were silent as the boy moved past them. They seemed
undisturbed by what they had witnessed, but they had
lost their gay demeanor at the mention of the Fool's
name, and they stepped out of Sean's way, letting him
follow his guide unhindered.

28

There seemed no time. Barney had mentioned something
about this, but Sean couldn't recall what he'd said. Sean
felt the faint stirrings of hunger and wished he had
brought something to eat, maybe a peanut butter sand-
wich. But he couldn't be expected to think of everything.

He clutched his dagger of silver in his right hand and
followed after the golden ball of light. He had tried talk-
ing to the light, but it had remained mute. The landscape
through which they moved was an eerie delight to the
senses, woodlands of dark and alien beauty. Streams of
crystal water flowed nearby, and Sean wondered if the
water was safe to drink. Barney hadn't said anything, but

Sean thought it best to wait until he absolutely had to
have a drink.

The ball moved in an odd rhythm, swaying from side

to side above the road, almost as if dancing or skipping.

Sean plodded silently along the center of the off-white
stones.

After some long and uncounted time, Sean saw a cas-
tle in the distance. He thought it took the longest time to
reach it, for it was very large and grew slowly as he
marched along. Rounding a curve in the road, Sean saw a
man sitting near the roadside. He was perched upon a
large rock that sat at an intersection of the white road
and a smaller path that led to the drawbridge of the cas-
tle.

The boy squinted to get a better view of the castle in
the haze, and for all his efforts, he could only tell it was
an immense place, with walls that seemed more like glass
than stone. Upon the distant towers brave pennants flew
in the odd breeze and people moved, though Sean
couldn't tell if they were really people. The light in this
place made anything distant look funny. The castle rose
up above a beach, upon the shore of a large lake or bay.

Sean wondered how he could not see such a large body of
water until now. He glanced off to the other side of the
castle and saw the shore quickly enshrouded in mists,
which faded to silver and gold light. A tremble passed
through Sean as he tried to understand what he was see-
ing. To him it seemed like a TV picture where the screen
changed from one image to another, but somehow got
stuck in the middle of the dissolve. Putting aside his dis-
quiet, the boy keep moving along the road, bringing him
to where the man sat.

Sean slowed to study the man as he passed him. The
man's dark hair hung to his shoulders and his beard was
thick and unkempt. He wore a shirt of iron rings sewn to
leather, with a simple pair of woolen trousers tucked into
boots of soft leather, sheepskin surrounding the top. Sean
thought he looked sort of like a Viking, but he had no
helm with horns. Sean approached cautiously to the edge
of the road, bringing him to within twenty feet of the
silent warrior, but the man showed no sign of being
aware of the boy's presence. He seemed in a trance, or so
deep in thought he was oblivious to anything else. Along

his scalp ran a deep scar, pink and puckered, with only a
short growth of hair around it, looking only recently
healed. Sean noted he held an empty scabbard across his
knees. The boy slowed his progress even more, so he
could watch as four women accompanied by a cortege of
servants emerged from the barbican of the castle and
crossed the bridge. Each seemed human, if not without
an otherworldly quality to their beauty. One was dressed
in regal raiments of crimson and gold, while the second
was equally splendid and commanding in a gown of deep
green. The third wore white and silver, while the fourth
was dressed in black. As they approached, Sean halted,
unable to take his eyes from the wondrous procession.

The woman in black was the only one who seemed to
notice Sean, but she merely looked at him a brief mo-
ment, a sad and resigned expression in her blue eyes, as
she gifted him with a hint of a smile, then turned to face
the man upon the rock. She spoke so softly that Sean
could not hear her words, and the man seemed to come
out of some trance.

The four women waited while the warrior slowly
stood. He paused a moment as he caught sight of Sean,
then spoke. His words were in a language unknown to
the boy, and faint, as if some agency were preventing

Sean from clearly hearing what was said, and his manner
was hesitant and uncertain. The woman in black spoke,
casting a brief glance at the boy. The man nodded and
offered his arm to the woman. She took it and the pair
turned toward the castle, the other three women follow-
ing, their servants bringing up the rear.

Sean was fascinated by the display, wondering who
these fabulous people could be, but his attention was
pulled away by the sight of his golden guide vanishing
over the horizon. Then Sean remembered Barney's warn-
ing about not stopping lest he lose his guide. Feeling
panic strike, he saw the guide was gone. He sprinted after
the ball of light.

He crested a hill and saw he had gained ground on the
orb, but still he ran, fearing to lose his only hope of find-
ing his brother. By the time he had overtaken the ball of

golden light, he noticed the trees had closed in on both
sides of the road and everything had grown darker. These
woods were more oppressive, more somber, than those
that stretched back from the castle to the hill with the
green people. Sean gripped his dagger tighter. Forcing
himself to calmness, the boy followed doggedly on behind
the shimmering guide.

29

Phil glanced through the glass to where Mickey Bergman
was examining Patrick one last time before leaving for

Baltimore in the morning.

The doctor left Patrick's bedside and came out of the
room. Bergman took Phil by the arm, steering him to
where Gloria sat in the waiting area. She had left Phil's
side, unable to watch the shrieking creature that had
once been her son struggling to bite and scratch the at-
tendants as they held him down so Mickey Bergman
could examine him. "Philip, I was going to call you if you
hadn't come in. There's something I need tell you."

"About Patrick?" said Gloria.

"Yes. I'm sorry, but his behavior is becoming more

. . . extreme. He's also . . . stronger, as if . . . I don't
know, a kind of hysterical strength, maybe. It's getting
more difficult to work with him. He ... attacked a
candy striper today."

"What?" said Phil in astonishment.

Bergman sat down opposite Phil and Gloria. "The girl
meant well, but she was being pretty stupid entering that
room—she's new. She said she saw Patrick through the
window and he seemed so upset and frightened. It took
two orderlies and a nurse to pull him off of her."

"What did he do?" asked Gloria.

Mickey shook his head. "If he wasn't only eight years
old, I'd say he tried to rape her."

Gloria's expression was eloquent, even if she couldn't

find words. Bergman continued, "He had the girl's blouse
torn half off and was holding her down on the bed."

Mickey's face showed uncertainty. "He bit her on the left
breast, a nasty wound. The girl's going to have a scar.

"Look, if this continues, I don't know if that state
hospital Wingate's suggested is the best place for Patrick.

I can get him into one of the psych research units at

Johns Hopkins. I think I'd like to follow this case a while
longer."

Phil said, "Thanks, Mickey. But why the sudden inter-
est?"

Bergman sat back, arms crossed. "I can't tell you re-
ally. There's just something about this one that bugs the
hell out of me." He looked at Gloria, finding her more
collected than he had seen her so far, so he ventured an
opinion. "I don't know what's with Patrick, but it's
unique. And ... if we can find out what it is ...

maybe we can. ..."

"Help him?" said Gloria with little hope evidenced in
her tone or manner.

Mickey shook his head. "I can't say that. I just think
we might discover something important. I really can't tell
you why. Call it a hunch."

Phil said, "We'll talk it over. How long before we can
see Patrick?"

"A while, I'm afraid. You'll have to wait a bit. It's
taking more drugs to calm him, and longer for them to
take effect. I'm thinking of changing what we give him so
he doesn't develop drug problems along with everything
else. And . . . it'll be a while before he's cleaned up."

Looking hard at them, he said, "You realize he'll be un-
der restraints when you see him?"

Both nodded, and Mickey rose. "Very well. I'll call
you tomorrow when I get to Baltimore." Phil rose and
stuck out his hand. They shook and Bergman said, "I'm
glad I came. Not just for that outrageous bribe offer,
either. This one's unique. I just wish I could have done
more."

Phil watched him leave and sat down next to his wife.

Gloria seemed numb, off in her own world, while they

waited for the nurse to tell them they could visit Patrick.

Phil wished the sharp churning feeling in his stomach
would go away. He'd been eating antacids almost hourly
since all this had begun. And things seemed to be getting
worse. Mark's vanishing act had a strangely unsettling
effect on everyone. And Sean seemed so moody and dis-
turbed. Running a hand over a tired face, Phil said to
himself, "Don't make too much of this, old son."

Gloria turned slightly. "Huh?"

He shook his head. "Just talking to myself." Gloria
returned to her own lonely world.

Phil chided himself: Of course everyone was on edge
and there was some general fallout from that anxiety.

Mark was probably off poking around and somehow had
managed to miscommunicate with Gary. And Sean . . .

well, he'd had a brother—-more than a brother—a twin
taken from him. Of course he'd be moody and disturbed.

Phil hoped the party tonight would make things a little
easier for Sean.

Phil felt exhaustion pull at him. Nervous fatigue, with
its strangely electric numbing quality, caused him to drift
into a twitchy half doze, one in which he was aware of his
surroundings but also not quite awake.

He thought of Patrick and could see his son just a
dozen feet away, as if the walls between the waiting room
and his bed had vanished. Then something odd occurred
and somehow he also could see Patrick lying on ...

clover? The boy seemed to doze in some other place,
asleep upon a bed of flowers and grasses. And near him
rested something . . . black. Something . . . evil. Phil
tried to warn Patrick, to shout to him to get up and run
to Daddy, but his body wouldn't obey him. He felt him-
self strain, but his arms and legs wouldn't budge and his
voice stayed mute. In his mind he screamed Patrick's
name. The boy sat up. Phil's heart leaped as he saw his
son look around, blinking in confusion. Then the boy saw
his father. With a smile he stood and took a slow step
toward his father. But the evil black thing rose up be-
hind. Phil screamed to the boy to run and tried to go to
him, but his body wouldn't answer his demands. Patrick

sensed the presence of the evil thing behind and turned to
look over his shoulder. The boy's eyes widened in terror
at the vague black shape and he turned to face his father.

He took an agonizingly slow step toward his father as the
black horror reached out and encompassed the boy with
long, sooty black arms. Opening his mouth, Patrick cried
out. "Phil!"

Phil jerked awake, drenched in sweat, his heart pound-
ing. It took him a few seconds to gain his bearings and
discover he had fallen asleep in the chair. Mark was
kneeling before his chair. He said, "Are you all right?"

"Ya," said Phil huskily. "Just dozed for a second. A
nightmare." He wiped his face and took a deep breath,
collecting himself.

Then Mark's presence hit Phil and Gloria and both
started to speak. "Don't ask anything," Mark inter-
rupted. His face showed he had been without sleep for
some time. The area above his normally trimmed beard
showed several day's growth and his eyes were red-
rimmed, set in deep, dark sockets, and his skin looked
chalky. He was wet, as if he had been outside in the rain
for a while.

"You okay?" asked Gloria.

"Never mind me," said Mark. "Tell me exactly what's
happened since I left. I went to your place and Gabbie
said you were here with Patrick."

Phil began and Gloria joined in, and after a few min-
utes Mark had a fairly accurate narrative of all that had
occurred since his departure. He still knelt before Phil
and Gloria, his hand held before his mouth as he
thought. Then he said, "Christ, you were taken for a
ride."

"What?" asked Phil.

Mark's expression showed something else wasn't right
and Phil said, "What's wrong?"

"Aggie's been in an accident. She's downstairs. Dr.

Murphy said he thought you'd be up here with Dr. Berg-
man, Phil, so I came up to tell you."

Phil said, "What happened?"

Mark said, "After I left your place, I passed the acci-

dent. I recognized Aggie's car." He spoke without emo-
tion. "She spun out on the road between your place and

Lonny Boggs's."

"Is she going to be all right?" asked Gloria, rising.

Phil stood and made to move toward the elevator, but

Mark held him back. "She didn't make it."

"How did you know?" asked Phil.

"I saw the cops pull her from the wreckage and put a
tarp over her and her passenger. And she's downstairs in
pathology, not E.R."

"Goddamnitall,' whispered Gloria. Her eyes began to
tear and she softly repeated, "Goddamnitall." Phil stood
silently, too numb to take in Aggie's death. She had been
like a member of his family and his closest professional
mentor. Mechanically he asked, "How did it happen?"

Mark spoke. "I can only guess. But details aren't im-
portant now." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Time
is."

"What do you mean?" asked Gloria.

Mark pushed by Phil and stood right in front of Glo-
ria. "On the night Patrick was taken ill, do you remem-
ber anything unusual, besides Sean's screaming?"

Gloria shook her head, then remembered faintly a dim
image of a shadow in the corner. "Well, there was some-
thing."

"What?" Mark's dark eyes seemed to bore through
her.

She explained what she had seen in the corner as best
as she could, and Mark said, "How much has Gary told
you?"

"A lot of weird shit," Phil answered. "He couldn't
seem to believe half of what he said himself, but he told
me what you let him in on just before he left for Seattle.

But he was holding something back."

All Mark said was, "It's worse than he told you. I'm
going to have to leave again, for two reasons. The first is
that man with Aggie tonight. He'll have friends, and
they'll be coming after him quickly. Some may be on
their way here even now. If they find me, they might kill
me."

Gloria appeared on the edge of hysteria as she sat
wide-eyed, holding a hard ball of crumpled Kleenex in
her fist, pressed against her lips.

Mark said, "We're going underground for a while,

Gary and I. Running will only delay the inevitable.

They'll find us sooner or later. But when they do, I hope
we'll be able to bargain with them."

"Who's 'them'?" demanded Phil.

Mark ignored the question. "The other reason I'm
leaving is to go someplace, Phil, and you have to come
with me."

"Where?"

"To a place where few men have ever gone, to prevent
a great deal of harm to a great many people. I need help,
but Gary's got to do some things that prevent him from
corning with me. I have no one else to ask, but I don't ask
you to come to help me. You have a very personal stake
in coming."

"What reason?" asked Phil.

"I'm going to the place your sons have gone. I'm the
only one who can help you go after Patrick and Sean."

"What do you mean?" asked Gloria, her voice barely a
whisper.

"I went to your house and Gabbie said Sean wasn't at
the school when she and Jack went to get him. They've
called the police, but they won't find him. I know where
he is. He's gone to get Patrick back."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Mark! You
come in here telling us Aggie's dead and somebody's af-
ter you and all sorts of mysterious bullshit, and then
you're on about Sean going off into the night after Pat-
rick!" Phil's voice rose as frustration and anger sought to
fight their way out of that place he had bottled them up.

"Now, it may have escaped your notice, but Patrick is
over there in that ward, brain-damaged but otherwise in-
tact!"

Mark put his hand on Phil's arm. His voice remained
steady, but there was a hard edge in it as he said, "That's
not Patrick in there, Phil."

Phil pulled away from Mark's grasp. "What are you
saying? I know my own son."

Mark glanced at Gloria and suddenly pushed past Phil
toward the ward door. Phil stood motionless a moment
before springing after him.

Mark walked in and glanced through one glass win-
dow and the next until he saw Patrick. He walked
straight to the nurses' station. Keys lay on the desk while
the woman read a magazine. Most of the patients were
quiet this time of night, asleep or watching television.

Mark just took the keys, and before the woman could
react, he was trying them in the lock to Patrick's room.

"Sir!" shouted the nurse. "What are you doing!" Before
she was halfway to him he had the door open and was
through.

The nurse was rudely shoved aside as Phil and Gloria
entered. "You can't go in there!" she shouted.

Phil entered to see Mark standing at the foot of Pat-
rick's bed. The boy lay tied by heavy leather restraints.

He glared up at Mark, hissing like an enraged snake.

Mark pointed at the boy, saying something to him in a
foreign language. Patrick flinched and cowered, trying to
pull away from Mark, as if terrified by the man's pres-
ence. The boy's restraints were stretched taut. Phil
reached Mark's side, but before he could grab him, some-
thing caused his heart to freeze. For the first time since
the night of Patrick's illness, there was a shrewd intelli-
gence in the boy's eyes. A keening sound issued from the
boy's mouth and he pulled at the straps, then he looked
at Phil and spoke. "Daddy, he's hurting me."

Gloria gasped and shrank back, clutching the door-
jamb. Mark continued his chanting, and Phil recognized
the language as something Gaelic, ancient Scottish or

Irish. Then Patrick pulled and one of the restraints
ripped. Three more yanks and the boy was free of the
leather restraints. He crouched before Mark's accusing
finger, bending his head as if the words were somehow
hurting him. He backed away until he reached the head
of the bed, then he continued his movement and began to
crawl backward up the wall.

Mark continued to point at Patrick and began to shout
at him in the strange language. Gloria screamed, and the
nurse went ashen at the sight of Patrick climbing the
wall. Two burly orderlies pushed past Gloria and the
nurse, and stopped at the sight of the boy climbing back-
ward up the wall.

One of the two orderlies, a huge black man, said,

"Holy shit! Fuckin' Spiderman!"

Then Mark's voice rang out. "In the name of God give
us back the bairn!"

"Never!" hissed Patrick and his form began to shim-
mer.

"Bring back the bairn!" commanded Mark.

"The Compact is broken!" cried the thing that hugged
the wall. "You may not compel me!"

Mark turned and found a pitcher of water and threw it
at the child. "Water cleanse thee! The glamour be ban-
ished! The spell be broken! Changeling begone!"

The water spattered over the boy and suddenly Pat-
rick was no more. Hugging the wall was a creature about
the same size as the boy, a squat, fat thing with spindly
arms and legs, huge belly, and enormous penis. But its
head was twice the size of the boy's and its face a frog
mask of hate and rage, its wide mouth split in a hideous
grimace. A long tongue lolled out between sharp teeth
that could be seen even across the room. Frog eyes with
yellows around red irises darted about the room. The
creature's skin was a dull grey, and ears like small fans or
seashells rose up on each side of its head. Both feet and
hands were tipped with black-taloned fingers and toes. It
was a nightmare made real.

The creature threw back its head, opening wide its
mouth, and howled, a terrible sound like a claxon, echo-
ing with a deep rumble. A stench of rotten eggs filled the
room and the creature's voice shot up in register, from
bass to tenor, until it shrilled, "My master is great. You
are his meat." With a peal of laughter that raised goose-
flesh like the sound of nails on a blackboard, the creature
sprang from the wall, upon the bed, and bounced as if it
were a trampoline. It hurled impossibly through the air,

smashing through the window, sending glass flying out-
ward as the thing fled into the night.

Mark hurried over to the window; honking and
screeching sounded from the road as motorists swerved
to avoid the creature racing across the highway. The
sound of several cars crashing into one another filled the
night. One of the stunned orderlies looked across the
room at the shattered window and said, "That's impossi-
ble! That's safety glass. You couldn't break it with a
sledgehammer!"

Mark took Phil by the arm and half led, half dragged
him past the man. Gloria was crying, hysterical with
shock, and the nurse was trying to control her. Another
nurse had arrived at the door and had fainted, and the
black orderly was trying to revive her.

As they made their departure amid the bedlam erupt-
ing in the psych ward, Mark took Phil by the arm and led
him calmly through the visitors' area. He ducked into the
stairwell and continued to hold Phil's arm as they de-
scended the stone steps.

Phil seemed to lose his stunned confusion and asked,

"Where are we going?"

"Erl King Hill."

30

Mark herded Phil out the stairwell and through the rela-
tive calm of the main waiting room of the hospital. He
motioned for Phil to move calmly toward the main door.

"This won't keep for long. As soon as someone up in
psych starts yelling, this place is going to be crawling
with nurses, orderlies, security types, and a couple of
doctors. And they're all going to be looking for the mad-
man who broke into the kid's room."

"What do we do?" asked Phil. He glanced over his
shoulder. "Gloria. . . ."

Mark kept his voice low, but his tone was intense.

"Phil, someone'll take care of her. All hell's about to
break loose. You and I have to do a lot in the"—he
glanced at the clock on the wall as they crossed the room;
it read eleven—"the next hour."

"Mark, what's going on?"

"We're going to use magic to save the world. And get

Sean and Patrick back."

Phil blinked. "Magic? Sure, why not. After what I've
just seen. . . ."

Mark said, "My rental car is out in the parking lot.

There're records of me having it. Gary has my car. We'll
take yours."

They left the lobby and crossed the parking lot to

Phil's car. Phil started up the engine and asked, "What's

Gary doing?"

"Being my insurance, I hope." Mark looked at Phil
and there was sadness in his eyes. "The people we're
dealing with might think nothing of snuffing us all out."

Phil backed the car out and turned it toward the road.

When another car turned into the lot, its lights playing
across the two men, Mark glanced away, turning his
shoulder so the other driver couldn't see his face. As Phil
pulled out into traffic, Mark said, "Over the centuries,
thousands of people have died to protect some incredible
secrets, Phil. Gary and I know those secrets now. We
may have something to bargain with."

"Jesus, Mark, what the hell are you talking about?

What secrets?"

Mark seemed to sink down into the car seat as Phil
accelerated down the road. "It's a long and complex
story. And anyone who has even the slightest involve-
ment is ... well, they're all potentially in danger. I
don't know." He glanced out the window as if collecting
his thoughts and pointed at an approaching crossroad
that would take them through town. "Head over toward

Barney Doyle's. I want to get to Erl King Hill, but I
don't want to use the path at your house, in case . . .

they're already waiting for me."

Phil turned. "Just who are these people you are so
afraid of? And what would they be doing at my house?"

Mark looked out into the rainy night. "I was in

Friedrichshafen—on the border of Switzerland. For a
week I was held prisoner. They got a little sloppy one
night and I escaped. It took me three days to get to Paris

—I had some problems at the border and had to pull
strings. I think they almost found me twice."

"Mark, I know you're stressed out, man; we all are.

But you're not making sense. They who?"

"The Magi."

Phil said, "Magi? Like in 'We Three Kings' . . . ?"

Mark's face was illuminated briefly as they passed un-
der a lamp at an intersection. "Gary sent me some trans-
lations of what he'd taken to Seattle, while I was still in

New York, and they gave me the leads I needed. Along
with what I'd gotten translated in New York, it all fit
together with what I'd come to believe. I knew that

Kessler's group was still around." He paused. "Well, they
found me.

"The guy in the car with Aggie was named August

Erhardt. Erhardt was a Magus."

Phil glanced at Mark. "Like in the John Fowles
novel?"

Mark said, "There's a lot of history here, and we don't
have a great deal of time, so I'm going to just skip across
the high points.

"About 550 B.C. the Persians conquered Media, what
is now Azarbaijan in Iran and Azerbajdzh in the Soviet

Union. There was a secret priesthood in Media called the

Magi which was quickly assimilated into Persian society,
becoming a political power. Historians don't know a lot
about them." A car passing in the other direction shot a
shower of water at Phil's Pontiac that drenched the win-
dow in a curtain of wavering fluid. Then the wipers swept
it aside. "When Persia fell to Alexander the Great, they
survived. They also survived Rome, Genghis Khan, and

Tamerlane. By the third century they'd become one of
the dominant religions in the East. It was thought they
were finally destroyed by the Shiites during the seventh
century, when Islam conquered Persia. But it turns out
they weren't."

Phil shook his head, unsure of what he was hearing.

"You're saying that this man with Aggie was a member
of some supersecret Persian cult that's been around
twenty-five hundred years?"

Mark nodded. "As was Fredrick Kessler. Kessler, Er-
hardt, and Gary's friend up in Canada, Van der Leer, all
were inheritors of some tradition that came down over
the years from that ancient Magian priesthood. And that

Persian tradition is directly linked to a primitive spirit
worship that has evolved into legends of fairies and other
races which lived on Earth alongside mankind."

Phil said, "That thing in Patrick's room? That's some
sort of fairy changeling?"

"Something like that, though there's a lot more here
than fairy tales can explain away. I'll know better after
we get where we're going."

"Then tell me, how could these Magi be around all
these years and no one knows about them? Couldn't it
just be some sort of group that . . . claims to have gone
back all those years?"

"You still don't believe, truly believe, in the magic.

You've seen it, that thing in the hospital, but you still
don't believe it." Mark thought a moment as Phil drove.

"The Masons claim a history back to the founding of

Solomon's temple. And other groups claim ancient roots
as well. Who can say not? All I know is there was a lot
about Fredrick Kessler that made no sense, until you un-
derstand he was backed by a powerful organization that
provided him with the way out of Germany, smoothed
over things with the German and American govern-
ments, gave him his capital for investment, his introduc-
tion to local bankers, everything. It was the same for Van
der Leer in Canada. He had a lot of the same advantages.

"What happened in Germany at the turn of the cen-
tury was a completely unnecessary conflict between this
secret priesthood and the traditional religions. One of the

Magi went insane and tried to go public. He turned some
of the peasants around, returning to ancient rites, until
the local religious leaders opened up on him and his fol-
lowers. It was open warfare for a time. And it was the

other Magi behind the efforts of the churches to hush
things up. They arranged for anyone who was known to
have connections with the crazy Magus to leave Ger-
many. Other Magi took their places."

Phil pulled over to pass a slow pickup truck and was
reentering the right lane when another car came speeding
around a curve in the road. Lightning tore the sky as
headlights briefly illuminated the passing vehicle.

"Damn," said Mark, almost a whisper.

"What?" said Phil, glancing over at his passenger.

"The men in the car that just passed by. I recognized
the one in back, I think. It's a man named Wycheck. He's
one of them."

"Them? The Magi?"

Mark only nodded. "They're heading for the hospital.

That means we've only got about fifteen minutes on
them."

Phil turned the car down county road 451, heading
toward Barney's workshop. "This is all too much for me.

What does this have to do with your being held prisoner?

And what about magic and that thing that took Patrick's
place?"

Mark said, "The Magian priesthood is not just an-
other cult. They are a real power, a supersecret worldwide
organization: a delusional paranoid's worst conspiracy
fantasy come to life. The Illuminati was just an inaccu-
rate reference to the Magi. They are men and women
who have taken positions of importance in governments,
churches, businesses, all through history. They ran the
sisterhood of Vesta in Rome—they had the power to par-
don prisoners condemned to death by the imperial Sen-
ate, on a whim! They were the Druid class of the ancient

Celtic races—the scholars, the priests, the rulers—and,
for all I know, the obliteration of the Druids by the Ro-
mans may have been a sham, the consolidation of their
position in various governments, or it may have been a
power struggle between factions. We'll never know. And
they probably had shamans and medicine men all over
the New World long before Columbus got here, from
what I can tell.

"Anyway, I'm not positive of all the details, but what

I think is going on is that a faction within the Magi are
trying to seize power. I'm not sure, but I think the world
situation is getting too complex for even them to ensure
we don't blow ourselves up in a nuclear holocaust, so
some of them want to take over openly, and to do that
they have to have an edge." He shook his head. "I think
they plan to unleash these fairies on humanity, let us
knock each other around a bit, then take over. It's a mad
plan.

"Everybody's lives are on the line, but even if I some-
how prevent that from happening, both factions of Magi
might still be trying to kill me—one because I balked
their plans, the other simply because I know too much.

And then they'll come after me, and you"—he nodded at

Phil—"and Gloria, and Jack and Gabbie, the kids if we
get them back, Ellen, the doctors and nurses at the hospi-
tal, and anyone else who might have a clue they exist."

"Oh fuck," whispered Phil. "I think I'm going to be
sick." He looked nearly green with nausea.

"You don't have time," said Mark.

Phil's voice was a whisper. "What do we have to do?"

Mark said, "This is the part Gary couldn't bring him-
self to tell you. Hell, he didn't believe it all himself. That
thing in the hospital was a creature of another race, a
race that we've called over the centuries gnomes, elves,
pixies, and other names; I've come to think of them as
fairies. I've had evidence of their existence before, mad-
dening bits and scraps of nothing more than hints, never
enough to make me undertake serious research, nothing
like this year on this property. Gabbie's attack, Jack's
wound, your problems around the house, all were part of
what these creatures are.

"This race has a name in their own language, but
whatever they are called, they are a race of ... the irra-
tional, the unreal. They're spirit beings. But these fairy
creatures have corporeal qualities just as humans have
spiritual qualities. Their world is separate from ours, but
it overlaps. You get there using ... we call it magic."

Phil said, "That's imposs . . . ," but stilled his voice

before he finished. It would have been a plea, not an
objection. "Oh shit!" he said as he passed the cutoff to

Williams Avenue. He had lost his concentration. He
made an illegal U-turn and then pulled around the cor-
ner. The mundane consideration of driving seemed to re-
store some of his calm. He said, "So what have the Magi
to do with the fairies?"

Mark said, "The oldest-known legend of the fairy peo-
ple is the Peri wife. Persian, which hints that the oldest
stories about them are coincidental to the rise of the

Magi. The old lore was real stories, a ... guide of how
to deal with the Old People, not a collection of legends.

"Now, there's a treaty, something called the Compact.

It's what keeps the fairies from waging war on us. There's
more to it than that, but I can't tell you much more,
because that's about all I know. There is among the fair-
ies a being, and he's the one who's trying to mess up this
treaty. That's what these Magi do. They keep him from
breaking the rules, from ending the peace between the
two races. It's this being who has Patrick."

Phil began to speak, then paused, helpless before these
words. At last he said, "What are we going to do?"

Mark looked over his shoulder at Phil. "We must re-
pair damage. By taking the gold you voided the Com-
pact."

"The gold?"

Mark nodded. "It's theirs, part of the . . . treaty.

I've got to go where these creatures are and talk to them.

These scrolls tell how to get there . . . and survive. I've
memorized what I need. I told Gary to grab them as he
and Ellen left town. I want them out of your place for
insurance."

"Against the Magi?" asked Phil. Mark nodded.

"I'm confused," said Phil. "You want to keep the
treaty intact, and the Magi want the treaty kept, so
what's the problem?"

Mark laughed a bitter laugh, its sound softened by the
falling rain. "Because of some mess-ups on my part and
because of our adversary's being especially clever, the

Magi think I'm in league with the creature who took

Patrick. They sent Erhardt to fix the damage, but this elf,
this creature who started all the trouble, ran Aggie off the
road, killing the only man close enough to keep the Com-
pact intact. I'm certain this cinches in the Magi's minds
that I'm in league with this creature. The only possible
hope I—we—have is if I can somehow take his place and
fix things before midnight. Otherwise. . . ."

"Who?" said Phil. "Who has our Patrick?"

"The same guy who engineered the breaking of the

Compact, by leading you to the gold. He's likely the one
to have grabbed Patrick. The Erl King."

Phil said, "I don't know if I can handle this, Mark."

Nearing Barney's shack, Phil slowed, as if reluctant to
reach his objective. Mark spoke. "You don't have much
choice, Phil. We've the Magi on one side, fairies on the
other, and if we don't do the right things before mid-
night, we're all going to find ourselves in the middle of
the next world war, and it won't be the Russians we're
fighting." He laughed bitterly. "And even if we do, the

Magi might still come after us all."

They pulled up outside Barney's shack. Mark said,

"Have you got a flashlight?"

Phil reached back under the seat and pulled out a
large three-way light, flood, fluorescent, and emergency
blinker. He flicked it on, testing that the battery was up,
and it produced a satisfactory light.

Phil seemed reluctant to leave the car. "What you've
just told me sounds crazy, Mark. If I hadn't seen that
thing in the hospital, I'd be calling for the wire bus to
come get you. But a lot of this is speculation. What do
you know?"

"Not much." Mark switched the light back on and
glanced at his watch. "We don't have much time, but I'll
tell you what little I know and what I've surmised as we
head over to your place. We've only got a little time left."

Both men got out of the car and looked at each other.

The rain had lessened to a drizzle again, but both were
getting wet. They ignored the discomfort.

Mark flicked on the light and led Phil into the woods.

31

Moving through the wet woodlands, Mark said, "These

Magi have always been a thorny problem for historians:

few documented facts. We know they ran things in Persia
for a long time. They headed Zoroastrianism after Zoro-
aster, and the most famous of them was a man named

Saena. We know some things from the Zend Avesta, the

Zoroastrians' sacred book, but we can only guess at what
beliefs were common to both religions. Everything else is
only inference." He thought a moment, then added,

"Now, maybe as sort of protective covering, the terms

'magi' and 'magus' came to be applied to the priests of
most any hereditary religion in that part of the world.

Some remnants of the Zoroastrian faith exist today. The

Parsis in India are still hereditary: You have to be born
into the faith; no converts allowed. But we know now
that, behind the public sects, this secret organization of

Magi continued to function."

They maintained a steady pace along the path, but the
trail was slippery and, despite the light, the footing
treacherous in the dark. "The Magi were monotheists.

The Zoroastrians speak of two demigods created by the

Supreme Being, a good force called Ormuzd who re-
mained loyal to God, and an evil force called Ahriman
who, like Satan, rebelled. The Magi had no temples, con-
ducting their rites in the woods and on mountaintops—
the room in your basement was a storeroom, and a li-
brary of sorts, not a secret temple. They worshipped fire
or light, and the sun, in a manner of speaking. Not the
forms of fire and light, but rather some spiritual energy
or essence demonstrated by fire and light. They were as-
trologers and, reputedly, enchanters." Dryly he added,

"Which seems to be fact more than legend. They were
conversant with spirits and could control them. Before
the discovery in your cellar, the origins of the sect had

been attributed to everything from their being the lost
tribes of Israel to the last priesthood of Atlantis. But
those were only legends."

Mark lapsed into silence as they moved down a gully
running fast with water. Phil found himself in water up
to his ankles and felt his socks soak through.

Mark seemed unmindful of the discomfort and contin-
ued his narration. "I don't know how many of them still
exist. But they can't be under every rock. You shouldn't
have been allowed to buy Kessler's place, Phil. Had it
stayed on the market for a while, the priesthood would
have sent someone to buy it. That you did proves there
wasn't another Magus close by. But even without great
numbers, they have great influence.

"They have contacts at every level of business and
government, I'm certain, a network of people that makes
the wildest conspiracy theory look reasonable. The priest-
hood must have some impressive connections to be able
to keep all this under wraps for this long. We're speaking
of centuries."

"Even if somebody stumbles on the truth, who's going
to believe him?" Phil pointed out. "Christ, I've seen some
of this shit, and I don't believe it." After a moment he
said, "No, I believe it." Then he asked, "So, then, why
are the . . . fairies on my land?"

Mark said, "They've got to be somewhere." He
pushed a low-hanging branch aside, his breathing a little
heavy, and said, "This is all guesswork on my part, but

. . . have you ever considered man's social develop-
ment? Homo sapiens has been around for something like
a million years, yet civilization been around only, say,
nine thousand—giving the broadest definition to civiliza-
tion as we accept the term. What was going on for the
previous nine hundred ninety-one thousand years?

Maybe constant warfare between the two races, neither
quite able to finish off the other. Dozens of attempts to
rise above the level of barbarism lost as the fairies
knocked mankind back down to the level of simple
hunter-gatherer. And we wreaked as much havoc upon
the fairies, capturing and enslaving them, stealing their

powers by ... er, magic, destroying them as they de-
stroyed us.

"Then something happened. If we get through all this,
maybe we can someday learn what that was. But a peace
was established, and both races were allowed to exist. A
truce, or armistice"—he thought—"a compact. That's
what the Magi who found me called it. The Compact.

"Perhaps a battle was fought that was too bloody for
either side to withstand another onslaught. Perhaps some
cooler heads on both sides agitated for treaty, I don't
know. I can't even begin to guess how these creatures
might think.

"But if all I surmised is true, then it would be likely
that when this treaty between men and fairies was first
made, part of the agreement was the priesthood would set
aside places where the fairies could spend their six
months unmolested, and in turn have a free shot at who-
ever trespassed as long as they left everyone outside
alone."

"Sort of like a reservation?" asked Phil. "You mean
these priests are sort of like Indian agents for fairies?"

"More like jailers," said Mark, "if mankind had the
upper hand when the Compact was agreed to. That's a
guess," he admitted.

"Anyway, it's clear Herman Kessler was the last Ma-
gus around here. And the thing with Gabbie, and with
me in the woods, satisfies me that things are happening
that wouldn't have if a priest were still close by."

"What do you mean?" said Phil.

"The line of priests stopped here with Herman. He
had no children. He never married, which is—if the he-
reditary thing still works—strange for a Magus. Even so,
someone should have been ready to take over. But Her-
man died unexpectedly on his trip to Germany, and that
news was slow in reaching the other Magi, maybe. Some-
thing kept them from finding out until about the time I
showed up, and they were a little suspicious of me nosing
around—they thought I had something to do with

Herman's death.

"Normally, with Herman gone, there would be no
problem with Erl King Hill's being unattended unless the
fairies showed up—which they did. I think they come
and go without pattern, so there was a good chance the
priesthood might be tending 'reservations' like this one
without the fairies showing up for a lifetime. But they did
show and there's no priest, so things start getting out of
hand. And it's no accident. There's something about all
this I couldn't discover. They kept me locked in a hotel
room for almost two weeks." He grew reflective. "When

Erhardt was dispatched to come here and repair the dam-
age, they made a mistake—forgot to move me or have
anyone with me when a maid showed up. I just smiled at
her, tipped her a hundred German marks, and walked
out of the room. I spend three days on buses getting to
the French border—I knew they'd think I'd gone to Aus-
tria or toward Stuttgart. But while I was with them, I got
the feeling they're suspicious that someone human might
be in league with some faction among the fairies, proba-
bly with the Erl King himself."

"Okay," Phil said, now almost normally calm again,

"now what has this to do with my son?"

"Something's gone wrong," answered Mark. "I still
don't know what it was or is, but somehow the rules have
been changed. If I read things right, you never should
have been troubled, other than maybe a little prank or
two, like souring milk, things getting misplaced around
the house, or weird noises at night." He had to raise his
voice as the rain picked up again, the hammering inten-
sity causing their eyes to sting. The sound of it in the
branches was like the rolling of breakers against the
beach. "But things aren't the way they're supposed to be.

At the heart of everything that's happened is someone, or
some group, who wants a return to the open warfare of
ages past. That's why they led you to the gold."

"You mentioned that before. What about the gold?"

said Phil.

"That gold wasn't Kessler's. It's human gold, but it
belonged to the fairies, a pledge made for ages by humans

to keep the pact. Every year a rite was conducted, and a
little more gold added to the treasure, as a sign of good
faith. Every 'reservation' has its pledge hoard. That may
be where the legend of getting gold from leprechauns
began. Anyway, you broke the treaty, Phil, when you
removed that gold." He held up his hand. "My college
class ring is gold. We are going to hope that if I do the
ritual and give them this ring, we can keep the lid on
until another Magus shows up. If not. . . ."

"What happened in Germany at the turn of the cen-
tury?" asked Phil.

Mark nodded. "Worse, I'm afraid. A thousand times
worse. That was a minor conflict when the locals started
worshipping the fairies because of that crazy Magus. It
would have passed quickly if some of the locals hadn't
gotten into some very bizarre rites. I've some files that
show some of the peasants were practicing human sacri-
fice. Anyway, if the government hadn't jumped in and
started a witch-hunt, the Magi would have hushed things
up. What we'd have here would be a complete break-
down of the treaty, and I can't begin to guess what that
would mean. But even if we don't know if some humans
are involved in our world, at least we know who is re-
sponsible in this realm."

"The Erl King?" said Phil.

"The Erl King. And he's a thoroughly bad actor. The

Irish call him the Fool and he's known by other names,
but he's the one. He's the best candidate to resent the
confinement to the lands ceded by the pact." After a mo-
ment of silence he said, "I don't know how he did it, but

I know he's responsible for the accident that killed Aggie.

And the fact he knew Erhardt was coming shows he has
some means of communication with someone who knows
what the Magi are doing."

Phil felt despair threatening to overwhelm him. He
said, "How the hell are we going to do anything in, what,
fifteen minutes?"

"We've just got to be outside that hill at midnight. If
what I think is going to happen happens, then we don't

need to get there any earlier. But heaven help the world if
we're a moment late."

Phil silently followed Mark. Suddenly the world had
become an impossibly alien and frightening place.

32

Sean felt fatigue dogging his heels as he followed after the
ball of light. He was still alert, but the steady, uneventful
trek through the woodlands had diminished his anxiety.

Around him the alien, murky woods were somehow not
frightening, just strange. The trees were . . . weird was
the only word Sean could think of. The trees were slen-
der, delicate things, swaying gently in the light breeze,
their murky colors giving the branches the illusion of
transparency. No, this place was weird, but not really
scary. He knew he would be tested when he reached Pat-
rick's place of confinement, and that prospect frightened
him, but he still was only eight and a half years old and it
was past his bedtime and he was too tired for worry.

Sean halted. In harmony to the humming of the breeze
through the branches, he heard music. He resumed walk-
ing, and as he followed the globe of light he heard the
music grow louder. It was pipes and harps and bells and
tinny-sounding drums. The road entered a clearing and

Sean's eyes widened in astonishment as he saw what at
first he took to be Erl King Hill before him. A quick
glance about told him the resemblance was only that, for
the trees on all sides were unlike any seen in New York

State.

But the crest of the hill was alive with moving figures,
where men and women of alien beauty danced before a
throne. The woman upon the throne was a striking fig-
ure, erect and proud as well as lithe and beautiful. All
around her glowed a light, crowning the hilltop with a
blue-white nimbus that illuminated all around her. In the
halflight of this land, the hilltop was an isle of lights. The

golden ball of light moved down the road past the merry-
makers, but the woman upon the throne waved her hand
and the light veered toward her.

Sean hesitated, then followed the light up the hill. The
dancing halted and the music faded away as Sean passed
between the revelers. Atop the hill it was still twilight,
but much brighter than it had been upon the road.

The woman upon the throne was stunning. Her red-
gold hair was swept back from a high forehead, held in
place by a golden circlet. Her gown was filmy, revealing a
full bosom. Her neck and arms were graceful and without
blemish. Sean couldn't be sure, but either she had some
weird things on the back of her dress or she had translu-
cent wings! She smiled and Sean felt no hint of fear. Pale
blue eyes regarded him as a musical contralto said, "A
little mortal boy! What brings you upon the heels of the

Quest Guide, small, pretty one? Have you come to
brighten our court with your sweet smile?" She bent for-
ward and reached to cup Sean's chin with her hand. Her
fingers recoiled as they touched his skin. "You wear a
ward! You must remove it."

Sean looked about. Near the base of the throne were
tiny beings, all whispering and pointing at Sean. Several
diminutive creatures flew in circles around the throne
area, though it seemed they were cautious not to fly di-
rectly above the stunning woman. Near her stood several
alien men, all beautiful, slender creatures. A short dis-
tance away, many lovely women also waited silently.

Both sexes were dressed in all manner of fashions, as had
been the green people, from near nudity to ornate, pon-
derous costumes. These people had skin tones that were
more human, however. Sean wondered why this lady had
only men near her, but shrugged off the thought as he
considered doing what the woman said.

Behind the throne stood a man of middle years, clearly
human while the others were not. He wore a splendid
tunic of fine weave, silver threads bedecking a green
cloth. Gems and pearls were sewn into the collar, giving
him a regal look, though he was but a shadow to the light

of the woman. Barely, so the others wouldn't notice, he
shook his head no.

Sean glanced about, while the beautiful woman said,

"Come, little one. Stay with us and dance and sing. We
shall regale you with food and drink, and you shall be a
pretty page in our service." With a sensual smile she said,

"You will learn pleasures undreamed of by your race,
pretty human boy. . . ." She measured his size, then
added, ". . . when you are a little older."

Sean took a deep breath. There was some quality
about the woman that made him uneasy. Not that she
wasn't pretty or nice. There was none of the feeling of
danger or terror that had accompanied his encounters
with the Bad Thing and the Shining Man. But in the
spice and wildflower scent in the air and the intoxicating
music and the powerful allure of the woman there was a
quality that made Sean uncomfortable, causing his pulse
to race. He vaguely recognized it as something he had felt
in a milder way once when a girl at his old school had
kissed him at a birthday party. He had made a display of
displeasure, but he had secretly wanted to try it again, yet
he hadn't said anything lest the other boys pick on him.

He had also felt the same discomfort another time when
he had barged into the bathroom and caught sight of

Gabbie drying herself off after a shower. He had been
haunted by the memory of her naked body still damp and
pink from the hot water for days after, and had wished he
could have stayed there, just to watch her. He didn't
know why. With her clothes on, Gabbie was just another
dumb girl, except when she was teaching the boys to ride.

It had been as if he had seen a hint of something he
would understand when he was older, something that
now only confused him. It was a powerful, distressing,
yet compelling urge, which disturbed Sean greatly and
made him feel guilty, though of what he couldn't say.

Putting aside the churning sensation of discomfort in his
stomach, Sean said, "I've come to find my brother."

The woman's smile faded to a look of true regret.

"You refuse our offer of hospitality?" She almost pouted.

"I've got to find my brother," Sean repeated.

With a sigh of resignation, the woman said, "How
then did you come to our land, pretty mortal boy?"

"Barney told me to walk around the hill nine times,
and through the cave. He told me how to get the light to
take me to Patrick."

"And how did your brother, Patrick, come here?"

"The Shining Man took him."

The woman's face lost its warmth, and her eyes be-
came electric, and suddenly the feeling Sean had of want-
ing to climb into her lap and nestle his head on her bo-
som vanished. The woman's voice had an angry edge to
it, a harsh quality like a shrieking trumpet that made

Sean shiver as she said, "Tell me of this Shining Man!"

Sean described the encounter with the Shining Man
and the Bad Thing and the false Patrick and Sean, and
when he was done, the woman said, "That one has tried
our patience long enough. Listen well, boy on a quest.

When you find your brother, your path back will lie
along two routes; which, you must choose. Bring him
back by the white path, so that I may have an accounting
of this business and your brother and yourself may return
home. Avoid the black path."

Sean recalled Barney's warning. Softly, so as not to
offend the great lady, he said, "I just want my brother
back." Sean considered, then said, "Can't you get him for
me?"

"Here in the Bright Lands we rule, mortal boy. But
know that in the mortal world and in the Shadow Lands
he and we are equals, and in the Dark Lands the one you
call the Shining Man is supreme, and there must we fear
him. You must bring him to us," the woman said, "here
into the Bright Lands, so that we may deal with him. In
any other place, the issue would be in doubt. Do this and
we shall return you and your brother safely home. That is
our word on the subject."

Sean watched the glowing ball, which seemed to wig-
gle impatiently. He didn't want to lie to the woman, but

Barney said not to trust anyone. Then he glanced at the
man. He seemed sad, but he smiled slightly and nodded
yes.

Making himself bold, Sean said, "Are you True Tom?"

The man said, "So I am called by some." His accent
was thick and made his words hard to understand, but

Sean remembered Barney saying Tom was a Scotsman.

The woman said, "He is of your race, though long
have we kept him with us"—she smiled warmly up at
him—"occasionally against our better judgment." To

Sean she said, "But he is loved here and is loyal to us."

Sean said, "I'll come back with Patrick. You'll let us
go home?"

The woman laughed, and again her voice was soft, like
a singing harp, as she said, "Yes, brave boy, we shall let
you and your brother go home. But first you must find
the one you call the Shining Man and retrieve your
brother. Then you must return to us, but be wary: To
reach that one's court you must pass through the Hall of

Ancient Seasons. Avoid all doors save those at the ends
and you will be safe. And you must guard against trick-
ery. Then must you be quickly back, for our court and
that one's will be moved this night upon your world, and
you will be a long way from your home. Go, then."

With a wave of her hand, she released the Quest

Guide, as she had called the globe of light, and it shot
down the hill toward the white path. Sean scrambled af-
ter, afraid the thing would leave him far behind, but once
upon the path, the light resumed its lazy dance from side
to side as it moved down the path. Sean took a deep
breath to steel himself and followed after. Within a few
minutes, Sean noticed that the path beneath his feet had
turned from off-white to a neutral grey. And the sky
above him was getting darker. Pushing back encroaching
fear, he trudged on.

33

The woods were getting darker, but had none of the fore-
boding aspect Sean would have expected from the deep-
ening shadows. There was simply less light. They fol-
lowed a path by a bubbling brook, and Sean cast an eye
toward the Quest Guide. It was still doing its mindless
weaving dance from side to side on the road, so he could
easily catch up with it if he didn't let it get too far ahead.

He hurried to the brook and knelt down to drink.

Sean's lips touched the water and he drank quickly.

Abruptly an image manifested itself before him. His head
jerked away from the face in the water. He glanced about
and was certain there could be no one swimming in the
stream. It was only a few feet across and certainly only
inches deep. He peered over the edge and again was
struck by the certainty this place was not like home. The
surface of the water was only a plane between where he
was and another realm, a turquoise and green world of
oceans and lakes. He moved a little closer to the water
and regarded the face below the surface. It was a wom-
an's face, or so Sean thought, and it seemed to hover
scant inches below the surface. Her skin was pale blue,
and, dimly below, he could see a fish's tail, covered with
bluish scales, where legs should be. He could see she was
nude and from the waist up normally formed; in fact—if

Sean could judge such things—she was beautiful, with
large breasts, a lovely line to her neck, and slender arms
that moved gracefully in counterpoint to the lazy move-
ment of her tail. Her black hair spread out around her
head like a nimbus of dark and feathery silk threads, and
her lips, more purple than red, were set in a smile. Her
face was humanlike, save her eyes, which were entirely
black, showing neither iris nor sclera. She seemed to
wave at Sean, beckoning him to come into the water.

Below her, Sean could see into the depths. The view was

like the time his parents took Patrick and him to Catalina
and they went on the glass-bottomed boat. From the blue
murk of the ocean floor mighty spires of coral rose, and

Sean suddenly understood they weren't natural spikes,
but rather hugh spires of some city rearing high above
the ocean floor.

The boy backed away from the bank, feeling discom-
fited rather than frightened, visited by the same odd feel-
ing in his stomach as when he looked at the Queen. His
boyish body wasn't ready to deal with the drives of
adults, and the only effect her seductive beauty had upon
him was disquiet and confusion. The boy noticed the
progress of the Quest Guide and ran after the light, feel-
ing relief to be away from the beautiful fish-woman. Even
the water here was alien. He shivered slightly as he re-
membered Barney's warnings not to leave the road.

The light was a hundred yards down the path and it
took Sean only a minute to catch up with the meandering
globe. Forcing himself to calmness, the little boy fell into
step behind his guide and continued on.

34

Sean saw the woods opening up around him. Since leav-
ing the stream's bank, he had entered thickening woods,
of dark aspect. Unlike the other woods he had passed
through, these held a note of menace, and he had
clutched his silver dagger tightly. The path moved
straight through the trees and intersected another path,
one of dark stone. Sean paused a moment, for the dark
path emerged from a cave. Through the cave he could see
rain. It was another way home! He remembered the lady
had said he had two paths to choose, and he should take
the white one. But this one would quickly take him back
to his own home, without the seemingly interminable
walk back to the sunny hill through which he had
emerged into this place.

He sighed and followed after the Quest Guide. The
ball was nearly out of sight between the trees as he began
to move again, and for an instant the boy was fearful he
had let it escape, but after a short sprint he found the ball
ambling along at steady pace. The woods seemed to be
growing more dense as they moved deeper into them,
more menacing in appearance. The trees seemed taller
and the boles more tightly packed. Soon it felt as if he
were walking in another tunnel. Fighting off the urge to
turn and run to the cave back to home, he walked reso-
lutely after the glowing light.

The boy and his guide rounded another curve and

Sean discovered that the road passed before as strange a
house as he had seen. It stood between four huge trees, of
what kind Sean didn't know, maybe giant oaks. As he got
closer he saw the trees stood as corners of the house, the
walls stretching between them. Inviting yellow light
shone through the windows, merry and warm against the
gloom of the woods. The Quest Guide hesitated before
the entrance, bobbing and weaving in a circle. Sean came
up beside it and then looked at the door of the house.

After a minute he said, "Is Patrick in there?"

The guide bobbed from side to side, and Sean wished
the thing could speak or somehow communicate with
him. Then a thought struck the boy, as he remembered
how it had answered his first question back on the sunlit
hill. "Are you asking me if I want to go in?"

The ball bounced up and down vigorously. The thing
could answer yes or no! Sean said, "Should I go in?" The
ball wobbled a little. "You don't know?"

The ball bounced up and down again. "Will it help me
find Patrick if I go there?" Again the indecisive wobble.

Sean was then struck by something Barney had told him.

"Is it dangerous in there?"

The ball bobbed up and down again. Sean said, "Let's
go. Take me to Patrick."

The ball hesitated, moving in circles. Sean understood
then. "It's a shortcut!" The ball bounced up and down.

"Will it save a lot of time?" Again the up-and-down mo-

tion. Sean swallowed hard and said, "Then we'll go this
way."

The ball of light moved toward the door of the great
wooden house and the door opened without being
touched. Sean gripped his dagger and followed after.

35

Sean stood a moment in awe. The house was a single
room. But such a room! The floors were polished wood of
grains so deep and rich they seemed a flowing river of
dark and light lines. The boles of the mighty trees that
formed the corners of the room had been carved, the
columns describing people, and other creatures, in every
conceivable undertaking. Sean let his eyes follow the bas-
relief and saw every event in life: birth, death, lovemak-
ing, warfare, discovery, healing, acts heroic and craven,
pastimes mundane and extraordinary. He didn't know
how he understood what the carvings represented, he just
knew what each signified and he was sure of that knowl-
edge. The ball moved slowly through the vast room, as if
fearful of making noise.

The walls of the building were white, golden-veined
marble, which struck Sean as odd considering that, out-
side, the building had looked like nothing so much as
some giant wooden cabin. His eyes were enormous in
silent wonder as he moved after the ball. There were six
doors in the room, the one through which he had en-
tered, another opposite at the far end of the hall, and two
on each side. The side doors were of even size, but each
had its own unique design. He reached the first pair and
halted in fear as they both suddenly swung open.

Sean halted, his heart pounding, as he glanced from
right to left, taking in what he saw through the portals.

He knew that if that door opened through the wall, a
forest of vast size would be revealed. But instead he saw a
light woodland, greeting his eyes with a riot of every hue

as trees splendid in their magnificent autumn colors
stretched off into the distance. A crisp, nutty woods scent
greeted the boy's nostrils as he looked into the beautiful
vista, while a tiny red squirrel chattered a scolding at a
thieving jaybird over a purloined hickory nut. Into Sean's
view came a man and woman, each with grey hair but
otherwise erect in their bearing. They wore fashionable
clothing, the woman a tweed skirt and jacket and walking
shoes, and the man a corduroy coat over a turtleneck
sweater. Both carried walking sticks, which seemed more
for effect than infirmity. The man halted and tipped a
jaunty little cap at Sean, while the woman smiled and
motioned for the boy to approach.

Sean knew he should move on, but the desire to go see
what these two nice people wanted was overwhelming.

He began to take a step when a bird's chirp caused him to
spin and look behind. Through the opposite door he saw
a lovely meadow, mantled in deep, almost emerald,
green. Flowers speckled the hillsides and fruit trees were
in full bloom, their white blossoms playing host to a
thousand nectar-gathering honeybees. A robin in a
branch near the door was in full song. Sean sighed. He
didn't know what this place was, and he was frightened
of it. He moved toward the far door where the Quest

Guide patiently waited. A red ball bounced into Sean's
field of vision and two children, a boy and girl, scam-
pered after it. Both wore simple tunics, straight white
cloth cut above the knees, and sandals. They each
grabbed the ball at once, and a struggle ensued. As the
tugging began to approach conflict, the girl, almost per-
fect in her childish beauty, saw Sean through the door.

She let go of the ball and pointed at him. The boy was
dark of hair and eyes, but as fair in features as the girl.

He regarded Sean with something akin to distrust, but
the girl smiled and waved and beckoned for Sean to come
play with them. Sean felt a sudden desire to abandon his
journey and go play. The two children seemed to be hav-
ing such a wonderful time.

A step toward the door and suddenly Sean felt another
tugging. He glanced back and saw that the man and

woman had come to the edge of the door and were wav-
ing vigorously at Sean to come to them. The boy felt
pulled in that direction, and his heartbeat increased.

Something magic was happening, he thought. He knew
that he must not give in to these odd urges to visit with
these people, but must go find Patrick. The thought of his
brother seemed to aid him in turning toward the far door
and moving away from the four figures waving for him to
join them.

Moving slowly along, he passed between the next pair
of doors, and they opened. Sean regarded the right door.

Through it he saw an impossibly lovely winterscape.

Through the cold air pouring out of the door he heard
the sound of laughter. A very old man and woman en-
tered the scene, obviously enjoying something funny one
of them had just said. Hair as white as the surrounding
snow peeked out from under heavy fur hats, like ones

Sean had seen on Russians in the news on TV. They
spoke in a language Sean couldn't understand. They
moved past his vantage point without hesitation, Sean's
presence unacknowledged, until, just as they were leaving
his view, the man caught sight of him. At once he began
motioning for Sean to come to them, speaking quickly in
the odd language.

Sean backed away, fighting the urge to join the elderly
couple. He turned and regarded the opposite portal.

Through it he could see a beach scene, and his heart
ached. It looked like where his folks used to take him and

Patrick back in California, up near Point Dume and

Zuma Beach. Then a young man and woman dashed
through the surf. The woman was as bare-chested as the
man; each wore an identical skimpy black thong loin-
cloth that barely covered anything. As they playfully
splashed each other, their cries of delight were carried
away over the sound of the breakers by a warm summer's
breeze. The scent of salt spray and the feel of summer
heat washed over Sean and he cried silent tears of longing
as a sea gull's squawk came faintly through the portal.

He wanted to be back in California with his friends, not
lost in some terrible place looking for Patrick. Then the

young couple were embracing, and again laughing, as the
young man pulled the woman to the sand. He kissed her
as he rolled over on top of her, and then he looked up,
seeing Sean. With a dazzling smile of white teeth against
his tan face, the young man shouted out in friendly greet-
ing. The girl rolled over as the young man pushed up,
coming to his feet. She stayed on the ground, smiling and
waving. Sean felt a hot rush of panic at his urge to go to
this place, the most familiar of all four views. Swallowing
hard, and focusing his mind on Patrick, he turned toward
the far door and made himself take a step. Slowly he
made his way to the far door, and when he had a hand
upon the handle, he said to the guide, "Is this the Hall of

Ancient Seasons?"

The guide bounced up and down and Sean looked
back at the scenes visible through the doors. "I'd be in
trouble if I went through those doors, huh?"

The guide's agreement was vigorous, as it spun faster
on its axis and bobbed up and down. Sean wondered
what would happen if he chanced through those side
doors. Probably he'd be trapped somewhere, unable to
get home. He pushed aside his curiosity and considered
the door. Unlike the front door, this one hadn't opened at
their approach. Sean opened it by depressing the large
latch and it swung open toward them, ponderously.

Sean stood motionless for a moment, and even the

Quest Guide seemed to hesitate before it plunged into the
dark and foreboding woods behind the building. Sean
took a deep breath and gingerly stepped out upon a black
path, and followed the golden light into despair.

36

The woods were now something fashioned from hopeless
dreams, vaulted dark trees so close together their twisted
branches seemed woven brown lines inscribed on a black
tent, a batik canopy of woeful aspect raised high over-

head. There was a sense of ages here; Sean glanced fear-
fully from side to side, as if something might leap out at
him at any turn. The trees' bark was deeply etched, rav-
aged by time, looking like the leathery faces of ancient
men, men who had been tormented for aeons. An echo-
ing wind blew, and the swaying branches seemed to reach
toward him, as if threatening ... or pleading.

Sean walked on, remembering the terror of the night

Patrick was taken and his own fear. He knew that had it
not been for Barney's fairy stone, he would be a captive
along with Patrick. And when the Shining Man had
come for them, Sean had been reduced to something less
than human, an animal, a thing cringing in fear. Nothing
he saw now could match that hopelessness, that surren-
der of all sense of survival. His youthful mind wrestled
with the reality of injured pride and a thirst for revenge
and, finding them far different from what he had watched
on Saturday morning television, failed to recognize them.

But he felt those drives nevertheless, and he knew that
once he faced the Shining Man he would act, despite his
terror at the prospect. He didn't reflect on this; he ac-
cepted it. Without Patrick, a piece was missing within
himself, as that special bond between them—the one that
allowed them to share the odd thought, sense how the
other felt, know where the other was—that bond had
been severed. Without Patrick, Sean was less than before.

Fate had given him a chance to redeem his brother, and
nothing short of death would stop him.

The fluting, haunting sound of the wind was torn by
the sound of hoofbeats rapidly approaching. The sky
darkened ominously, as if night advanced before the
nearing horseman. Sean stood, uncertain of his best
course of action, to hide, to flee, or to stand. He chose the
first alternative and raced to overtake the light. He
reached for it and found it solid at the core, an orb the
size of a baseball. He snatched it and scampered into the
thicket by the roadside, crouching behind a fallen log,
and peeked through the tall wild grass, while he hid the
light of the Quest Guide beneath his body.

A horseman raced along the road, a figure of night-

mare. A glowing white horse stretched out, seeming to fly
as long legs moved in fluid rhythm. A fiery mane and tail
blew behind as the rider spurred his mount along. The
rider was dressed all in black and silver, armor and helm,
cape and tunic. His ebon cloak trailed behind like some
giant sail blown out and flapping in a gale. His head was
held high, as if he was seeking, for black eye slits in the
antler-bedecked silver helmet seemed to peer into the
woods as he raced along.

Perched upon his stirrup, clutching his master's boot,
was the Bad Thing, his evil, shrill laughter cutting
through the drumming of the horse's hooves. It seemed
to be enjoying its precarious ride. In the space between
two terror-stricken heartbeats, the rider was past.

Sean paused a long minute to allow his heart to slow,
then he remembered the guide. He moved off it and saw a
dull grey orb of metal, now heavy and motionless. He
looked at it in despair, for how was he to find Patrick
without the guide? He felt tears coming to his eyes as he
whispered, "Please. Don't die. Help me find Patrick!"

He repeated the words Barney had taught him, but the
orb lay still. At last he had resigned himself to wander-
ing, when a faint, friendly laugh sounded from above.

Sean rolled over, scrambling backward as he brandished
his silver dagger.

A boy of fourteen or fifteen dropped casually from the
trees, his pale blue eyes fastened on Sean. He seemed
unmindful of the dagger, but Sean kept its point leveled
at the youth. Then he recognized the boy from his de-
scription. "You're the guy who hurt Gabbie!"

The youth shook his head with a grin, and like a cat
was suddenly moving. Faster than Sean could react the
boy knelt before him, reached out, and seized his wrist,
immobilizing Sean's arm. "If I intended you harm, Sean

Hastings, 'twould be easy enough a feat. But the fact I
can touch you, despite your ward, proves more than
words my good intentions." Releasing the boy's hand, the
youth continued. "I am not the one who troubled your
sister."

Sean scooted back fearfully. The fact the stranger

could have hurt him but didn't wasn't all that reassuring.

"You look like him," he said, mustering his bravery.

With a sigh, the youth said, "With our race, looks are
an issue of whim." He shimmered an instant, with a blue-
white light much like the nimbus that had shrouded the

Shining Man the night he had come for the boys, then he
shifted in form, a dark outline in brilliance, and the glow
vanished. The transformation had been only a second or
so in duration. Where the youth had been knelt a man,
older than the youth, but still young. He wore a funny
hat with a broad brim, a beard, and simple trousers, shirt,
and sturdy work boots. With a voice now deep and ma-
ture, he seized Sean under the arms before the boy could
protest and lifted him. "You see what we wish you t'see,
you of mortal blood. 'Tis our will that lends us shape.

And in this guise could I have taken your sister had I
wished." He smiled in remembrance and said, "That one
is among the fairest of your race I've beheld in years, but
though she would have opened her legs t'me willingly
and with joy, I'd not be the one to break the Compact."

He released Sean and again the glow surrounded him,
and suddenly a little boy, no more than six or seven years
from his appearance stood before Sean.

"Come you near or go you far,
light from candle or flick'ring star?

See what you will, or so you think,
but is water sweet before you drink?

Who can know of truth and lies?

When can a man believe his eyes?

Suspect what's known to mortal senses,
for our nature vaults all mystic fences,
that stand between that which is and seems,
and back we are to truth ... or dreams."

He spoke in an impish, childish, singsong voice. He
glowed, and once again the youth stood there. "That is
the secret of our power, for what you see you believe, and
arms and armor, food and drink, all are real to those who
accept them as such. Illusion is powerful when viewed as

truth. Why, had you the will to believe, you could live
forever from the very life abounding in the air! You wear
the green stain upon your eyes and can therefore see
through the illusion, not because the stain has power, but
because you believe it does." He laughed, and Sean felt
something hot run down his back at the sound. "And you
will remember.

"No, I troubled your fair sister not, lad. Another
sought to cause harm, as he has before and will again if
allowed, and upon me cast the blame. It was a small
revenge upon me for a past deed, a harmless prank that
still nettles him."

Sean got up, wanting to be away from this disturbing
boy. "I've got to find my brother." He said it as a chal-
lenge, as if defying the youth to stop him.

The youth laughed, a ringing, lighthearted peal. "And

I'll not halt your search, Sean." Looking down the road,
as if expecting the rider to reappear, he said, "That one
has caused much trouble over the ages, despite the Com-
pact, but this time more than the Queen will toler-
ate. . . ." He laughed, as if finding that prospect amus-
ing. Then his tone turned serious. "But beyond the
boundaries of the Bright Lands, he is as powerful as she.

Find your brother, while the Fool is abroad, then run to
the Queen's court by way of the white path. Should that
one overtake you, fight as best you can. Some will aid
you, though none of us—not even myself—can match the

Fool in power. Only the Queen is his equal." The youth
laughed again, as if all this were but a game. "Still, some
of us who are less than the Fool are still more than
most." He reached out and took up the lifeless orb and
blew upon it. At once a hot spot appeared upon the side
where he blew and blossomed into a glow. With a flick of
his hand and spin of the wrist, he tossed the ball,
twirling, high into the air and the glow burst into bril-
liance around the orb. "Revive, little spirit of light, guide
on this one's quest; take him where his heart desires.

Find he who is as this one in body with a spirit of an-
other, two from the same womb. Go!"

The Quest Guide spun around a point above Sean's

head, then shot back to the road, where it commenced its
wandering from side to side as it danced down the road,
but faster than before, as if the youth's instructions had
given it impetus. Sean ran after, catching up as the orb
spun around a bend in the roadway. He looked back over
his shoulder to shout thanks to the youth, but no sign
that anyone had been by the road remained. Sean shiv-
ered, again forcing aside fear as he resumed his search for

Patrick.

37

The twisted, barren landscape seemed to last for miles.

Sean had long since lost track of time on the path, simply
resigning himself to plodding along behind the glowing

Quest Guide. He felt as if he had been moving through
this desolate place for ages.

Then they crested a rise, and through the twisted trees
they saw another strange house. It faced against a
mound, or rather it was part of the mound, for only one
wall could be seen. It appeared someone had fashioned a
wall over a cave or excavation in the side of the hillock,
and voices could be heard coming through the open door.

Sean couldn't understand the language, for it consisted
mostly of grunts and bellows, shrieks and mad laughs—
accompanied by the sounds of crockery breaking and ob-
jects of some weight slamming into walls—and he had no
wish to meet the authors of that riotous conversation, so
he hurried past.

Sean moved rapidly enough that he passed the Quest

Guide slightly and had to wait until it caught up with
him. While he stood waiting, he noticed a strange prop-
erty of the roadway. By turning his head, he saw it shift
back and forth between white and black, reminding him
of the illusion given by those "moving" charms given
away in breakfast cereal boxes from time to time. To Sean

it was clear that both the black path and the white path
ran along here.

Sean followed the road down into a dell and up the
other side and was abruptly confronted by a change in
the landscape. Before him rose a massive forest of dark
trees, and the sky above shifted rapidly from grey to
black. He knew without being told that he was leaving
what the Queen had called the Shadow Lands and was
entering the Dark Lands.

Sean halted, daunted by what he saw. While the

Shadow Lands had seemed a haunted, sad country, these

Dark Lands were a place of magnificent unworldly
beauty. Delicate and alien trees swayed in a soft summer
night's breeze, and in their branches night birds trilled
haunting, poignant songs. Each tree had leaves of deep
green and some sprouted blooms, but there was no light
in the sky. Instead, the light came from the boles, the
leaves, the blooms, the grasses, even the bare ground. It
was a landscape of impossible phosphorescent glows, no
single source of illumination providing shadows. The
scent of night-blooming flowers hung in the air and crick-
ets chirped in counterpoint to the birds' songs. This was
no brooding, evil place where mad spirits harbored their
black hates against mankind. These were magic woods,
fairy woods, woods of enchantment and wonder. Their
beauty was nearly overpowering, yet there was nothing to
fear in these soft, dark woodlands. Rather, Sean felt as if
he moved through the world's most perfect and excellent
woods at night. And there were colors, but alien and
unexpected. Everything looked like a faint black-light
painting, with subtle hues on the flowers and leaves, but
everything was alive, everything was in harmony, not
twisted and corrupted as in the Shadow Lands. This was
the fairy land he had expected in his heart!

Sean noticed the Quest Guide seemed to be glowing
fainter; as if needing less light to be seen, it produced less
light than in the Bright Lands or Shadow Lands. But
otherwise the object seemed content to move along in its
merry side-to-side pattern, seemingly unconcerned by its
location. Given its agitated response to Sean's request to

find the Fool, the boy found this a reassuring sign. Sean
silently hoped the Shining Man and the Bad Thing were
still riding through the Shadow Lands and not coming
back this way soon. More than anything, the boy prayed
he could find Patrick and make good his escape without
having to confront the Shining Man. He felt somehow
that that would prove unlikely, but the thought gave him
a more optimistic frame of mind.

The Quest Guide seemed to pick up speed, and Sean
matched the quickening pace. He took it as a sign they
were nearing their destination, or some danger was over-
taking them, so his heart rate increased and he became
again alert, all fatigue washed away.

Through the thick boles they passed, the pathway nar-
rowing so much in places the boy wondered how the

Shining Man's horse managed to get through. Then sud-
denly they were before another fairy hill, except this one
seemed bigger than the Queen's hill, with the low-hang-
ing branches nearly forming a black canopy above the
summit. It appeared deserted, or at least Sean couldn't
see anyone.

The guide swung off the path and moved up the hill-
side and Sean followed, his short legs pumping as he
climbed. At the crest he found a pavilion, all black silks
and cushions, and within the pavilion he found Patrick.

Patrick lay amid the pile of cushions, in a deep sleep.

Sean looked down upon his brother and felt his heart
leap. In just the few days he had been held captive, Pat-
rick had begun to change. He wore no clothing, save a
small loincloth fashioned of leaves, and black-blossom
garlands and leaves of the darkest green had been woven
into his hair. His lips had been rouged to a deep red, and
his eyelids painted with something that gave them a
pearly sheen, as had his nails. About him tiny creatures
lay sleeping and none seemed disturbed by Sean's ap-
proach. Sean stared at them, for he was confronted for
the first time with fairies who matched his boyhood ex-
pectation. Tiny sprites and pixies nestled against Patrick;
each was human in appearance and nude, with delicate
wings gracing their backs. But also slumbering around

Patrick were creatures of less wholesome appearance,
toadlike creatures and furry things of deformed aspect.

Sean averted his eyes from these, as if to stare might
wake them from their deep slumber.

Around the pavilion night insects buzzed, softly glow-
ing fireflies that graced the black canopy with tiny spots
of warm blue-green illumination. Haunting songs came
through the evernight, as alien birds warbled their
secrets. The night breeze was soft, even sensuous, in its
caress and Sean felt like crying from the beauty of the
place. Then upon the breeze he smelled the soft scent of
wildflowers and spices, but from blooms and seasonings
never seen on earth. Their musky odor set Sean's heart to
beating, and he knew that whatever was done in this bed,
under this bower, if continued, would twist and change

Patrick. He must get his brother away at once.

He tiptoed into the pavilion and reached down to
wake Patrick. Patrick stirred heavily, as if drugged, and

Sean had to shake him several times. At last his eyes
opened, then widened as he perceived his twin above him.

Sean made a motion for silence, and Patrick nodded,
though his movement was sluggish. He had to gently
move a tiny woman-creature who lay nestled against his
chest to stand. The boys waited a long moment, but the
pixielike creatures were deep in slumber, oblivious to

Sean and Patrick's movements. Sean took Patrick's hand
and pulled him away from the pavilion. Patrick moved
sluggishly, but managed not to step on any of the sleeping
sprites.

Outside, Sean took a deep breath and looked at his
brother. Patrick kept blinking, as if trying to clear his
vision, and he shook his head. His eyelids appeared heavy
and his jaw slightly slack, as if he had to fight to keep
awake.

Sean half dragged, half led Patrick down to the base of
the hill. "Come on," he whispered at the bottom, "we've
got to get away."

Patrick nodded, still disoriented, and Sean remem-
bered what Barney had said about being asleep in this
place. Patrick might have been asleep the entire time

since the Shining Man had taken him! Even now, he was
half-asleep; perhaps he thought this was a dream. He
might not have any idea of where they were or what their
predicament was. Sean would have to take charge and
simply trust his brother to follow without question until
they were safe.

The Quest Guide followed the twins down the hill.

Sean had half expected it to vanish or go away once Pat-
rick was found, but now he said, "Will you show us the
way back?"

The Quest Guide bounced up and down and began to
take them back the way Sean had come. The glowing
orb's presence somehow buoyed Sean's spirits, and for
the first time he actually hoped he could get his brother
away from this place without encountering the Shining

Man. He knew that if they could get out of the hill and
stay free of the Shining Man until after midnight, the

Good People would go away and they'd all be safe. Sean
said softly, "Please, God, let us get home all right."

Patrick stumbled along behind his brother, allowing
himself to be pulled along by the hand, his eyes still un-
focused and his expression a dreamy, faraway one. He
said nothing as Sean led him back down the path to
home.

38

Sean and Patrick waited. Something had caused the

Quest Guide to halt its carefree movement back and forth
across the road. It hung poised in midair, rotating upon
its axis, as if considering which way to move. They had
been back in the Shadow Lands for some time—to Sean it
seemed hours, though it could have been but minutes.

The woods were dark and forlorn, a place of desperation,
the perfect environs for things fashioned of evil dreams
and dark purposes. Trees with grey leaves and twisted
black branches that never bore fruit nor bloom, ebony

wood boles that lived forever in the greyest autumn,
seemed trapped by the roadside, silently pleading for res-
cue. A bitter wind blew across Sean's face, stinging his
nostrils with the faint memory of smoke and decay. He
turned to Patrick and found his brother's eyes distant, as
if his mind were far away. Patrick had been unusually
quiet since being rescued. Sean had to repeat himself to
get any sort of answer, and then it tended to the short
and distracted, Patrick's manner preoccupied. Sean
counted it the result of Patrick's captivity and after a
while gave up on conversation, fatigue and fear making
silence the easier. Sean began to walk, taking his brother
by the hand. Patrick hesitated, then followed a step be-
hind.

A noise came from the trees to the right, answered a
moment later from the left. Sean stopped and had to yank
on Patrick's hand to get him to halt. The noise increased
on all sides, the rustle of branches being moved and the
clopping of horses' hooves and the rattle of armor. As
certainty about what he faced came to Sean, riders
emerged from the trees on either side, positioning them-
selves so that they could easily encircle the boys.

Then from the woods poured forth a host of creatures,
all twisted and misshapen, in soul if not in form. Ladies
of astonishing beauty, wearing translucent white gowns
that flowed to the ground, half floated, half walked from
between the gnarled trees. The small creatures who had
been with Patrick, little bigger than hummingbirds, sped
through the air to greet Sean. The riders and horses, all
magnificent in splendid armor and bardings, moved
slowly to surround the twins. Squat creatures of ill as-
pect, their hideous features set in mocking grins of evil
delight, darted between the legs of the horses. Sean won-
dered how so many people, even the little ones, could
have hidden from him only a moment before. He felt
afraid but held his ground, keeping Patrick's hand in his
own and clutching tightly to the dagger.

"This is our heritage," said a voice from behind.

Sean jumped and spun, his heart racing as the Fool
looked down upon him. The horseman had silently ap-

proached him from the rear. Sean knew why the Quest

Guide had stopped: The Shining Man had used magic to
halt it, as had the Queen.

The Fool stood resplendent in his black and silver ar-
mor, holding his helm under one arm. His white stallion
silently regarded Sean with glowing golden eyes. The ar-
mored figure moved his head slightly as he studied the
small boy who stood before him, dagger held poised for
battle. "You are a brave one, small warrior," said the

Fool, laughing. He called out, "Attend me, my children!

Come! We have a guest." He held out his helm and a
boyish fairy ran forward and took it from his master.

As the approaching fairies circled him, Sean glanced
around for any sign of escape. The Fool rode forward and
halted his mount before the boys. He leaned down, his
face hovering above Sean's. "This was once as were the
other lands through which you have passed," said the

Fool. He turned and with a wide sweep of his hand indi-
cated the barren woods. "Between the Bright Lands and
the Dark Lands, these were the Twilight Lands, where
the children of the People played as we who were their
masters looked on. All was in balance and all was in
harmony, and the one court was at peace. I ruled, my

Queen at my side. And it was good. Then came the Magi
with their spells and conjurations, and a great battle was
fought." He sat upright in the saddle, pulling himself to
the limit of his majestic height, and his voice was proud.

"The struggle was heroic." Then his voice quieted. "But
we were vanquished, and forced to swear to the Com-
pact." Again leaning forward to face Sean, he said, "This
is our heritage. This is the handiwork of your race, the

Shadow Lands. The balance was destroyed, the harmony
ended, and the powers rent asunder, so that now where
the one court reigned, two are pitted in strife. My Queen
no longer stands at my side. And naught is good." Nar-
rowing his gaze as he studied Sean, he said, "So tell me,
small and brave boy, what do you think of your race's
gifts to the People?"

Sean glanced over at Patrick, who still seemed dazed.

Sean swallowed hard. The Fool leaned down again and

his hand moved toward Sean tentatively. A scant half
inch from his shoulder, it was snatched back. "You still
wear the ward, boy." He reached out, a seemingly impos-
sible reach, and grabbed Patrick. "But this one does not!

He will remain, boy, and so shall you." With a laugh of
madness, he added, "I shall have my brace." Patrick
hung from the Shining Man's hand, like a kitten held by
the scruff of the neck, without protest or movement.

Sean swallowed fear. Slowly, so as not to get it wrong,
he said, "Amadan-na-Briona. In the name of our Lord

Jesus, I command you and your court to let go my
brother and don't you follow us." Through fear and
doubt he knew he hadn't gotten it exactly like Barney
had told him to say, but he prayed to the Lady in the
church that it was good enough.

The Fool threw back his head and screamed as if in
pain, and the surrounding fairies stepped back, breath
indrawn like some sudden gust of wind. The Fool's stal-
lion reared and spun about, his forelegs pawing the air
and his hind legs stamping the ground, as if the animal
shared his master's rage. The Fool maintained his seat yet
kept both arms outstretched, holding Patrick in one hand
as if he weighed nothing. Light burned brightly about
him, an aura of angry, fierce illumination. The sound of
the Fool's shriek terrified Sean and he also stepped back
with a shudder, and a sob escaped his lips. Tears ran
down his face at the terrible sound, but he stood fast,
rejecting the urge to run. The scream filled the air, evok-
ing memories of that tormented sound Sean had made
the night the Shining Man had come and stolen Patrick.

On and on it went, an impossible raw noise of rage and
hate. Then it trailed off and the armored figure turned a
mask of pure insanity toward Sean. The illumination
around the Fool lessened as he dropped Patrick, and the
boy fell heavily to the ground, where he shook his head
slightly, as if trying to gather his wits, and slowly got to
his feet. The black form of the Bad Thing appeared from
within the press and scampered over to Patrick, holding
him by the arm, awaiting his master's bidding. The Shin-
ing Man's expression turned from pain to rage. He

reached down and grabbed the front of Sean's loose
blouse and with a powerful lift pulled Sean toward him,
despite the fact the contact with one wearing a fairy stone
was clearly causing him pain. Sean emitted a tiny yelp of
startled fear and lashed out with his dagger, slicing the
back of the Shining Man's hand, shouting, "Let go!"

The Fool screamed in pain and released the boy. Sean
fell into the roadway, where he sat for a moment, watch-
ing the Fool. He grabbed his hand, as if struck by agony,
and writhed in the saddle, the light around him again
increasing. The horse pranced nervously while his master
screamed. The sound continued, and the other fairies
drew back another step. Then the sound diminished and
the light diminished, and the Fool sat motionless atop his
horse in front of Sean. Through clenched teeth, with blue
eyes flashing as if with mad lightning, the Fool said, "You
have my name, mortal child. I must do what you've
willed, for the geas is upon me. But you've not yet won
free. The way back is long. And you may only command
me once, and that you've done. I'll do as you've bidden,
but no more!" He sat holding his wounded hand as red
blood flowed freely across the back of it. He waved it
three times in the air, and the wound vanished. With a
mad laugh, he spun his mount around to regard his min-
ions. "Let them go, for they've my word 'pon it!" The
crowd of dark fairies ceased to move menacingly toward

Sean, save the Bad Thing, who reached out and began
pulling Patrick away by the hand.

The Fool shrieked again, in glee rather than rage and
pain. He sat astride his horse, his face alight with a mad-
ness equal to that shown the night he had come to the
boys' room. His animal pawed the ground, snorting and
showing the whites of his eyes. Sean hurried over to his
brother's side. The Bad Thing crouched down, backing
away from Patrick, its simple intelligence in turmoil at its
master's change of orders. Sean regarded this fearsome
creature, finding it smaller in stature than he had
thought. Its almost glowing brown and yellow eyes
blinked as they followed Sean's movement, then it turned
to regard the Shining Man, awaiting orders. A terrible

anger struck Sean—he was tired of being frightened and
bossed around by these creatures. Sean shouted, "Leave
us alone!" He slashed wildly at the Bad Thing and it fell
away, hissing in anger and fearful of the silver dagger.

The creature bared fangs, but Sean menaced it again with
the dagger and the creature scampered back to crouch at
the rear of his master's horse.

Patrick seemed still in a daze, his eyes unfocused, and
he showed no sign of recognition. Uncertain what to do
next, Sean pulled on Patrick's hand, as if to lead him
back down the road.

Patrick followed a few feet; then the Fool's voice
sounded. "Patrick, take him!"

Sean felt his arm jerked and he spun around as Patrick
planted his feet. Patrick yanked again and Sean fell. Then

Patrick was atop his brother. Sean had never been able to
best Patrick in a scrap. All their young lives, there had
always been something holding him back, some limit on
how much anger he could focus on his brother, as if to
visit pain on Patrick were to visit it upon himself. Patrick
had never seemed to share that inhibition, freely punish-
ing Sean when their sibling conflicts had come to a head.

Now Sean knew that to lose this struggle would be to lose
more than another brotherly tussle.

With a fury new to him, he heaved Patrick aside and
rolled away. Then another figure leaped into the fray, and

Sean smelled decay in his face. Powerful arms grappled
with him, and the sounds of shrieking told him that the
owner of those hands paid the price for touching him, as
the magic of the fairy stone caused the Bad Thing tor-
ment. Sean didn't hesitate. Blindly, wildly, he lashed out
with his dagger and felt the point dig in. The Bad Thing
howled in pain and fled, leaving the half-dazed Sean sit-
ting on the white road.

Sean could hear the roar of the Fool's anger echoing
through the murky woods and the shrieking of the Bad

Thing as it fled through the trees, but he could see only

Patrick as his brother again hurled himself atop Sean.

Sean felt the jar in his shirt shatter and felt water drench
his side. The holy water! He had forgotten to release Pat-

rick from the Fool's control and now the water was
spilled.

Frantic, his terror at losing Patrick giving him a near-
hysterical strength, Sean shoved his brother aside and
gripped the side of his shirt with his left hand, drenching
it with water. He let Patrick leap at him again, and
reached out with his wet hand. Smearing Patrick's face
with the water, he clumsily made the sign of the cross
and half grunted, "In the name of our Lord, you are
free!"

Patrick rocked forward, as if struck from behind by a
brick. His eyes blinked and seemed to focus for the first
time. He looked at his brother and then around. His eyes
widened as if he couldn't believe what he saw, but before
he could speak, Sean was up and yanking Patrick to his
feet. Shaking in terror, Sean gulped back his fear and
shouted at the Shining Man, "You broke your word!" He
half expected something bad to happen, but the Fool only
sat regarding the boys with a baleful gaze.

"That simple one," he said, pointing after the fleeing

Bad Thing, "defied my order. And he"—he pointed at

Patrick—"was no member yet of my court. I have done
as you have bidden."

Sean knew somehow he had not done as well as he
could have, but he was unable to contain himself any
longer. Patrick stood beside him, his eyes boggling at
what he saw, and he appeared on the edge of fainting.

Sean grabbed his brother's hand, yanking him around.

"Come on!"

Patrick let himself be turned and pulled, but he
couldn't take his eyes from the assembled host of fairies.

Sean turned to face the fairies, who sat motionless,
watching the twins.

Suddenly the Fool shrieked, a high, almost feminine,
ear-shattering screech. Pain took voice and he spun his
mount in a full circle and raised his fist toward the heav-
ens. Again he spun his horse, with hand outstretched as
he waved in anger, shrieking, "Go! Begone! All of you!"

The dark fairies fled back to the woods, retreating in
the face of their master's anger. As quickly as they had

come they had gone, and the boys stood alone on the
road with the Fool. He moved a menacing step toward
them, and Sean and Patrick bolted.

Young feet pounded the stones as the twins raced
along the path through the trees, the Quest Guide speed-
ing along with them. Each step they flew carried them
closer to safe haven, away from terrors so overpowering
they had been given form and substance: the Fool.

Patrick shouted, "What's going on! Where are we?"

He seemed to be waking from a dream.

"Just keep running!" answered Sean. Both continued
silent in their flight, and kept eyes fixed forward, as if to
look back would be to surrender what had been so diffi-
cult to win. Each moment was another test, another risk,
another trap to prevent their escape.

Then, after a timeless flight, they could see the back of
the strange house that seemed to mark the boundary be-
tween the land of the Queen and the land where Sean had
met the Fool. Only a few gnarled trees stood between the
boys and that boundary.

A few yards from the rear door of the house, the boys
slowed. Patrick said, "What's going on?"

Sean pointed backward. "That guy, the Shining Man,
he took you from home. You've been here for more than
a week."

"I don't remember!" said Patrick, obviously disturbed.

"Where are we?"

"Barney said it's the Good People's land. I don't know
what it's called. I didn't ask."

"How do we get back?"

Sean pointed. "Through this place, then down a white
road, to where this Queen lady is going to help us. Then
out a cave to where Barney's waiting."

"Why does that guy want to hurt us?" asked Patrick.

"I don't know. Maybe Barney can tell us." Then he
considered. "He said humans made that sad place, you
know, where all the trees are ugly. Maybe he's just mad
at all of us."

Patrick was usually the leader in any undertaking the
boys embarked upon, but under these bizarre circum-

stances he was more than willing to follow Sean's lead.

Waking up in the middle of a fight with his brother, with
all those weird things standing around, was too much
even for his sense of adventure. He reached up and felt
the garlands in his hair. "What's this junk?" Patrick
asked, pulling the leaves and black blooms from his curls.

Then a figure dropped from the trees, landing with
shocking force upon Sean's back. Patrick yelled in sur-
prise and leaped away.

Sean rolled over on his back, the thing holding tight to
him. He didn't need to see his assailant to know the Bad

Thing had moved through the trees ahead of him, at-
tempting to intercept him before leaving the Shadow

Lands. The Bad Thing hooted in pain as it struggled to
restrain Sean, obviously tormented by contact with one
wearing a ward. Taloned black hands tore at Sean's
blouse as the creature attempted to rip the fairy stone
from around Sean's neck.

Sean lashed out backward with the dagger, but only
dug the tip into moist ground. He yelled, half in anger,
half in fear, and rolled again, but the Bad Thing held
tight to his back.

Sean then felt powerful claws grip his throat, and in a
spasm of panic he managed to roll onto his chest. He
made a crawling motion while the Bad Thing cried, al-
most a human sound. It was in torment from the fairy
stone but it continued to do its master's bidding: Rid the
boy of the stone and return them both.

Then the Bad Thing rocked, and Sean felt the weight
roll off him. Sean turned and saw that Patrick had struck
the creature, knocking it away, and now the other twin
was struggling. Patrick flailed out with the rock he used
as a weapon, but Sean knew that without the ward and
silver dagger, Patrick was no opponent for the Bad

Thing.

Without hesitation Sean leaped atop the struggling
pair, adding his weight to Patrick's, to press the creature
to the earth. He cut downward with his dagger and felt
the point dig in. The creature screamed, a sound to linger
forever in the boys' nightmares.

Sean cried in fear, his vision blurred by tears, but he
held his position and let his weight fall upon the handle
of the dagger, using his mass where he lacked strength of
arm. The hilt dug into Sean's stomach as the blade bit
deep into the stomach of the Bad Thing, and to Sean it
was as if their pain were shared. The Bad Thing
screamed. And the boys' shrieks of fear made a counter-
point to the thing's cry of pain. It was a gurgling, stran-
gled sound, then a hissing and scratchy sound. Patrick
threw himself across Sean's back, and the dagger was
driven deeper into the Bad Thing. The heartrending
scream of pain changed, trailing off to a warble, a hiss of
steam leaking from a boiler, a shrill, final sound. It was
the sound of death.

Patrick rolled off his brother. Sean scrambled back, as
if repelled by the most noxious thing ever seen. Neither
boy spoke as they watched the black creature writhe
upon the ground, the dagger protruding from its stom-
ach. It flopped like a freshly landed fish, crimson blood
spraying from its nose and mouth, then lay still, only to
twitch and shiver, then lie still again.

Sean looked at Patrick, who sat silently with tears
flowing from eyes wide with panic. Sean rubbed his own
runny nose on the back of his sleeve, then wiped his eyes
and left his brother. He went to where the Bad Thing lay,
slowly circling it to ensure it was dead.

At last he was satisfied, and he bent over to get the
dagger. As his fingers touched the hilt, a black hand
swung up and gripped his shirt front. Sean yelled. The

Bad Thing pulled the boy toward him, the yellow and
brown eyes now open and alive. Seant inches from the
thing's face, the pulling stopped. Then the Bad Thing
spoke, its bloody lips barely moving. In a gurgling
whisper, soft and tiny, like a little child's voice, it said, "I

. . . was once . . . like you." Then in a hissing
whisper, almost inaudible, it said, "Free . . . thank

. . . you."

For an instant Sean saw the hate leave the creature's
face. Sean looked into its eyes, and in that instant they
were not mad with inhuman lights, but large, brown, and

soft. And hidden deep in those moist eyes, far in the
shadow of hate and rage, was a hint of something more.

Then Sean understood: Once, long ago, this Bad Thing
had been as human as Sean. From wherever the Bad

Thing had come, it had had parents and a home, a life of
promise and hope, and the expectation of youth. But all
that had been taken from it by the black, glowing figure.

Like Patrick, the Bad Thing had been a child stolen from
his parents by fairies, taken to this alien place. That for-
gotten child had been twisted and warped over the years,
his once child's flesh distorted by inhuman passions into
this creature of horror. And Sean understood more: To
be taken by the Shining Man was to become such as this.

Then the light extinguished in those eyes as the creature's
head fell back, its hand still clinging to Sean's blouse.

Sean gently pried apart the thing's fingers, and the grip
on Sean's blouse was released.

Sean stood away from the thing, knowing now what
his and Patrick's fate would be should the Shining Man
somehow recapture them. As objects of perverted lust
and desire, they would be used, warped, and twisted,
their bodies and spirits reshaped until they were like the

Bad Thing, creatures so blackened of soul that even the
memory of humanity was a dim, nearly forgotten thing.

Sean stared down at the twisted thing that had once
been a child much like himself, feeling a mixture of re-
lief and sorrow. Perhaps it had been that almost lost hu-
manity that had given the creature the ability to resist the
ward. And perhaps it had been that almost lost humanity
that had let the boys drive home the dagger, giving the
creature final rest.

Then, at the sound of approaching hoof beats, he knew
danger once again raced after them. He turned away
from the Bad Thing, the dagger forgotten. Patrick stood
mute, as if the spoken words were some sort of narcotic,
rendering him without volition. Sean seized his hand and
pulled him toward the rear door of the strange house,
where the Quest Guide waited, moving rapidly from side
to side, as if impatient—or frightened. They reached the
back door and Sean tugged on the handle, but the door

would not open. Panic struck, for they seemed to be
balked by the reluctant door. Again and again Sean
tugged, until at last the latch moved. The door swung
open ponderously, and Sean pushed it wide to reveal the
interior of the Hall of Ancient Seasons. The boys took a
single step toward the interior and halted as a tall figure
stepped into view, coming out of the gloom deep within
the building. No longer dressed in armor, but now wear-
ing a barbaric hat topped with antelope horns, and a jer-
kin sewn with gems and the skulls of seabirds on each
shoulder, the Fool blocked their path through the house.

He studied the motionless boys a long moment, then
threw back his head and howled his pleasure.

39

Phil and Mark found Barney kneeling in the rain, clutch-
ing his rosary as he prayed. Phil approached from the
side. So he could be heard over the driving rain, he
shouted, "Sean?"

"In there," said Doyle, pointing at the hill.

"What?" said Phil, astonished. "Where's the en-
trance?"

Mark gripped Phil's shoulder. "Nine times around the
hill to the right. Like the old legends."

"Well, let's get them!" shouted Phil.

Mark held Phil's shoulder, while Barney said, "Wait!"

Phil quit moving toward the hill, as Barney motioned for
a hand. Slowly, letting Mark help him, Barney got to his
feet. "If you go barging in after, you may lose all you
hope to save. Time and distance are canted in the land of
the Good People, so the tales say."

"I don't know what the hell's going on," shouted Phil,

"but if my sons are wandering around in there, I'm going
to get them out."

Barney sighed. "Said like a man, Philip Hastings. But
it is almost midnight, and if they're not out within min-

utes, there's nothing to say you'll survive as well. You've
a wife and daughter in this world you must also think
about."

Mark said, "We stay."

Phil was about to object, but Mark said, "If what I
think is going to happen happens, then we'll get the boys
back, Phil. If I mess up ... it won't matter."

Atop the crest of the hill, the night was suddenly rent
by brilliance as a white glow erupted. Phil saw a magnifi-
cent woman—if she was human—surrounded by what
seemed a royal court take form atop the hill, dim figures
stepping out of the brilliance to walk down the hill. Mark
came up to stand beside Phil.

The three men watched the Queen of Faerie. She
seemed to float above the mud as she descended farther
down the hillside. How she had moved between the
realms was not apparent. Behind her came the members
of her court, including one who was obviously human, a
man who alone in the Queen's company had to plod over
muddy sod. All the others glided above the surface of the
earth.

Barney stood weaving—whether from being still
slightly drunk or from fright, it couldn't be said—his
mouth open in disbelief at the sight of the Queen of the

Fairies standing nearby. The Queen looked at Mark, as if
expecting him to speak. When he remained silent, she
said, "You are not of the Magi."

Mark spoke softly, yet his words carried in the now
still air. "The Erl King, who is called the Fool, was re-
sponsible for a breach of the Compact; he was in league
with traitors within the Magi—men who would share
power over the rest of humanity with him. He set it up
for this man"—he pointed at Phil—"to find the gold.

And not knowing it to be a pledge of faith, this man took
it. There was no intent to break the law."

"We know the truth when we hear it. We mourn for
that which once was. If the Compact is broken, it is be-
cause of no mortal doing. One wished for the old ways
and thought to revenge himself upon those who van-
quished us so long ago." Almost sadly she added,

"Rightly has he named himself the Fool, he who is King
no longer." She heaved a sigh that would have been
called theatrical coming from any mortal woman, but
looked only appropriate to her more than human nature.

"We shall finally have to call him to account when he
comes." She glanced about. "The hour to move is almost
here. He is overlong in coming. Fool or King, yet must
we wait upon him, for it is by his will as much as our own
that we travel again."

"Titania and Oberon," said Mark quietly.

"So they have been called," agreed the Queen's human
companion. "Those are but mortal names and not their
own, any more than he is Elberich or she Gloriana. Nor
are they truly Ahriman and Ormuzd. They are only they
who once ruled the Faie."

"Faie," said Phil. "It that what they call themselves?"

The man shook his head. "It is a Norman word. They
call themselves the Race, or People—much as any people
do—but their words cannot be spoken by mortals, for
only angels or demons have voices like theirs. To us they
are the Fee, Peri, or Sidhe. Or a dozen other names. But,
simply, they are what they are—as we are but what we
are. And each race and nation of man sees them in a form
that is like to its own."

Mark shook his head wearily. "What will happen
now?"

The man said, "That is as it has been for ages, in the
long and the short. There will be a change. But for good
or ill, I cannot say."

Mark said, "I don't understand."

The man pointed. "Ariel comes. And behind him close
should come his master."

A glowing dust devil spun past the silent members of
the Queen's court who dotted the clearing, and came up
the hillside. Behind it came those creatures who had
served the Fool. They halted at sight of the Queen, but
the glowing column of spinning wind moved boldly past
her to halt before Phil and the others. The spinning form
quickly resolved itself into the shape of the young boy
who had rescued Sean and Patrick.

"Hail, Thomas," said the youth, obviously weary.

"Welcome, Ariel," replied the man. "Come and rest.

You appear bested."

With resignation, Ariel said, "True. My master again
took my measure and made me cry out in pleasure. It
was a great and wonderful defeat." Grinning, he said,

"But though I must again count him my master, still did

I task him greatly. And he did fall prey to fate's whims
and now finds himself within the Hall of Ancient Sea-
sons. And should he not quit that hall before the twelfth
chime strikes, even his powers will serve him not. So then

I would have a master, but then I would not. It would be,
in short, a matter of some perplexity."

"And what were you to do with Dark Lands? Went
you with the Queen's consent?" asked Thomas.

"Not entirely," said the youth. "But she knew what I
was about. It is not the first time she has lost me to the
dark court and the Fool's bidding. And if the Fool has
not lost himself in time's dream, she will win me again,
and it will not be the last I change the King's court for
hers." With a wicked smile he said, "Neither counts me a
particularly reliable servant." He frowned almost petu-
lantly. "I think now I must be about a different calling,
for I deem it time to change my lot. Ah, now to be master
instead of servant." He sighed. "To serve the Fool has its
benefits. The last time he sent me to dwell among mortals
was to establish contact with the Magi in the woods of

Greece. Ah! What joys I had traveling with university
students on tour! And the nights were filled with revels fit
to put old Dionysus to shame. Before that it was to watch
the Magus Kessler for a span."

Mark looked to Phil. "I think we've just found Way-
land Smith."

The boy grinned and nodded. He shimmered and
turned to the shape of the blacksmith. "It is a talent we
have." His voice was now deep and resonant. "It is a
shape pleasing to mortal women. In my more common
form they find me childish and wish to mother me. This
shape seems to excite more notice. I have also discovered
that in this guise it is not necessary to use arts to gain

women. As I look now, they come to me. A fair word, a
quiet touch, a promise of love, and they are more than
willing to spread their legs and make the beast with two
backs." He laughed. "When I wore this form while
watching the Magus Kessler, I had many a pleasurable
hour with a mortal wench, and those whose society I
enjoyed were a high-spirited and jolly company, ruffians
all. Though, I think, to serve the Fool after this struggle
will be less a joy than that occasion. Should he win, it will
be war. Should he not, he will be wroth and unleash his
vexation upon me." His voice rose in pitch as he shifted
back to his boyish appearance.

Phil looked confused. "Who's Wayland Smith?"

Mark said, "I'll tell you later. If there's a later."

Phil studied the youth for a moment, then said, "My
daughter! Are you . . . ?"

With a stretch, the youth said, "Nay, proud father. I
am not the one who troubled your children. She saw me
but once in my more manly guise, and I did but do her a
small service. She is a fair one and gladly would I have
taken her pleasures." He shivered and grinned. "My flesh
hardens to think of her." His smile vanished and he
added, "But she did not offer and I did not wish to be the
one to break oath by using arts. The one I call master did
take my most common form and think to place the blame
for the breach of peace upon me, should word of the deed
reach the Queen. Causing her to cast me out would seem
a splendid jest to him. It was a cruel thing to do. It was a
long feud we had, for among the People have I alone
risen to be near his match, I who was once his knavish
jester. And as he sought to dishonor me," said the youth
with an evil grin, "I think I shall repay him most bitterly,
by taking his place." With a shimmer of light, the boy
changed his form, and suddenly, in all his towering splen-
dor, the Fool stood again before the stunned humans.

40

The Fool laughed, and Phil felt the hair on his neck and
arms rise at the sheer alien quality of the sound.

From where she had stood, the Queen called out, "At
once put away that mask! You mock one who is your
better!"

Instantly the youth reappeared. He made a courtly
bow toward the Queen, who motioned for her attendants
to come to her. Tiny glowing sprites flew up the hill while
she sought to regain her poise. With a sly wink to the
humans, the youth called Ariel said, "It is not quite time,
though it shall be soon."

Almost absently, Ariel said to the Queen, "The Indian
king's boy is dead."

The Queen nodded. "We sensed his death."

Thomas sighed. "It is good he rests at last. His nature
had become foul in extremis since the Fool won him from
the Queen. And long has he been a cause of contention
between the two courts. How did he pass?"

Ariel said, "That one's son called Sean slew him with
a dagger of silver." He grinned. "He's a brave tad. The

Indian king's boy thanked him for the deed. That faint
gratitude sang on the wind for all to hear. His soul is now
free to find God's rest."

Phil said, "Sean? What. . . ?"

Mark said, "Ten thousand questions. And I don't
know where to start."

Barney nodded as he sat down heavily upon the
muddy ground. "And scant good would answers gain
you, Mark Blackman. What sober man would believe
you?"

Mark looked at the youth. "What do you mean, it's
not quite time?"

Ariel glanced at the Queen, who stood surrounded by
her court. He barely hid his laugh as he spoke. "For ages

have I served her, and the other, tossed from court to
court as fate's whim directed. Soon, I think, I shall rule,
for if my master does not best the mortal boys in the Hall
of Ancient Seasons, I shall take his place. And to the

Queen's bed go without suffering the consequence."

"Consequence?" said Mark, obviously confused.

Ariel glanced at Thomas. "The Queen's needs are sav-
age in appetite. Twice have I had the pleasure to be her
passing fancy. Greatly was I vanquished. None can with-
stand the Queen's embrace without being bested, save"—
he inclined his head toward Thomas—"that one."

Mark raised an eyebrow. Thomas shrugged. "The

Queen finds me ... pleasurable. I can bring her things

... of the body. With me she needs no issues of domi-
nance resolved. She can take from me without surrender
and fear, and I survive her gifts."

Ariel chortled, a high-pitched gleeful sound. "So won-
derful a lover she found him that when he sought to
leave, she cursed him." Now the boy fell to the ground,
and rolled over to lie on his back, hands behind his head,
obviously delighted at the chance to tell the story. "And
such a curse! Never could he speak without telling the
truth—only the truth, no more, no less. No embellish-
ments, no liberties, no coloring or lightening, no kind
dissembling, no charitable allusions. Just truth. A poet
under such a curse could find but little favor in the com-
pany of other mortals. Lords who are willing patrons
need fawning praise, not unvarnished truth." He glanced
at Thomas. "And I would think rhyming would become
much more difficult with so many words denied you,
poet." Looking back to Mark, the youth said, "He re-
turned to us, lore keeper, as the Queen knew he would."

Mark's eyes widened. "Of course! You're Thomas

Learmont!"

"I am he," answered the man.

Phil glanced at the man and said, "Who?"

Mark said, "Thomas of Erceldoune. Thomas the

Rhymer."

Barney, who had recovered his wits, laughed a weak,
hoarse-sounding laugh, cut through by fear, but he boldly

said, "A Scotsman, which is nearly as bad as an English-
man, but a poet, which makes him almost Irish."

Thomas ignored the barb. "Please," said Mark,

"there's so little time. What are these creatures?"

Thomas shrugged. "Beings of the spirit. They have no
true mortal form; they take shape as pleases them." He
looked at Mark. "They cause terror or lust, love and fear,
those strongest of emotions, to rise up within mortal
hearts, fanning them like a flame into a blaze; then they
feed upon those passions, devouring them like food or
drink. When they take mortal lovers, their spirit and the
spirits of their lovers burn like a fire. If they are kind,
they cause only a little fear or a little passion, taking
sparingly, and leaving the mortal to recover. But if they
are without kindness, they take all until they've devoured
the mind and spirit of the human whom they use in this
fashion, leaving only ashes behind. It is a difficult thing to
understand. It is their way. They are denied flesh, and
long for it. They mimic us and our bodies, since they
have none of their own. They envy us. For all their frolic,
they are an ofttimes sad race."

Phil said, "But you're human; you stay with them?"

"I abide," agreed Thomas. "The Queen and I have
come to know each other. It is a satisfactory arrange-
ment." His voice trailed off. "Though now and again I
long for the sight of fog on the moors and sun on the hills
of Scotland."

"Perhaps this year," said Ariel. "One never knows
where she will choose. Now the courts are reunited, and
she free of his sour orders, it may prove she'll choose a
place where a great celebration can be undertaken."

To Mark and the others Thomas said, "Before this
night, since the time of the Compact, the Queen and the

Fool had been in all ways equal. Each had their court,
and both needed to agree on where we would troop next.

The Seely and Unseely courts are separate in their realm,
but in this mortal world they must move as one."

Ariel's grin widened and his voice took on a conspira-
torial tone. "Once, ages past, there was but one court. It
was after the Destruction, when the Compact was forced

upon us, that we were split as a people." His eyes seemed
alive with delight. "Though it may be, should my master
fall, we shall again be as one!" Then his eyes betrayed a
dark side. "Or should she not wish to share her rule and
those below be agreed, we might see another in control of
the Dark Lands. No courser can withstand me."

Ariel giggled, and Phil shivered at the madness in the
sound. "Is it not a grand and fitting irony, humans? Has
there ever been a more dolorous race than we? For to
take pleasure is to become a slave, and to give it without
return is hollow victory. So we seek humans to prey
upon, that we not destroy ourselves." He laughed again,
but this time it was a bitter laugh. "Yet our perversity is
nothing compared to mankind's. Someday I must come
to understand what makes you humans so wasteful of the
gifts God has given you. To feel so strongly ... to
know pleasure and pain . . . joy and wonder . . . even
death!"

Mark's tone was one of disbelief. "You don't die?"

Thomas said, "They are of the spirit, and to die is
utter obliteration. They have no souls, or they are only
souls, however you choose to understand such things.

But if they fall, they fall for eternity, while man's light
passes to another and better world."

Mark and Phil exchanged glances. Mark was about to
ask another question, but in the distance the sound of a
church bell cut the night. Thomas said, "It is time."

With the chiming of the bell, the fairies began to glow
brightly. Many shifted shape. The knights of the Queen's
court and the Fool's coursers were all surrounded by a
white-blue glow. The horses vanished, as did all the ar-
mor. Only small beings with sheer wings, hovering above
the ground, remained.

"What . . . ?" said Phil.

The Queen quickly surrounded herself with light as
the second chime struck. She resolved herself into a dif-
ferent form, even more stunning and beautiful than be-
fore. Her wings were golden, but with faint shimmering
stripes of colors, and her hair hung to her shoulders like
the finest spun gold. She wore a fabulous robe of stunning

fashion, yet it was transparent, revealing her naked body
as she rose into the air. Her breasts, hips, buttocks, and
long tapering legs were perfect in proportion and form,
but she was of heroic size, easily a full head taller than

Mark. Her skin was without blemish and her muscles
impossibly smooth and fluid in every movement. Her legs
and arms were almost golden in this light, and her body
was devoid of hair save her groin, which was covered in
soft-looking, feathery golden down. Her face was now
even more perfect than before, each line more finely
drawn, each curve more subtle, each angle more graceful.

Yet now, more than before, her alien nature was revealed.

Mark glanced about, but it was Phil who shouted,

"Where are my sons!"

With a savage laugh, Ariel answered, "In a place of
timelessness and despair, and should they not win free of
my master, and quickly, there shall they abide for eter-
nity."

The sound of his voice sent a chill of dread through

Phil's soul, plunging him into a darkness of the heart
beyond any despair he had known thus far. He turned to
watch the hillside for any sign of his boys, knowing he
had but ten more chimes before they were lost to him
forever.

41

Sean and Patrick stood motionless. The sound of hoof-
beats reverberated through the dark woodlands, now
closer. Sean willed himself to speak, saying, "You didn't
do like I told you!" He was suddenly conscious of having
left the dagger behind in the body of the Bad Thing.

"You broke your word!"

With evil amusement the Fool placed hands on hips,
saying, "Indeed I did not! I was told not to follow after."

With a mock graciousness that terrified Sean as much as
any demonstration of anger, the Fool continued. "But

you said nothing about me riding ahead of you. And you
said nothing about them following after!"

He pointed to the woods behind the boys, past the still
figure of the Bad Thing, where a veritable army of dark
fairies was emerging into sight. Those upon horse rode
slowly and those on foot crouched, in anticipation of the
boys' bolting away from the Fool. "Now you are mine!"

To the advancing fairies he said, "Take them!"

Sean and Patrick exchanged glances and one of those
silent communications they had known since birth. Both
boys broke toward the door and the Fool, away from his
minions. The spinning golden globe of the Quest Guide
moved to follow.

As soon as the three passed the threshold, the door
slammed behind them, freeing them momentarily from
pursuit. The Fool hesitated an instant at the unexpected
charge, as Patrick ran to the right and Sean the left.

Patrick dodged, and as he passed the door that held
summer in check, it slammed open. The" noise caused him
to falter, and he instinctively moved away, which brought
him within reach of the Fool.

A powerful hand reached out and gripped the boy's
flesh, but he squirmed and pulled away, feeling scorching
heat, as if touched by a live electric wire. He fell forward,
rolling and turning, to rise in a crouch.

But instead of the expected sight of the Fool advancing
upon him, Patrick saw that the dread creature had spun
to face Sean, who had not quite gotten past him. And this
time there was a handful of clothing to grip as the Fool's
now gloved fist seized hold of Gabbie's blouse. With a
shout of triumph, the Fool lifted Sean. "You will torment
me no longer, boy!" And with a searing laugh, he said,

"Now you will know pain!"

Lifting Sean toward him, he reached out with his free
hand, and Patrick could see that the leather glove had
clawed tips, poised to tear his brother's flesh.

42

Patrick screamed, "Sean! Get away!"

Sean twisted and squirmed, and the clawed glove de-
scended.

Sean cried out as the shirt tore and his child's flesh
was cut. Patrick stood motionless, helpless to aid his
brother in this moment of his torment, as crimson stained
his sister's tattered blouse. The Fool giggled, a sound to
freeze the mind. Patrick could see that the cuts upon

Sean's chest were light, for the Fool was only toying with
his victim.

Then Sean jerked at the front of his shirt with his free
hand. The buttons tore and suddenly he was sliding
downward. The Fool's eyes went wide with astonishment
as the boy wriggled free and he was left holding limp
cloth. The now bare-chested boy dodged away, and the

Fool turned to cut off his escape.

Sean moved away, and the door leading to winter flew
open. The boy backed toward it, sensing the opening be-
hind him. The Fool's face came alight with evil glee.

"There's no escape there, boy. There lies Forever's Win-
ter, and to enter that realm is to lose all hope."

Sean crouched, as if to make a leap for freedom past
the Fool, and the Fool answered his movements with a
move to his right. Sean feigned a move in the other direc-
tion, and the Fool answered that. The boy was helpless.

Sean crouched, seeming consumed at last by panic.

Seeing him immobilized by terror caused a stiffening of

Patrick's resolve. He wouldn't let this shiny guy take

Sean. Patrick spun about, looking for anything that
might help. There was only one other object in the room.

Patrick reached out and grabbed the Quest Guide, as

Sean had before. The baseball-sized orb brightened as if
angry or fearful. "Sorry," was all Patrick said as he
reared back.

Patrick shouted, "Sean! Pitchout!"

At this the Shining Man turned toward Patrick, while

Sean hunkered down even lower. Patrick took aim at the

Shining Man's head and threw the Quest Guide. He
didn't have Sean's finesse as a pitcher, but his throw to
second base was the strongest of any boy his age he had
met, and he knew this was the most important throw of
his young life. Straight and true went the Quest Guide,
speeding at the head of the Fool. The Quest Guide struck
the Shining Man full in the face, and with a shriek—of
pain or anger, the twins couldn't judge—the Fool stum-
bled back.

Sean braced himself, in the age-old position of the boy
who creeps behind another, waiting for a companion to
push the unsuspecting dupe backward. The Fool's leather
boot struck Sean and he toppled backward and with a
mind-numbing scream fell through the door into winter.

Sean rolled forward, scrambling around on all fours in
a crablike motion. But instead of a figure of towering rage
emerging from the door to claim them, they saw the Fool
sitting in the snow. The old man and woman were rush-
ing to him, one on each side, helping him to his feet.

Then the boys saw that the man and woman weren't just
helping him, they were holding him. What had been smil-
ing faces, set in warm expressions, were now masks of
madness beyond that seen upon the Shining Man. The

Fool struggled against the pair, but even his magical
strength could not budge them.

Patrick came up behind where Sean crouched and
said, "Look at that!"

As they watched, the Fool's face seemed to grow pale,
and to wither, until his apparent age matched that of the
pair who held him motionless. He cried out, and his
scream was only the faintest whisper of agony.

Then Patrick gripped Sean's shoulder, and Sean
turned. In the opposite doorway, another Fool, young
and vigorous, was held in identical pose to his older dop-
pelganger, his motion restricted by the young pair of
summer lovers.

Sean rose unsteadily to his feet. With a voice choked
with fatigue and emotion, he said, "Let's go."

Patrick gave him a steadying arm and then let him go.

Sean walked slowly toward the far door. As they passed
out of sight of the first pair of doors, they swung shut and
the second pair opened. Within the door to autumn a
mature-looking version of the Fool was being pulled back
from the door by the man and woman Sean had seen on
his previous way through the hall. The boys turned.

Beyond the last door, the door into spring, a child

Fool, in the same raiment as the others but diminished in
size to a boy of seven, was being dragged away by the boy
and girl. In those three faces both twins saw something
unholy. And his faintly heard child's screams were of
unalloyed terror.

Sean turned away and saw his own tears mirrored
upon Patrick's cheeks. "Let's go home."

Patrick nodded and knew that no words would ever
convey to another what they had just witnessed. Then the
distant sound of a chime could be heard, and Sean said,

"It's midnight! We've got to hurry!" Forcing legs weary
beyond belief to move, they ran for the far door.

43

The night was rent by a boy's cry: Sean screaming, "Bar-
ney!"

Seemingly out of nowhere, the twins hurried on leaden
legs toward the three men. Phil dashed forward, sweep-
ing up both his boys in his arms, his voice breaking with
emotion as he repeated their names over and over. Bar-
ney came hurrying through the mud as fast as his
cramped and ancient legs could carry him. He reached
the boys with tears in his eyes and prayers on his lips,
saying, "Blessed St. Patrick be praised! You did it, Sean!

You brought him back!"

Sean began to speak, but couldn't, fear and fatigue

finally overwhelming him. All he could do was let his
father hold him. The exhausted boys allowed Phil to sup-
port them, letting themselves go limp. Almost breathless,

Patrick said, "The Shining Man tried to get us, but we
tricked him and now he's stuck in the house with the
doors."

The Queen's voice sang out. "Within the Hall of An-
cient Seasons?"

Patrick nodded. "He grabbed Sean, and I threw the
shining ball at him. He fell through the door."

The Queen covered her face with her hands and
openly sobbed.

Mark glanced at the human who stood beside the

Queen. "I don't understand," he said. The bell at St.

Catherine's struck the third chime of midnight.

"She did love him greatly," answered Thomas.

Hugging his sons and considering what he had heard
about the Fool, Phil said, "She loves that maniac?"

With a sad note, Thomas said, "The Queen loves
many, and many love her. But that one who is lost in
ancient seasons was first among her lovers and foes."

"Once," she said in a voice almost plaintive in quality,

"we stood as masters of this mortal world; then as contes-
tants with man for our place upon it." Her hand in-
scribed a circle, indicating the land inside the hill, in
which they lived. "We discovered that world, and unrav-
eled its secrets, its place in time, and the how and why of
traveling between the realms of spirit and substance."

She sighed. "But when humans learned to use arts, then
we suffered. It is the age of man, and we exist at his
sufferance. His numbers grow daily while ours are as al-
ways, and his arts are powerful beyond belief. He has
unlocked the secrets of metal and the hated electricity
which robs us of our strength. And, beyond, he knows
the secrets of the universe, or will soon, the very heart of
mystery." She looked up at Mark. "We are no longer
your match. We must now depend upon your kindness."

Mark nodded in understanding. Phil came to his side
and said, "What does she mean? Are we safe?" He looked
upon his sons with concern.

Mark nodded. "From the fairies? Yes. They're energy
beings. Knowing that, we could find a way to defeat
them, even without magic. The Queen just said 'hated
electricity.' I think we could build weapons." His frustra-
tion showed. "So we find ourselves forced to cooperate
with those who've kept them hidden from most of hu-
manity over the ages."

"The Magi?" said Phil, keeping his boys close at his
side.

Mark took a breath, calming his ire. "Yes, and it's a
good bet that while we're doing their work for them,
they'll be trying to make sure we don't betray their exis-
tence. The Magi already have enough clout within the
governments of the world to hush things up. We could all
have 'accidents.' It's a no-win situation if we talk. So we
don't talk." Then he shook his head. "Not that anyone
would ever believe this."

The Queen spoke to the two men. "I do not know of
everything you say, but I sense you understand our
plight. The Fool and his coursers might chase a lone man
in the woods with their Wild Hunt, but you have armies
without limit and machines that bring terrible destruc-
tion. What the Magi did ages past to the Shadow Lands
would be nothing compared to what you are capable of
now. All, the Bright Lands, the Dark Lands, all would
become like that. The People would end."

"So," said Mark, "we must ensure no one learns the
truth." He shook his head. "I'll never write my book."

Then he said, "Majesty, there are so many things I would
know, even if I might never tell another. So many things
that concern the days so long ago. Thomas has spoken of
angels and demons, and God placing you above the Peo-
ple -"

Softly the Queen said, "Mortal friend, we of the Peo-
ple know our history less well than you know your own.

The People have no lore keepers such as yourself, and we
are not the first to rule, nor shall we be the last. We are
but the most recent of those who guide the People in this
guise. Our days do not number endless, though to your

kind it must seem so. We do not remember back before
the time of the Compact."

Mark looked confused. "But Thomas said—"

"He brings his mortal understanding to what he sees,
as do all of your people save the Magi. We are not as you.

When she who first wore this form faded, another took it,
the same form, yet a different essence, as I took it in my
turn, and as another will from me someday. And she who
went before is again as these little fliers." She indicated
the simple, tiny sprites who darted around their Queen.

"Or the Quest Guide. They are all young beings, with
little understanding, just beginning to grow. I may not
make you understand. I am she who was first given to
rule at my Lord's side, yet I am not. It is all part of the
cycle of things."

Mark considered. "When your energy state runs
down, another comes and assumes the role, one whose
energy is rising." He glanced at Ariel. "As his is. And the
predecessors' energy runs down to where they begin
again, as if they were children!" Mark's eyes widened. He
said to Ariel, "You'll be the Fool!"

Ariel shrugged. "It is not our fate to read the future."

With an insouciant grin he said, "And unlike you we
have no wish to do so." Then he winked as the fourth
chime sounded at St. Catherine's. "Though I think
soon."

"We think you already know more of our truth than
does our beloved Thomas," observed the Queen. Nod-
ding toward the youth called Ariel, she added, "I expect
that one day it will be as you say, and I will discover that
he has changed and become the one now lost in the Hall
of Ancient Seasons. That one had remained unchanged
much longer than I." Her eyes became distant, as if re-
membering. "I think hatred for your race had fueled his
existence." She looked at Mark, eyes seeming to glow
with emotion. "No, you will not learn more, human. And
remember this above all, in every thing there is always

Mystery, what you mortals call God."

The Queen looked around as the sky seemed to change
hue, losing some of the alien blue under the black that

had come into existence with the Queen's appearance
upon the scene. "It now comes that we must begin to
move, so this world and our own will stay in harmony.

The People must troop to a new hill on this earth. We
must choose our destination." To Ariel she said, "Let us
away. We must decide where our courts shall be for the
next six turns of the moon."

Mark touched Phil's arm and pointed, and Phil saw
what Mark indicated. While the humans were filthy from
all the muck and rain, none of the fairies showed any
trace of mud upon their bodies or clothing. Mark said,

"They are illusions, in all their forms. They are energy
beings. I wish I could know more!" He felt a deep sadness
at all the unanswered questions. Then he remembered the
problems still unresolved, and said, "And we must hurry,
as well. I don't know how much time we have before the

Magi catch up with us, and I have no doubt of what
they'll do to us."

"I'm afraid you're given to an overblown sense of the
dramatic, Mr. Blackman."

All eyes turned to the author of those words, a man
who stepped out of the shadows on the path from the

Troll Bridge. The man who emerged was attired in an
expensive vicuna topcoat, trimmed with mink. He was
neither young nor old, possibly thirty-nine or possibly
fifty-nine, it was hard to tell. His beard was closely
trimmed, in a natty fashion not widely seen since the
thirties, and his hands were manicured. He wore a
homburg and carried a gold-tipped walking stick in one
hand. In the other he held an efficient-looking gun,
pointed at Mark and Phil.

The man executed a slight bow. "Mr. Hastings?" Phil
nodded. "My name is Anton Wycheck, Mr. Hastings."

His accent was slightly Middle European. "I've come af-
ter your friend Mr. Blackman to settle a few matters."

Phil said, "Somehow, Mr. Wycheck, that doesn't sur-
prise me in the least."

Mark said, "Hello, Anton." He said to Phil, "It was

Anton I spotted in the car. Anton was one of my hosts in

Germany."

"A regrettable misunderstanding, Mr. Blackman. We
have since divined the truth of things. And we would
have no need of that proof, in light of what I have just
witnessed." To the Queen he bowed and spoke in a lan-
guage completely unrecognizable to Phil. He then spoke
with equal deference to Ariel.

Phil felt his boys both trembling and said, "I'd feel a
whole lot easier if you'd point that thing somewhere else,

Mr. Wycheck."

The man regarded the gun and put it in his pocket. "I
apologize. I was uncertain what I would find here, and
felt the need. I forgot I was carrying it." He then spoke in
a different language, something Eastern European, over
his shoulder, and three men appeared, all dressed in
black turtleneck sweaters and Levi's. Two carried the
gold chest Jack had uncovered, and the third some of the
robes from the secret room and a shovel. The chest was
put down and the robes handed around to the four men,
who changed. "We must be quick, my brothers," said

Wycheck. "Midnight is upon us."

Phil glanced at the Queen, who along with her court
stood silently observing the four newcomers.

"The Compact is honored," said Wycheck, turning to
face the Queen. He bowed, produced a gold coin, and
held it forth to be seen. It was placed in the chest, and at
once one of the other men began digging, while the others
stood on each side of the chest.

"The Compact is honored," she answered. "The gifts
of the Magi are tokens of good faith. There was never a
breach of that faith on your part. It was only a misguided
one's dreams of ages long dead. We thank you for your
good faith."

It was Tom who spoke next. "Stand you there, and
come no closer, for all here shall go in one instant to that
new place where faerie and mortal realms meet. I stand
near and travel with my Queen, but you have no such
wish. By yon stump is safe. Fare you well; it is close to

All Saints' Morn, and we must depart."

Mark hesitated, as if the thought of so many unan-

swered questions was more than he could endure, but at
last he simply nodded and waited.

Sean hung close to his father and looked at Patrick.

His twin seemed to be more relaxed, more himself, as he
also watched the spectacle of the fairy court departing.

Then Sean looked to where the adults looked. All eyes
were fixed upon the Queen, who rose up, followed an
instant later by Ariel. All became light, and in an instant
two shimmering columns of energy pulsed in silent
rhythm. All the fairies upon the hill rose into the air, and
from out of the woods came others, scampering, leaping,
flying, dozens and dozens to join with those upon the hill.

All glowed brightly and in an instant were small pillars of
energy, the tiny winged ones becoming little more than
firefly lights, while the youth called Ariel was a pillar
almost equal to the Queen. Then the distant bell of St.

Catherine's chimed again, the tenth or eleventh—Phil
had lost count. The fairies began to move in a strange
ritual-like pattern around the two who were brightest.

They picked up tempo, moving faster. Thomas the

Rhymer stood beside the twin columns of light, unfazed
by the display. Again came the chime and again the pace
increased. Just before the last stroke a voice was heard.

"Take not this victory for granted, mortals. Who can
know what fate may allow another day?" Sean gripped
his father's hand, for the voice might have been Ariel's,
or it might have been the Shining Man's.

Then came the last stroke, and the light and the fairies
were gone. Yet sounds filled the glade, and the Queen's
aura, preventing the rain from falling, was still surround-
ing them all. For a long moment the humans stood in a
quiet island, then it was dark.

Suddenly only Barney's flashlight illuminated the
clearing as rain again fell upon them and cold wind bit at
them.

Then the voice of Ariel sang out, "Your debt to me is
discharged, lore keeper. May God watch over you."

With a hint of regret, mixed with humor, Mark
shouted, "Farewell, merry wanderer of the night; indeed
thou art a shrewd and knavish sprite!"

From thin air Ariel's shrieking laughter pealed like a
small bell, then faded into silence.

Wycheck said, "Gentlemen, it is a poor night to be out
in the woods. May I suggest we retire to Mr. Hastings'

home? From all appearance, you have had a night of it."

They discovered Wycheck and his companions had re-
moved their robes. "I don't suppose you'd care to fill us
in on some things, Mr. Wycheck?" asked Phil.

"Only this," said the dapper stranger, his tone warm
and friendly, but his eyes like nothing so much as blue
flint. "The universe is a vast place, and few have an op-
portunity to even glimpse a portion of its true scope and
nature. Of those who do, even fewer survive the experi-
ence. Simply count yourself and your family as among
those very few and fortunate souls, Mr. Hastings. Put all
this behind you and let it fade from memory. Should we

—my associates and myself—ever discover you involved
in our affairs again ... we shall be forced to take mea-
sures." The last was said without any hostility or threat.

He was simply stating facts as he saw them. "Now I
suggest we return to Mrs. Hastings and your daughter
and her fiance, Mr. Hastings. I am sure they are anxious
to know you are well, and your sons look in need of a hot
bath and warm beds. We shall speak more when we reach
your home; we have much to discuss." To Mark he said,

"By the way, your associate Mr. Thieus and his lovely
lady friend are also waiting there for you, Mr.

Blackman."

Watching one of Wycheck's companions cover the
chest with shovelfuls of dirt, Phil said, "How did you get
that out of the police station?"

Mr. Wycheck motioned with his hand in a courtly
gesture for Phil to precede him on the path. "As Mr.

Blackman has no doubt told you, Mr. Hastings, we are
well connected."

"The Magi?"

The man only smiled as he said, "We prefer to keep
our identity to ourselves. Now, if you would be so kind, I
think we'd best get your two tired boys home."

Phil couldn't argue with that, for both boys were al-

most asleep on their feet. He put a hand on each of them,
relieved he could again do so, and, as Barney recovered
his flashlight, took them home.

44

Gabbie nearly flew through the screen door when she
heard her father's voice in the night, and Gloria was a
step behind her. Sean and Patrick trudged alongside their
dad, obviously exhausted. Phil and Mark spoke in quiet
tones, discussing what they had encountered.

"Dad!" cried the girl. "There's these strange men with
guns. . . ." Her voice trailed off as she saw Patrick. Glo-
ria hurried and grabbed both her sons, hugging them
fiercely. She couldn't stop herself from crying as she
rocked back and forth, holding them tight. After a min-
ute Patrick said, "Mom, you're squeezing the breath out
of me!"

Phil felt something inside break and tears ran down
his face. Nothing else could have told him that things
were back to normal with his son as well as that com-
plaint did. He realized how much he had held down his
feelings over the last few weeks, and how much more he
had forced his mind to accept on this wild and improba-
ble night. Now he felt his knees go wobbly. To Barney
and Mark he said, "Gentlemen, let me buy you a drink—
if you'll take Scotch, Barney, for I've no Irish."

"Whiskey's whiskey, when it comes down to it, and a
guest has no right to complain over his host's hospitality.

Thank you, I'll stay. But it'll be the last, for tomorrow

I'm back to A.A. and once more the pledge . . . unless
they come again." He glanced at Wycheck and his com-
panions. "Assumin' there's no objections?"

Mark shook his head. He knew how Barney felt.

"Come on, Phil. Pour us all a round." Looking at the
dapper man, he said, "Care to join us, Anton?"

The man only smiled and said, "No, my associates and

I will only stay a short time." But he followed them into
the house. The other three men went around the outside
of the house, toward the front porch. Phil noticed they
were chanting softly, some odd ritualistic thing, and for
an instant something in the words seemed to pull at his
mind. He shrugged off the odd sensation and led the oth-
ers into the house.

As Phil entered the living room, he found Jack, Gary,
and his girlfriend Ellen sitting on the couch, with two
men, like the others in black turtleneck shirts and blue
jeans, standing nearby. They appeared relaxed, but it was
clear that up to a few minutes before they had been
standing guard. Gary rose and crossed to Mark's side,
quickly speaking to him. Phil poured a round of drinks
and began passing them around. Gabbie went to sit next
to Jack, who looked grim-faced.

Taking a swig, Phil watched Gloria turn to Mr.

Wycheck. "The boys are exhausted. Can they get baths
and go to bed?"

With a smile, the man said, "By all means, Mrs. Has-
tings. Please, we wish to be as accommodating as possi-
ble."

Both Sean and Patrick came over and hugged their
dad good night, and Gloria took them upstairs. With his
wife and sons out of the room, Phil said, "So, then, Mr.

Wycheck. What's in store for us?"

"Why, I wish to buy this house." Seeing Phil's face set
in a grim mask, he took a check from within a coat
pocket and said, "I think you'll find this a more than fair
offer, Mr. Hastings."

Phil read the amount on the check and nodded. "This
is twice what I paid."

"We have no desire to take advantage of your need to
sell. I know you and your family need to move quickly,
before the first of the year. Is there any problem?"

"No," answered Phil. "That will be ample time."

Wycheck said, "A lawyer will contact you with papers
to sign, but you may cash the check now, if you like."

Phil shook his head. " 'Need to sell.' I like that. It's a
nice euphemism for extortion."

"Hardly extortion, Mr. Hastings. You need to sell this
house. Why, only this morning you heard from your
agent that your studio wants another Star Pirates film.

He strongly urged you to accept, since the money's too
good to say no. And as Henderson Crawley has declined
to direct another, they want you to direct as well." As he
spoke, Phil's mind seemed filled with odd echoes, as if
each word heard was instantly repeated by another voice,
somewhere inside Phil's head, as if his agent's voice were
saying those words. He found the sensation disconcert-
ing, but it ended the instant Wycheck stopped speaking.

Mark said, "I thought we'd just all disappear."

"Mr. Blackman, the days where violence is required to
solve problems is, alas, not yet behind us, but we do find
any other means to resolve difficulties whenever possible.

People of some celebrity vanishing causes too many con-
cerns. Besides your own notoriety and that of Mr. Has-
tings, can you imagine the stir should the sole heir to the

Larker fortune vanish without a trace? No, we try to be
reasonable if at all possible. Those among our brother-
hood who took a part in this unfortunate attempt to
change the nature of our 'agreements' have been identi-
fied, isolated, and dealt with. Mr. Blackman, had you but
stayed another day with us, you would have been given
transport back here, rather than having to ride all those
uncomfortable buses. You see, it was August Erhardt
who was the last spy in our midst. Some of our brothers
thought resuming conflict might offer opportunities for
us to consolidate our already not inconsequential posi-
tions in the world, leading even, perhaps, to a unified
world order. A Utopian dream, not unknown in our ranks
from time to time, and more appealing in the light of
present world tensions. Misplaced idealism, I'm afraid.

We sent word—how, you do not need to know—identify-
ing him as one sent to rectify the situation. His death was
just reward for his activities."

Mark spoke bitterly. "And what about Aggie Grant?"

"That is most regrettable," answered Wycheck, and
his manner seemed sincere. "But as in all wars, the inno-
cent perish."

Gary spoke up. "Well, how are you going to cover that
up? And the business at the hospital?"

"Mrs. Grant died in an accident; that is public record.

John Wilson, a transient hitchhiker from Selma, Ala-
bama, to whom she was kind enough to offer a ride, per-
ished with her. Mr. Wilson had no next of kin. He will be
buried at public expense."

Again as he listened, Phil found himself hearing
strange echoes, but this time the voice seemed to be Dr.

John Latham's.

Wycheck nodded to one of the silent, black-clad men,
who handed over a thick sheaf of documents in a folder.

A fire had been built in the fireplace and Mr. Wycheck
began tossing papers into the fire. "These records never
existed. Dr. Michael Bergman of Johns Hopkins gra-
ciously came to Pittsville to try his experimental machine
on a very ill young boy from a local orphanage. Unfortu-
nately, the child died, and Dr. Bergman was unable to
help. In a lovely gesture, Dr. Bergman paid for the
child's cremation, and the ashes will be spread in these
very woods. Also, a transient police suspect—the very
man thought to have assaulted Miss Hastings two
months ago—was being held under psychiatric observa-
tion by the police. He escaped tonight by attacking a
nurse and two orderlies, tossing a chair through a defec-
tive safety window, and fleeing into the night. The police
are now looking for him, but they will be unsuccessful in
recapturing him."

Phil shook his head, as this time the echoing voice
sounded like Detective Mathews. With a sigh he said,

"You've made your point."

Wycheck threw the last of the papers into the fire.

He indicated a suitcase on the floor. "Those docu-
ments found in the basement will return here with who-
ever we send to occupy these premises, Mr. Hastings. We
shall keep them until that time. I'm sure you under-
stand."

Phil nodded. With a smile, and a salute with his cane,

Wycheck said, "Our business is finished. So I will bid you
all a good night."

He signaled to the men in black, one of whom picked
up the suitcase, and they left. Wycheck saw himself out,
while Phil looked at Mark. After a while Mark said, "It
would have been a hell of a book, Phil."

"That it would have been, Mark." Phil started to
laugh. "But who in the name of sanity would have be-
lieved a single word?"

Mark's expression turned less somber; after a moment
he began to laugh as well. "You're probably right."

Phil heard an odd buzzing and strained to hear it. It
was as if someone outside was chanting not quite audibly.

He shook his head and the sound was gone.

Gloria entered. "I thought I heard someone come in!"

She came and kissed Mark on the cheek. "God, I'm glad
you made it back all right. You've been gone such a long
time. It's almost two months!" Her expression was re-
laxed, though there was an air of sadness about her, but
none of the frantic qualities that had lived in Gloria's face
for the last few weeks were visible.

Mark and Phil exchanged glances as Gloria said, "You
know, I could use a drink, too. Such terrible news about

Aggie." She glanced upward. "It hit the twins harder
than I thought it would. They're both simply exhausted."

Phil looked at Mark, and they both glanced at Ellen
and Gary, Jack and Gabbie. Gary seemed himself, but

Gabbie, Jack, and Ellen were all glassy-eyed.

Then Ellen shook her head, as if waking up, and said,

"It's ... so sad. You know, we came by to tell you
we're getting married, and now that seems so inappropri-
ate."

Gloria said, "I think Aggie would have been happy for
you."

Gary, Mark, and Phil all stood still, each sharing the
same thought: They're beginning to forget. Barney sat
rubbing his head, as if suffering a headache. He said,

"Well, thank you, Mr. Hastings, for the drink." He stood,
rubbing his head again. "I think it's back to the pledge.

It's taking its toll, the drink. My head's pounding like a
trip-hammer." He reached down by the chair and picked

up the big flashlight and said, "Sorry about the car. But
we'll have another look in the morning."

Phil nodded, feeling as if something was slipping away
from him. He put his thumb to his head, above the bridge
of his nose, and said, "Okay, Barney, but . . . whew!

Have you ever drunk something cold too fast and it
shoots a pain right up here?" Gloria nodded. "Oww!"

"Well then, and it's a good night to you all, as much as
it can be with such sad news about Mrs. Grant. And that
poor fellow she gave a ride to. Pity such a fate."

Gloria looked at Phil, covered in grass and mud from
his tussle with the Fool. "I wish you'd just left the car
alone instead of crawling under it."

Phil said, "I should have, but I limped along from the
kids' school to Barney's and"—he squinted, again hold-
ing his thumb to his forehead—"and we thought we'd
take a look. Hell, we were going to get wet walking home
anyway."

Gloria's tone was disapproving. "You should have
called." She looked at Mark. "Sean wore one of Gabbie's
blouses, which was bad enough in this weather. But then
he got caught in a thicket and had to leave it somewhere
out there. And Patrick went dressed as Puck, if you can
believe it. Green leaves sewn to his underwear! Why I
ever agreed to that idea I'll never know."

Jack sat on the couch, his arms tightly around him,
looking pale and drawn. Phil said, "Jack, you okay?"

Jack nodded. "Yes, it's just . . . Aggie's death's hit-
ting kind of hard." Gabbie held him close.

As Barney could be heard leaving by the back door,

Mark motioned Gary to come closer. "They're all forget-
ting. I think we should compare notes. We might not be
able to tell anyone else about any of this, but there's no
law says we can't. ..."

He saw a strange expression come over Gary's face.

"Any of what, Mark?"

Mark said, "Why ... the. .. ." He groped for
words as thoughts seemed to leave his mind of their own
volition.

Outside, a car door slammed, and Gloria said, "Who
is that?" She crossed to freshen drinks for Phil and Mark.

Phil said, "Mr. Wycheck, the man who's buying the
house. He insisted on coming by and dropping off the
check tonight. I told him on the phone. ..." Phil's
brow contracted, as if he had a sudden headache, then he
continued, ". . . it wasn't necessary, but he insisted."

Mark turned, about to say something, but his mind
seemed a riot of images. He took a deep breath, feeling an
instant of vertigo, then it passed. He shook it off and said,

"I ... I forgot what I was going to say." He blinked.

"What's this about selling your house?"

Phil shrugged. "It's all happened pretty fast. I got a
call this morning from my agent. The studio wants an-
other Star Pirates film, and they want me to direct."

Gloria handed the refilled drinks to the men. "And
within ten minutes, this Wycheck character calls out of
the blue, saying he's interested in property around here
and would we care to sell. The man's a nut. You wouldn't
believe the profit we're making from the sale." She sat
down on the chair Barney had vacated. "So tell us about

Germany. Did you find anything?"

Mark took a drink as his headache lessened. For a
moment he felt a strange itch, as if trying to remember
something, then, frustrated at his inability to remember,
he shoved aside the irritation. "No, still a lot of blind
alleys. I think I may just have to give up on finding out
anything about what the hell was going on in Germany
when Kessler's dad left." His face split into a grin. "I did
come across a really strange little document in"—his face
clouded as he fought to remember something, then it was
gone again—"Koln. I know this is going to sound too
wild for belief, but it looks like the genuine article. I
think I may be able to prove Atlantis was Crete during
the Mycenaean era. So as soon as Gary and I close down
our house—assuming Ellen doesn't keep him from com-
ing with me—we're off to the Mediterranean."

Ellen, who had been sitting silently, said, "No, a work-
ing honeymoon's fine, as long as it's on a Mediterranean
island!"

Gloria said, "Tell us about it!"

Outside, the man called Wycheck sat motionless as he
listened to the faint words carried through the open win-
dow. In his car and the other occupied by his brethren,
low chanting could be heard as ancient arts were used.

Satisfied everything was as it should be, he signaled the
other car to move out. Then he motioned for his driver to
follow, while he rolled up the window. Slowly, almost
silently, the car edged up the driveway and turned out
onto the road.

EPILOGUE:

December

Patrick and Sean trudged through the woods on their
way home from school as a light snow fell to melt upon
the ground. It was their last day. The Christmas break
was beginning, but they wouldn't be coming back. Their
father had sold the house to a strange man and they were
moving back to California. Their parents had flown west
for two weeks in November, then returned with the news
they had found a wonderful house in some town called

Carpinteria. It was near Santa Barbara, Gabbie had said.

Their dad would stay in L.A. during the week while he
worked on his new movie, but would drive home for the
weekends.

Jack had to do something about selling Aggie's house,
which would take time, the boys' parents had told them.

Gabbie and Jack would stay at Aggie's until Jack finished
something called a defense, then they would sell the
house and come to California, where they'd get married.

The boys were delighted to learn that Gabbie's horse,

Bumper, would be stabled at the new house until Gabbie
and Jack found a home, for the Hastingses' new place
had a barn, and Gabbie said they could ride him if they
didn't try anything fancy, like jumping fences. Besides,
their mother had hinted they might get horses of their
own for Christmas.

The boys crossed the Troll Bridge without an instant's
hesitation. All dread was gone, all illusion vanished. In
seven months' time they had gone from having normal
childhood fears to having survived a terrifying reality.

Now they found no menace in the dark and felt no dis-
comfort at confronting the unknown. They had lived
through an experience that had changed their children's
expectations of what the world held, and were both wiser
and sadder for that change. Their school friends seemed

somehow less worthy of their time, as if they were preoc-
cupied with trivialities. Still, they found much to divert
their thoughts from the events of the last seven months.

Sean took the lead as they approached their home.

Since their ordeal on Halloween, Patrick no longer domi-
nated his brother. They now treated each other as equals.

Patrick knew his survival had depended on Sean, but

Sean never made a point of that fact. They were closer
than ever before.

Bad Luck knew it was time for school to be out and
ran to meet them, while their mother stood patiently on
the stoop waiting for the boys, the smell of hot cookies
carried on the cold winter air. They both glanced at the
top of the steps for a moment, almost expecting to see

Ernie lying there in a sunny spot, exhibiting a tomcat's
certainty that all is well. Had he lived, he would be obliv-
ious to the organized confusion around him. The movers
would arrive the next day, and the family was off to New

York for a long weekend. Gloria and the boys would see
the sights while Phil talked to his publisher on Monday,
before the Christmas dead time in publishing. Then
they'd be heading to their new home, in time to have

Christmas with Grandma O'Brien in Glendale. The boys
looked forward to that.

Sean lingered near the sunny spot and Patrick nodded
understanding. A local farmer had shot a raccoon the
morning after Halloween, and the destruction of dogs
and cats, ducks and chickens, had halted. But both boys
knew how Ernie had died. They wondered why everyone
else seemed to have forgotten what had happened. Sean
fingered his fairy stone, the one Barney had given him,
and thought perhaps that was the reason the twins could
still remember. Patrick fingered the one he wore, found
after days of searching the creek bed. In silence, he nod-
ded: Yes, I think that's why.

From the steps of their home—home for so short a
time—they both looked back as one. The barn, the shed,
the trees, all had become known to them, the alien qual-
ity they had first experienced upon arrival gone, replaced
by a comfortable, familiar feeling. Now they would be

leaving this place behind to move to a new one, to begin
again adjusting to new surroundings, new friends, new
experiences. Regarding the woods beyond the barn, they
silently remembered their encounter with another race in
another world. They exchanged an unspoken question.

Will we ever see them again?

Then they remembered those last words, uttered by

Ariel or, somehow, by the Fool: Who can know what fate
may allow another day?

Without an answer, the boys mounted the steps. Sean
followed Patrick, but glanced back, feeling a sudden chill.

For a moment he couldn't tell if he felt eyes watching
from the woods or if it was simply his imagination. And
he couldn't be certain if it was simply the wind rustling
the branches, or if the sounds of faint, boyish laughter
hung for an instant on the air. Pushing aside the momen-
tary disquiet, he turned and entered the warm kitchen.

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended,

That you have but slumber'd here,

While these visions did appear.

Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's

Dream

Act V, Scene i