Under the Overtree

by James A. Moore

  And he turned to look at his friend, a man still trapped by youth, forced to endure the prison of school and the rules of his father for a few years more. The dark hair that fell from his crown was like a curtain of finest silk. The light blue of his eyes was a stunning contrast to that hair and to his coppery skin. He was as much like a god as the girls were like goddesses. He loved him too, but in a different way.

  And Alex’s little brother? Ah, there was a strange one, trying so hard to be like his sibling, failing so completely. In looks he was identical, in action and gesture he was completely different: fear of this wondrous world marred his beauty, even at his young age. Where Alex was godlike, his tiny imitator was roughly sculptured of clay, marred with the scrapes and bruises of a thousand falls to the ground. Had he been larger, he likely would have done himself serious harm by now. The tiny Harris looked around with large glassy eyes, seeking the insidious form of Stoney Miles, kept calm only by the reassuring presence of his sworn protector, Alex. Only by seeing the child, could he understand why Alex would spend any time at all with someone as graceless and useless as he himself was.

  The scene should have been a happy one, but it sent chills of fear through his dream-self. A sense of great foreboding crept through him, bringing with it the puzzling sensation of having been through all of this before. He couldn’t fathom the dread that filled him, until he saw the book, the moldering mass of pages that Alex held so tightly in his free arm, as if its protection meant as much as the protection of his brother. The sight of that book brought with it the recognition of a danger greater than any he’d ever known. Still, he could find no voice for his fears; he was trapped in a body that moved of its own accord, moved with the certainty that to be elsewhere was to lose the friendship of Alex. The thought was enough to send tremors through his heart.

  They wound through the darkening trees, a chill coming forward to remind them that the sun would soon set, that winter was on its way and would be here all too soon, ready to annihilate the days of swimming at Overtree and the stolen kisses that so often occurred there. The wind whispered promises of snow and the crisp tang of burning wood to keep them safe until the next spring. In the distance, approaching rapidly, their destination; the slab of stone that looked so like an altar.

  It promised to be a most unusual Halloween. Despite his fears, he felt the muscles of his body tense in anticipation.

  The stone stood all alone, without so much as a single spare chip of granite to show that it was a natural formation; that was what made it so interesting to Alex. Did the Indians perform sacrilegious rites in this very place? Was this then the altar to some ancient gods that had long since faded from Man’s past? Had this stone known the taste of sweet virgin’s blood in its distant history? And if so, did it remember the taste after all this time? Its black and gray surface glowed dully in the setting sun and one could almost see its smile, at the thought of having a new sacrifice after so many millennia.

  The dream progressed, as dreams so often will, at a terrifying pace. The motions and gestures were made by Alex, as the others looked on. His voice thundered in the shade of trees that were like as not as old as the stone around which they stood guard. It was fun at first and then the strange things started to happen.

  The sky grew dark in a matter of minutes, not with the easy pace of sunset, but with the frantic threat of rain or snow, as the clouds scudded across the roof of the world. The winds increased and they shrieked rather than whispered. The scents of autumn changed; growing stronger with the scent of burning and then replaced by the smells of early spring after a rainfall. For only one moment, the dreaming P.J. saw his friends replaced by sinister replicas; their bodies became angular and their faces grew cruel; their motions were not those of children frightened, but rather the moves and gestures of demons cavorting, lusting for the taste of young and tender flesh.

  And then the little brother of his best friend Alex, fell forward, almost as if he’d been pushed and caught himself on the altar stone and screamed in anguish and horror, as the sharp edge that none had noticed sliced through his delicate skin and cut him to the bone.

  And in his dream, he saw the child’s flesh ripple, as tiny creatures as small as the three-year-old’s hands, flowed into the toddler’s body like air flows into a balloon. He watched in terror as the moving lumps bloated the little brother’s form and filled him beyond the breaking point. The pudgy child danced as if scalded by hot water and expanded in height and width, screams pouring from a mouth distended horrifically. He cringed and closed his eyes, fully expecting to see the child torn asunder by the pressure of an infinite flow of possessors; fully expecting the remains of the exploding form to bathe him in a rotten stench. And then it was over.

  When he opened his eyes, mere seconds later, Alex was holding the hand of his tiny sibling, pressing kisses on the minuscule scratch where the screaming wound had been a moment before. The little brother sniffled and tried to smile bravely in the glow of the setting sun.

  And so they left the make believe altar of gods long dead and wended their way through the woods, Alex holding onto the hand of his brother and Anita and Susan walking with P.J., talking about how neat it was and how glad they were that nothing had happened. Antoinette was no longer in the dream, she had disappeared. And P.J. couldn’t keep his eyes off of the miniature form of Alex’s brother, who walked so gracefully, seeming to float above the ground, where he couldn’t possibly get hurt. And oh, how he looked towards his older brother, with eyes that once had worshiped and now seemed to mock. And oh, how powerful the gaze of the three year old boy, who stared at P.J. for just the briefest of moments and said without words that he knew what the friend of his brother had seen. And threatened the direst of consequences, should a word be spoken. And stared with eyes a thousand years too old to be held in so cherubic a face.

  The dream changed, as dreams so often do and in his sleep, the author of many best sellers relaxed. This was a much better dream, a dream of love and kisses, stolen from his Susan, his goddess, his love. And replaced later by the face of another, darker, lover whose name he swore never to recall.

  3

  Tyler stared at himself in the bathroom mirror and groaned at the sight before him. He had become the acne king in the eight hours that he spent sleeping. He brushed diligently at the taste of burnt concrete in his mouth and wondered what he and P.J. would do if they couldn’t find the damned book again. They had only looked over the man’s house from top to bottom about a zillion times.

  He almost choked on his rinse water, as Patrick slammed his first into the door of the bathroom. “Get the hell out of there Ty, other people live here too, y’know!”

  Tyler groaned, he didn’t know what his brother had been up to for the last few weeks, but whatever had him in such a funk was obviously no longer bothering him. “Shit, hold on to your ass, Patsy, I’m almost done.” He looked at his face carefully, ignoring the glaring red zits in his attempt to see if any facial hair had shown yet. It hadn’t.

  Out he went, past his brother who looked about as lively as Boris Karloff in The Mummy. He scratched idly, as he stumbled up to his room, dragging his comb through hair that was already being attacked by the grease in his scalp. After finally gathering the energy to pull on jeans and a light shirt, he walked toward the front door.

  P.J. was already outside waiting for him. He scowled as the man smiled sunnily in his direction. “Good morning young Master Wilson! And may I say how fine you’re looking on this bright and cheerful day. My, but it does this old heart good to see the beaming face of youth up and about at this early hour.”

  Tyler slid into the two-seater and groaned audibly; the man was playing another of those groups he listened to so endlessly and if Tyler had to listen to them too much longer, he was going to develop a taste for them. Today it was the Moody Blues, singing about the acid guru being dead. “Why must I always endure this music,” Tyler asked by way of greeting. “Why can’t you listen to somet
hing a bit more upbeat or even remotely modern, like Pearl Jam, or even Fat Boy Slim?”

  P.J. looked over at him, a smile taking ten years from his face and replied, “I could always pull out a Bay City Rollers tape, or perhaps The Monkees are more to your liking?” He smiled as he started for the dashboard and Tyler immediately blocked his hand.

  “No! That’s all right, I can deal with this. Honest.”

  “Well, if you’re certain. I’m almost positive I have a Beach Boys tape in here somewhere.”

  “I’m sure, but thanks just the same.” He knew the man was deadly serious, he wouldn’t hesitate to find something even more obnoxious. He could have shouted for joy when they finally reached the Basilisk. Inside he normally had a television running the latest video releases and that was certainly preferable to hearing anymore of the ancient hits of the distant past; he wondered how his parents must’ve felt when they were forced to listen to the big band music of their folks. It couldn’t have been as bad as this.

  They went into the store and P.J. sat down wearily at his desk, looking over the notes that he had written for today’s plans. Without consulting his young friend, he studied the page before him for several minutes. Then, “I think it must’ve been stolen from me. I can’t imagine who would want the damn thing, but I am certain it can’t be in the store.”

  “Who the hell would have stolen it? You said yourself that it’s not even worth that much, except to a historian maybe.”

  “I was wondering about that myself, I just can’t see Mark having any need for it. It’s not at all like him to do such a thing. Besides, I never gave him a key to the collectibles.”

  Tyler frowned and looked around at the glass case from which they’d pulled all of the books. “Well, who did you give a copy of the keys to?”

  P.J. looked over at Tyler and then looked away from him. “I’ve only ever made one spare copy of the key and I gave that to Tony. He worked here last summer, before I hired Mark. But, he’s my nephew and I just can’t see him stealing anything from me. It’s not at all like him, not with the huge allowance he’s given by his father.”

  Tyler looked at him for a long time, trying to find a way to point out that the man’s blood relative was less than a saint; finally he decided to ask a question of his own in response. “Why did he need a job here, if his allowance is so big?”

  P.J. looked over at Tyler and frowned at the honestly placed question. “I don’t believe I ever gave that much thought. I’d just assumed that he wanted something to keep him busy a few days every week.” He looked around the room and his face grew cloudy. Tyler could see in that brief moment why Mark was always worried about being on time; the man looked like he could break a statue just by looking at it. “Well, why don’t I give him a call and we’ll see if he has any clue as to where those books might be.” The tone was light and friendly, but the look on his face promised a solid answer, or a reason for his nephew to continue living on this world.

  4

  While P.J. and Tyler where trying to locate Tony, Cassie and Mark were enjoying a fine lunch in Denver, with Jenny, Joe and Jenny’s parents. Emily Gallagher was a sweet woman, with a face as round as a basketball and a body to match. If you looked carefully, you could see where Jenny had gotten her looks; she had the same features and even the same kind of hair, all made a caricature by age and weight. Still, she knew how to dress well and how to minimize her own girth. She was also one of the nicest women that Cassie had ever met. From the moment that the two of them had first met, they had hit it off beautifully. The woman’s bubbly personality and throaty laugh made it easy to understand why Mark cared so deeply for her.

  Walter Gallagher was a different story entirely; he was not as round as his wife, nor was he as energetic. He was fifty-seven and wore each and every year as if it were a scar. His hair was mostly gone, save for a fine white misting on the back of his head. His face was craggy with wrinkles and his nose had thinned to the point where it looked like the beak on a vulture. His only saving grace was the love he obviously felt for his family, even Joe. His smile, when he chose to use it, made him look like a man of thirty. Sadly, he seldom chose to smile at anything; his was the face of a man who had suffered too many hardships. Cassie liked him anyway.

  The Gallagher’s seemed to feel the same way about her, they doted and reaffirmed a thousand times that her lunch was to her liking; assuring her that if it was not, they would have it sent back immediately. They asked questions of how she and Mark had met and they asked questions of what her plans for the future were. She silently thanked Mark for the advance warning on their arrival.

  For all the time they spent doting on her, they spent twice as long on Mark. No sooner had they met at the restaurant (they had only just arrived and as Jenny had predicted, decided to stay in Denver proper, certain that they would only get in the way despite the numerous protests to the contrary), than Emily had practically broken into tears over the scar on Mark’s face. Mark, naturally, turned a remarkable shade of crimson, as he tried desperately to convince his grandmother that there was nothing wrong about the scar and that it did not hurt.

  Cassie suspected that it would be a long week’s visit. Walter Gallagher spent a great deal of time staring at his grandson, as often as not seeming to be lost in his thoughts. No one seemed to notice his spans of silence, save Cassie and Jenny.

  By the time they finally departed, with the Gallagher’s staying in Denver but promising to drop by the next day, it was almost time for dinner. They opted to make a night of it and after talking to her parents, Cassie and the Howells spent the remainder of the evening at a fine little restaurant and then at the movies. They were still in the theater when the shit hit the fan in Summitville.

  5

  Tony Scarrabelli got off of the phone, with cold sweat running freely across his brow; Uncle Phil hadn’t believed him and was right not to. He knew exactly where the missing books were. He was the one that had stolen them.

  When Phil called, the tone of his voice had started Tony well on the track of knowing that he was in deep shit. By the time the call was over, he knew that he had to get the books back. A task that was easier said than done. He had given the books to Patrick Wilson in lieu of the one hundred dollars that he had owed him, back pay on several narcotic delights that he had purchased fully aware that he couldn’t pay for them. He’d gotten the job with his uncle to earn spare money, but that money disappeared as quickly as it fell into his hands; money had that tendency in his possession.

  Now his problems were three fold. One, he had to get the books back from Patrick, assuming that he could get the owed money gathered together. Two, he had to get the books back to his uncle. And three, he had to get his own fat out of the fire. This was not starting off to be a good day.

  Hopping into the Camaro, he revved the engine until it had become a screaming banshee and popped the clutch, rocketing into the street and barely missing a collision with Mister Merriwether’s mail truck. He waved an apology to the old man and ripped across town. He had to get hold of Patrick, as soon as possible. The implied threat in his uncle’s voice was enough to send shivers through Tony. He still recalled with crystal clarity the one time his father and uncle had gotten into a fight and how his quiet and retiring uncle had beat the living snot out of his old man. He didn’t remember the reasons for the fight, but he remembered how the fight had ended well enough. He had little doubt that the same speeding fists could and would collide with his own skull, if Uncle Phil ever found out the truth.

  The thought was not precisely conducive to caution in driving. He’d kill Patrick if he’d sold the books; that much he promised himself. He wouldn’t go down alone.

  6

  Patrick, for his part, was patiently explaining over his private line, that he no longer dabbled in the illegal trades which had saved his hide so many times. Dave Brundvandt didn’t want to hear it. And that, friends and neighbors, was very bad news.

  Dave was from the part o
f Summitville that was only half in jest called the slums. It wasn’t that the houses in the area were bad, it was simply that they weren’t as well kept as they once had been and the people that lived in them couldn’t afford to change the situation. The Brundvandt clan lived in one of the nicer houses in the area, meaning that they still insisted on picking the garbage off of their front steps and managed to repair the roof with shingles instead of plywood; they made enough money to live on. Most of the people living in that part of the town managed to keep a roof over their heads by spending far too much money on their property taxes to allow them any luxuries, such as air conditioning in the summer and heating in the winter. The luckier ones normally managed to scrounge enough scrap wood to keep the fireplaces burning.

  Just when the separation in the two sides of town had occurred was not a well-documented fact. It just seemed to start in the fifties, as a slight decrease in the upkeep of a few houses and slowly descend into a less dignified squalor in the entire area as the years went on.

  Dave Brundvandt was one of the few who always managed to have enough money to pay for his recreational habit and Patrick was wise enough to avoid asking where he got the money. He tried to explain why he wasn’t dealing anymore, but Dave wasn’t in the mood to listen calmly.

  “I don’t care,” the voice grumbled through the phone. “I want my shit and you said you’d have it. If you’re goin’ back on your word with me, things are going to get really ugly, Pat.”

  “Dave, you’re not listening, man. I can’t deal anymore. I already kissed all my connections bye bye. Even if I wanted to get the stuff for you and believe me, I do, I can’t. These guys aren’t like you and me, these guys don’t just say, ‘Sure, one more small deal, for old times sake.’ They don’t deal in anything but large quantities.”