by Tim Powers
After a few seconds he exhaled sharply, and grinned. “I guess that’s a stupid question, isn’t it? But truly, Boyd, if that had struck any closer, it’s a different sort of church ceremony you’d be bringing me to tomorrow.”
It was an effort to speak jocularly—his face was beaded with sudden sweat as if he’d stepped out into the rain, and the air was sharp with a smell like the essence of fright, and for a moment it had seemed to him that he was participating in the earth’s own shudder of shock. He turned and blinked behind him—his eyes had readjusted to the darkness enough for him to see that his companions hadn’t moved, though the two women looked scared.
“No chance,” Boyd called, sitting down and filling his glass. “I remember seeing Corbie’s Aunt clinging round your head in a storm off Vigo. The stuff likes you.”
“And who,” spoke up Appleton, his voice expressing only amusement, “is Corbie’s aunt?”
Crawford sat down himself and took a glass with fingers he willed not to tremble. “Not who,” he said. “What. It’s Italian, really, supposed to be Corposanto or Capra Saltante or something like that. St. Elmo’s Fire, the English call it—ghostly lights that cling to the masts and yardarms of ships. Some people,” he added, pouring wine into his glass and waving it toward Boyd before taking a deep gulp, “believe the phenomenon’s related to lightning.”
Boyd was on his feet again, pointing toward the south end of the yard. “And what are those buildings down there?”
Lucy wearily assured him that there weren’t any buildings at that end of the yard and told him to keep his voice down.
“I saw ‘em,” Boyd insisted. “In that flash of lightning. Little low places with windows.”
“He means them old coaches,” said Louise. She shook her head at Boyd. “It’s just a couple of old berlines that belonged to Blunden’s father that haven’t been moved in thirty or forty years—the upholstery’s probably shot, not to mention the axles.”
“Axles—who needs ‘em? Mike, whistle up Corbie’s Aunt again, will you? She’ll motivate the hulks.” Already Boyd was off the porch and striding jerkily across the muddy yard toward the old coaches.
“Oh hell,” sighed Appleton, pushing back his chair. “I suppose we have to catch him and put him to bed. You didn’t think to bring any laudanum, of course?”
“No—I’m supposed to be on holiday, remember? I didn’t even bring a lancet or forceps.” Crawford stood up, and was a little surprised to discover that he wasn’t annoyed at the prospect of having to go out into the rain. Even the idea of going for an imaginary ride in a ruined coach seemed to have a certain charm.
He had left his hat in the taproom, but the rain was pleasantly cool on his face and the back of his neck, and he strode cheerfully across the dark yard, trusting to luck to keep his boots out of any deep puddles. Behind him he could hear Appleton and the women following.
He saw Boyd stumble and flailingly recover his balance a few yards short of the vague rectangular blackness that was the coaches, and when Crawford got to that spot he saw why—the coaches sat on an irregular patch of ancient pavement that stood a few inches higher than the mud.
A yellow light waxed behind him, bright enough to reflect gold glints from the wet greenery and to let him see Boyd clambering up the side of one of the coaches—Appleton and the women were following, and Lucy still had the lantern. Crawford stopped to let them catch up.
“Gallop, my cloudy steeds!” yelled Boyd from inside one of the coaches. “And why don’t you sit a little closer, Auntie?”
“I suppose if he’s got to go mad, this is the best place for it,” remarked Lucy nervously, holding up the steaming lantern and peering ahead through the downpour. “These old carriages are just junk, and Blunden’s not likely to hear his ravings out this far from the buildings.” She trembled and the light wavered.
“I’m going back inside, though.”
Crawford didn’t want the party to end—it was the last one he’d ever have as a bachelor. “Wait just a minute,” he said, “I can get him out of there.” He started forward, then paused, squinting down at the pavement. It was hard to be sure, with the rain agitating the muddy water pooled on it, but it seemed to him that there were bas-relief carvings in the paving stones.
“What was this, originally?” he asked. “Did there used to be a building here?”
Appleton cursed impatiently.
“Back in the olden days there was,” said Louise, who was clinging to Appleton’s arm and absently spilling wine down the front of his shirt. “Romans or somebody built it. We’re always finding bits of statues and things when the rains fatten the creeks in the spring.”
Crawford remembered his speculations on the age of this establishment, and he realized that he’d misguessed by a thousand years or so.
Boyd yelled something indistinct and thrashed around noisily in the old coach.
Lucy shivered again. “It’s awful cold out here.”
“Oh, don’t go in just yet,” Crawford protested. He handed his wine glass to Appleton and then awkwardly struggled out of his coat. “Here,” he said, crossing to Lucy and draping it over her shoulders. “That’ll keep you warm. We’ll only be a minute or two out here, and I did pay you to keep serving us for a couple of hours past closing time.”
“Not for out in the damned rain you didn’t. But all right, a couple of minutes.”
Appleton glanced around suddenly, as if he’d heard something over the gravelly hiss of the rain. “I—I’m going in myself,” he said, and for the first time that evening his voice lacked its usual sarcastically confident edge.
“Who are you?” Boyd yelled, all at once sounding frightened. A furious banging began inside the coach, and in the lamplight it could be seen to rock jerkily on its ancient springs; but the racket seemed dwarfed by the night, and disappeared without any echo among the dark ranks of trees.
“Good night,” said Appleton. He turned and began leading Louise hurriedly back toward the inn buildings.
“Get away from me!” screamed Boyd.
“My God, wait up,” muttered Lucy, starting after Appleton and Louise. The rain was suddenly coming down more heavily than ever, rattling on the inn roof and the road out front and on lonely hilltops miles away in the night, and over the noise of it Crawford thought for a moment he heard a chorus of high, harsh voices singing in the sky.
Instantly he was sprinting back after the other three, and only after he caught up with Lucy did he realize that he’d been about to abandon Boyd. As always happened in moments of crisis, a couple of unwelcome pictures sprang into his mind—an overturned boat in choppy surf, and a pub across the street from a burning house—and he didn’t want to take the chance of adding the back yard of this inn to that torturing catalogue; and so when Lucy turned to him he quickly thought of some other reason than fright for having run after her.
“My ring,” he gasped. “The wedding ring I’ve—got to give to my bride tomorrow—it’s in the pocket of the coat. Excuse me.” He reached into the pocket, groped around for a moment, and then came up with it between his thumb and forefinger. “That’s all.”
By the light of the lamp she was carrying he could see her face tighten with offense at the implied insult, but he turned away and started resolutely back through the rain to where Boyd was screaming in the darkness.
“I’m coming, you great idiot,” he called, trying to influence the night with his confident tone.
He noticed that he was carrying the wedding ring in his hand, holding it as tightly as a sailor undergoing surgery bites a bullet. That wasn’t smart—if he dropped it out here in all this mud it wouldn’t be found for years.
Over the noise of the rain he could hear Boyd roaring.
Crawford’s tight breeches didn’t have any pockets, and he was afraid the undersized ring would fall off his own finger if he wound up having to struggle with Boyd; in desperation he looked around for a narrow upright tree branch or something to hang the ring on, and then he noticed
the white statue standing by the back wall of the stable.
It was a life-sized sculpture of a nude woman with the left hand raised in a beckoning gesture, and as Boyd roared again Crawford splashed across the mud to the statue, slipped the ring onto the ring finger of the upraised stone hand, and then ran on to the derelict coaches.
It was easy to see which one the crazed Navy lieutenant was in—the carriage was shaking to pieces as if it had a magically sympathetic twin that was rolling down a mountain ravine somewhere. Hurrying around to the side of it, Crawford managed to get hold of the door handle and wrench the door open.
Two hands shot out of the darkness and grabbed the collar of his shirt, and he yelled in alarm as Boyd pulled him inside; the big man threw him onto one of the mildew-reeking seats and lunged past him toward the doorway, and though a web of rotted upholstery had got tangled around Boyd’s feet and now sent him sprawling, the big man had managed to get at least the top half of his body outside.
For a moment Crawford seemed to hear the distant singing again, and when something brushed gently against his cheek he let out a roar as wild as any of Boyd’s and jackknifed up onto his feet; but before he could vault over the other man, he braced himself against the wall—and then he relaxed a little, for he could feel that all the loose threads of the upholstery were bristlingly erect like the fur on the back of an angry dog, and he realized that the same phenomenon must have been what made the shreds of the seat upholstery stand up and brush his face a moment ago.
Very well, he told himself firmly, I admit it’s strange, but it’s nothing to lose your wits over. Just some electrical effect caused by the storm and the odd physical properties of decaying leather and horsehair. Right now your job is to get poor Boyd back to the inn.
Boyd had by this time freed himself and crawled out onto the puddled pavement, and as Crawford climbed down from the coach he was getting shakily to his feet. He squinted around suspiciously at the trees and the ruined carriages.
Crawford took his arm, but the bigger man shook it off and plodded away through the rain toward the inn.
Crawford caught up with him and then matched his plodding stride. “Big beetles under your shirt, were there?” he asked casually after a few paces. “Would have sworn rats were scrambling up your pant legs? I’ll bet you wet your pants, in fact, though as rain-soaked as you are nobody’ll notice. Delirium tremens, we doctors call this show. It’s how you know when to back off on the drink.”
Ordinarily he wouldn’t have been as blunt as this, even with someone he knew as well as he knew Jack Boyd, but tonight it almost seemed to be the most tactful approach—after all, no one could be blamed for suffering a case of the galloping horrors if the cause was simply a profound excess of alcohol.
Actually he was afraid Boyd had not been quite that drunk.
The party was clearly over. Lucy and Louise were complaining about having to go to bed with wet hair, and Appleton was evasively irritable and, as if to confirm the soured mood, the landlord muttered angrily in his room and caused either his knees or the floorboards to creak threateningly. The women abandoned the lantern and fled to their rooms, and Appleton shook his head disgustedly and stalked upstairs to go to bed himself. Crawford and Boyd appropriated the lantern and tiptoed to the closed door of the taproom and tried the lock.
It wouldn’t yield.
“Probably just as well,” sighed Crawford.
Boyd shook his head heavily, then turned and started toward the stairs; halfway there he paused and without looking back said, “Uh … thanks for getting me … out of that, Mike.”
Crawford waved, and then realized that Boyd couldn’t see the gesture. “No trouble,” he called softly instead. “I’ll probably need something similar myself sooner or later.”
Boyd stumped away, and Crawford heard his ponderous footsteps recede up the stairs and down some hall overhead. Crawford tried the taproom door again, with no more luck than before, briefly considered finding out where the barmaids’ rooms were, and then shrugged, picked up the lamp and went upstairs himself. His room wasn’t large, but the sheets were clean and dry and there were enough blankets on the bed.
As he got undressed, he thought again of the overturned boat and the house across the street from the pub. Twenty years had passed since that rowboat foundered in the Plymouth Sound surf, and the house had burned down nearly six years ago, but it seemed to him that they were still the definition of him, the axioms from which he was derived.
Long ago he had started carrying a flask so that he could banish these memories long enough to get to sleep, and he uncorked it now.
Thunder woke him up hours later, and he lifted his head from the pillow and reflected sleepily on how nice it was to be drunk in bed when the lanes and trees and hills outside were so cold and wet … and then he remembered the wedding ring he had left in the yard.
His belly went cold and he half sat up, but after a moment he relaxed. You can get it in the morning, he told himself—wake up early and retrieve it before anyone else is up and about. And who’s likely to be rooting around out behind the stables, anyway? Sleep’s what you need right now. You’re getting married later today—you’ve got to get your rest.
He lay back down and pulled the blankets up under his chin, but he had no sooner closed his eyes than he thought, stableboys. Stableboys will probably be working out there, and I’ll bet they’re on the job early. But maybe they won’t notice the ring on the statue’s finger … a gold ring, that is, with a good-sized diamond set in it. Very well, then surely they’ll report the find, knowing that they’ll be rewarded … after all, if they tried to sell it they’d get only a fraction of its real value … which was two months’ worth of my income.
Damn it.
Crawford crawled out of bed and found the lamp and his tinder box, and after several minutes of furious striking he managed to get the lamp lit. He looked unhappily at his sodden clothes, still lying in the corner where he’d thrown them several hours ago. Aside from one change of clothes, the only other things he had brought along to wear were the formal green frock coat and embroidered waistcoat and white breeches in which he was to get married.
He pulled the wet shirt and breeches on, cringing and gasping at the cold unwieldiness of them. He decided to forego the shoes, and just tottered barefoot to the door, trying to walk so steadily that his shirt would not touch him any more than it had to.
He almost abandoned the whole undertaking when he unbolted the outer door of the spare dining room and a rainy gust plastered his shirt against his chest, but he knew that worry wouldn’t let him get any rest if he went back to bed without fetching the ring, so he whispered a curse and stepped out.
It was a lot colder now, and darker. The chairs were still on the porch, but he had to grope to know where they were. The south end of the yard, where the stables and the old carriages were, was darker than the sky.
The mud was grittily slimy between his toes as he stepped off the porch and plodded out across the yard, and he hoped nobody had dropped a wine glass out here. His heart was thumping hard in his chest, for in addition to worrying about cutting his feet he was remembering Boyd’s eerie ravings of a few hours ago, and he was acutely aware of being the only wakeful human being within a dozen miles.
The statue was hard to find. He found the stable, and plodded the length of it, dragging his hand along the planks of the wall, with no luck; he was about to panic, thinking that the statue had been carried away, when he rounded the corner and dimly saw the inn buildings away off to his left, which meant that he had somehow been checking the south wall instead of the west one; he reversed course and carefully followed two more walls, conscientiously making the right-angle turn between them, but this time he found himself dragging his numbing fingers along the wall of the inn itself, which wasn’t even connected to the stable; he shook his head, amazed that he could still be this drunk. Finally he just began stomping out a zigzag pattern across the nighted yard with his arms s
pread wide.
And he found it that way.
His fingers brushed the cold, rain-slick stone as he was groping back toward the stable wall, and he almost sobbed with relief. He slid his hand up the extended stone wrist to the stone hand—the ring was still there. He tried to push it up off of the statue’s finger, but it was stuck somehow.
An instant later he saw why, for a flash of lightning abruptly lit the yard: and the stone hand was now closed in a fist, imprisoning the ring like the end link of a chain. There were no cracks, no signs of any fracture—the statue’s hand seemed not ever to have been in any other position. Rain was streaming down the white stone face, and its blank white eyes seemed to be staring at Crawford.
The nearly instantaneous crash of thunder seemed to punch the ground spinning out from under him, and when his feet hit the mud again he was running, racing the tumbling echoes back toward the inn, and it seemed to him that he got inside and slammed the door against the night just as the thunder crashed over the inn like a wave over a rock.
When Crawford awoke, several hours later, it was with the certainty that horrible things had happened and that strenuous activity would soon be required of him to prevent things from getting even worse; his head was throbbing too solidly for him to remember what the catastrophe was, or even where he was, but perhaps, as he told himself blurrily, that was something to be grateful for. More sleep was what he wanted most in the world, but when he opened his eyes he saw a smear of nearly dried mud on the sheet … and when he threw back the covers he saw that his feet and ankles were caked with it.
With a gasp of real alarm he bounded out of bed. What on earth had he been doing last night? Sleepwalking? And where was Caroline? Had she thrown him out? Perhaps this place was some kind of madhouse.
Then he saw the portmanteau under the window, and he remembered that he was in a village called Warnham, in Sussex, on his way to Bexhill-on-Sea to get married again. Caroline had died in that fire nearly six years ago. Oddly, this was the first time since her death that he had even momentarily forgotten that she was gone.
