Class Trip II

by Bebe Faas Rice

  He glanced in Hallie’s direction, and she raised an arm to wave to him. She wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

  Even from this distance she could see the expression that came over his face when he recognized her.

  He looked horrified.

  Then he turned and ran.

  Chapter EIGHT

  Hallie watched, dumbfounded, as the man disappeared from view, like a cockroach scuttling down a drain.

  “What’s that all about?” she asked herself aloud. “What’s with these people, anyway?”

  As she drew closer to the old church, she noted that it looked exactly like every little white church in every small town in America. Picturesque. All-American. Reassuring.

  But inside it was something else.

  Hallie pushed open the heavy, creaking door and was immediately struck by a sudden chill and the sensation of . . . what? Of being lost? Trapped?

  There was an unpleasant smell. Like bitter herbs mixed with burnt grass or straw. She wondered if it was some strange type of incense.

  She remembered what Elder Sidlaw had told her about burning straw effigies for the festival. Surely they weren’t doing it in here!

  Whatever this building looked like on the outside, it was clear to Hallie that inside it definitely was not a church. At least not like any she’d ever seen.

  Her eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom, and she took a few hesitant steps down what in another place might be called an aisle, passing row after row of thick, hand-hewn oaken benches. The benches were backless. Uncomfortable looking. The wilted remains of what looked like a garland of leaves lay on the floor beside one of them. It was crushed, as if it had been carelessly trod upon by a heavy foot.

  She picked it up and laid it on the bench. Then, looking around her, Hallie saw something that made her heart beat faster.

  All along the walls, on both sides of the room and at regular intervals, were heavy iron sconces holding unlit torches. The walls around them were black with their soot, indicating they were used regularly. So she’d been right after all. Those hadn’t been candles last night.

  She knew she should leave this oddly frightening place immediately, but she couldn’t. Something held her here. She stood in the aisle and looked straight before her at the front of the room.

  A long black table made of dull, crudely hewn stone stretched across the width of the building. Along one side, facing her, were twelve high-backed, thronelike chairs. A thirteenth chair, more regal and thronelike than the others, sat at the end of the table, close to what appeared to be a primitive pulpit.

  The gloom and lack of air—that smell of burnt torches and incense—and the feeling of oppression that had come over Hallie when she’d first entered the building made her feel a little dizzy, and she reached out for something to steady herself.

  She found herself clutching what appeared to be a white marble baptismal font. Only, it was huge, too large, certainly, to be a font.

  A deadly chill struck her as she looked into its depths. The bowl of the font was stained a deep rust color. Rust, the color of . . . blood?

  “What are you doing in here?” boomed a voice, and Hallie almost leapt out of her skin. “This Place of Worship,” said the voice, “is not open to strangers!”

  A thin, white-haired man stepped out from behind the carved wooden screen that backed the black table. At first glance Hallie thought he was old, because of the color of his hair. But as he drew closer, she saw his face. Although pinched and pale, it was that of a middle-aged man. He was dressed all in black, accenting his pallor, and his eyes were a peculiar silvery gray.

  Hallie stared at him, speechless, and his grim expression relaxed a little.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “I am Arthur Thoreson, the vicar of Holyoake.”

  When Hallie still didn’t reply, he said, “I was startled to see someone—a stranger—in here. The church is usually kept locked. One of the elders must have been careless.”

  “I . . . I’m sorry,” said Hallie. “I didn’t realize . . .”

  “This is an old, strict sect,” the vicar said. “One must be a member to have access to the church. I’m sorry to have leapt out at you like that. I thought I was alone—I’m afraid you surprised me as much as I surprised you.”

  Then, taking Hallie’s elbow, he escorted her back down the aisle and out into the sunlight. Hallie was amazed at the swiftness with which he’d gone from stern to charming. And at the smooth, polite, yet firm way he managed to herd her out of the church.

  Not that she minded. If those were the rules, she would be only too glad to play by them. She was happy to get out of that dank, dismal place and had no desire to set foot there ever again.

  I’ve got too wild an imagination to go visiting places like that, she scolded herself. As for that font, the rust in the local water must have stained it like that. It certainly couldn’t have been caused by . . . anything else.

  “So good-bye for now, my dear,” the vicar said with a small bow when they parted. “I understand you will be spending the weekend with us, so I’m sure we will meet again. I do hope you enjoy the festival. Beltane has been celebrated by our people for hundreds of years, so you will have the opportunity to participate in something rarely seen by Outsiders.”

  What a strange-looking man Reverend Thoreson was, Hallie thought as he left her. When he’d taken her arm to walk her out of the church, she’d noticed a tattoo on his wrist. She’d only seen it for a moment, but it appeared to be an image of flames. She’d never seen a clergyman with a tattoo before. And those eyes! That odd shade of pale silvery gray. They’d be unusual anywhere, but especially here in Holyoake where everyone had the identically shaped round blue eyes.

  Warlock’s eyes . . . The words leapt into her mind, as if someone had whispered them.

  Instead of returning to Mrs. Grigsby’s, Hallie made her way along the uneven brick sidewalk that led from the church to Norman’s store and garage to see how the repair of the van was coming.

  She entered the store, letting the screen door slam closed behind her. Inside it was dark, cool, and deserted, but there was an open door at its far end, and she could hear the distant sound of voices.

  She walked the shadowy length of the building, past the refrigerated food area, with its displays of slab bacon, ground meat, and cheeses. Past the hardware section and its gardening supplies and out the rear door, still following the voices, to a weather-beaten old shed that was obviously Norman’s garage.

  The hood of the van was open, and Norman and Adam were peering into its yawning cavity. Various bits and pieces of the engine were arranged neatly on a grimy cloth spread on the ground.

  Adam looked up and beckoned Hallie over.

  “Norm’s replacing one of the hoses right now. The old one had holes in it,” he said, gesturing to a rubber tube.

  Hallie looked where he pointed. The old one had holes in it, all right, holes she didn’t remember seeing the last time she’d looked into the innards of the van.

  “It’s even worse than we thought, Hallie,” Adam told her gloomily. “The fuel pump’s shot, too, among other things. Norman has to order a new one.”

  “I thought you said the fuel pump was new when you bought the van,” Hallie said.

  “That’s what the guy who sold it to me said. He pulled a real fast one, that’s for sure.”

  “How long will it take to get a new one?”

  “At least a couple of days,” Adam replied. “There’s no chance we can make the Shakespeare Festival now. We’ll be stuck here until Tuesday maybe.”

  “I’m glad Miss Netty contacted Mr. Costello for us. But we’re going to have to get word to our folks, too, at this rate. Even if Mr. Costello tells them we’re all right, they’ll expect us to call.”

  “The phones are still down, Norman says,” Adam told her.

  Norman came out from under the hood. “That’s right,” he said, wiping
his hands on a rag.

  “I don’t understand why it’s taking so long to repair them,” Hallie said.

  Norman shrugged. “They’re old. That’s just how they are.”

  Before Hallie left, Adam said he had something to show her. “It’s here, next door,” he said. “You’ve got to see it to believe it!”

  All that enthusiasm meant only one thing, Hallie thought. Some kind of four-wheeled vehicle.

  Behind the garage was another shed. Its roofline was lower than that of the garage, so Hallie hadn’t noticed it when she’d come out of the store. Adam took her around to its far side and threw open the double doors.

  “Here it is, Norman’s pride and joy,” he said, leading her inside.

  Hallie saw a large red truck of some sort, with a blunt-nosed cab and a big round tank on the back. It was old, by the looks of it, but well-kept and newly painted.

  “What is it?” she asked. “An old fuel truck?”

  “No. It’s a water tanker. And in mint condition. I can’t believe there are still any of these around, much less in use.”

  “A water tanker?”

  “You know. An old-time fire engine that carries its own water.”

  He seized her hand and led her around to the back. “See, it’s got a pump and hoses on the back. Isn’t it neat, Hallie? You only see stuff like this in old pictures. And you’re not going to believe it, but this—this!—is Holyoake’s fire department, and Norm’s the fire chief.”

  “You mean this thing really puts out fires?”

  “Norm says it does. He’s real proud of it. I’m surprised he doesn’t put it on display at the festival.”

  “I wonder why Norman didn’t volunteer to drive us to the next town in this,” Hallie said thoughtfully. “He knew how badly we needed to get to a phone.”

  “Listen, Hallie, I bet Norm doesn’t even drive this thing to a fire. It’s kind of like his baby, you know? Besides, he sent Miss Netty, didn’t he?”

  As Hallie neared Mrs. Grigsby’s house, she thought she heard a phone ringing. Delighted that the phones were finally working, she ran up the front steps and through the door.

  Simon was standing by the telephone table in the hall, the phone to his ear. “Okay,” he was saying in a low voice. “I’ll be there.”

  He replaced the receiver and spun around guiltily when Hallie said, “Thank heaven the phones are working again. Do you think your aunt would mind if I placed a long-distance call?”

  “Not at all,” Simon said, “but you wouldn’t get anyone. The ring you heard was from the repairman. That’s who I was talking to. The lines are still down.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Hallie said coldly.

  She pushed him aside and put the receiver to her ear. For one brief second she heard a dial tone. Then it went dead.

  Simon went over to the window and drew aside the curtain. “See? Would I lie to you, Hallie?”

  Hallie reluctantly joined him at the window. She rubbed her arm, remembering last night and not wanting to get that close to Simon again. The guy was a maniac.

  “Up there,” he said.

  Hallie looked. A man was up on the telephone pole. A man wearing a leather belt with tools hanging from it.

  But is he fixing the line or disconnecting it? Hallie wondered darkly.

  Chapter NINE

  The twelve elders are gathered in a private, secluded room in the vicarage. Heavy, woven drapes are drawn to keep out the morning sun, and the room is lit only by the dim wattage of an antiquated hanging lamp.

  The men’s shadows loom large against the walls, and the sounds of the people out on the Green echo only faintly in this darkened room.

  Someone else is present. Simon.

  “You were supposed to keep that gray-eyed one occupied this morning,” the vicar says accusingly to Elder Sidlaw. “Instead I caught her prowling around in the Place of Worship. Is this how you perform your appointed duties?”

  “I was called aside briefly, and when I returned, she was gone,” says Elder Sidlaw. “I thought she’d gone back to Sister Grigsby’s place.”

  “No, she headed directly to the Place of Worship,” says the vicar. “But first, she accidentally ran into that fool, Brother William. He’d been told specifically to remain out of sight. And then he made things worse by running from her. He came straight to me with the news, and I sent him upstairs for now, where he can’t be seen.”

  “Brother William, the one who lured her here?” asks one of the elders. “Did the girl suspect anything?”

  “I don’t know,” replies the vicar. “But it didn’t stop her from entering our holy place. Fortunately I was there and saw her snooping around the sacrificial font. I got her out of there as quickly as I could. We can’t run the risk of her discovering our plans at this point.”

  “So what if she does?” asks Elder Sidlaw, still smarting from the vicar’s earlier rebuke. “Those three can’t leave town without our catching them, and the phone lines have been disconnected, haven’t they?”

  “Yes, a few minutes ago,” Simon says.

  The older men regard him disapprovingly. The boy should know his place and speak only when spoken to.

  “But those lines should have been disconnected last night,” Simon continues, disregarding the elders’ reproving looks. “Hallie’s a smart girl. I’m surprised she didn’t try to use the phone this morning.”

  He faces the vicar and says accusingly, “And she walked into the house when you were talking to me just now. We all agreed no one was to phone anyone else so the lines would appear to be dead. That call was bad timing on your part. You might have known she’d be coming through the door right about then.”

  The elders shudder with horror at the boy’s rudeness. How will their vicar deal with this?

  The vicar turns his compelling, silvery-gray gaze on Simon. “Don’t you ever—ever—criticize anything I do or any decision I make. Had it not been for me, you would have been dead these many years. In return you owe me unquestioning loyalty and obedience. Is that clear?”

  Simon bows his head obediently. “Yes, sir,” he replies. “I’m sorry.”

  The elders nod at one another. The proper order of things has been restored.

  “You’re sure this will never happen again?” the vicar demands, reinforcing his authority.

  “Yes, sir, I am,” says Simon.

  “You have a proud, willful spirit, Simon. We must all help you conquer it.”

  “It won’t happen again,” Simon tells him. “And I’ll be more careful of what I say in the future.”

  “Good,” says the vicar. “Now then, what about the other one? Our Fire Maiden.”

  “Aunt Phoebe’s taking care of her,” replies Simon. “She’s introducing Becky to her most potent herb tea this morning. The girl will be putty in Aunt Phoebe’s hands from here on out.”

  “Becky. Rebecca,” the vicar says dreamily. “What a lovely name! Did you know that its old meaning is a noose, or a joining cord of some kind? How very fitting that this Rebecca, who has been so mercifully sent to us, will serve to join us once again to our beloved Mother Goddess.”

  “And what will we do, then, with the other two—the boy Adam and that little snoop, Hallie?” asks Elder Sidlaw.

  Reverend Thoreson shakes his head regretfully. “What a pity they are so eager to leave us! They would have been real assets to our community. Fresh blood. That Hallie would have been a real match for you, Simon,” he adds, laughing.

  Simon blushes. Even in the dim light of the hanging lamp, the others can see the color that rushes to his face, and they laugh, too.

  “But,” the vicar continues, “that is impossible. Norman’s clever story about contacting their families will hold them for only a short time. We can’t risk keeping them around after the festival. The first time an Outsider passes through the village, they will be all over him, spilling our secrets.”

  “You mean . . . ?” Simon asks.

  “Yes,” repli
es the vicar. “And you know what happens to those who betray Holyoake, don’t you, Simon? They are disposed of. Permanently.”

  He tips his head and regards Simon silently for a moment. “And this time I think it’s appropriate that you do the disposing.”

  Chapter TEN

  Becky wasn’t around when Hallie went up to their room. She’s probably still with Mrs. Grigsby in her herb room, Hallie figured. What was so interesting about herbs, anyway? And how could Becky drink those foul-smelling concoctions Mrs. Grigsby brewed up?

  Mrs. Grigsby had said that lunch wouldn’t be served until one o’clock, so Hallie went down to the living room, hoping to find Becky.

  The room was deserted, but sunshine streamed through the windows, and the pleasant scent of last night’s pinewood fire still lingered.

  Hallie picked a book at random off one of the bookshelves and settled herself on the sofa. The book seemed quite old, but that didn’t surprise her. So was everything else in Holyoake. It was the title, Herbs for Amulets and Enchantments, embossed in tarnished gold letters on a cracked leather cover, that made her uneasy.

  Amulets? Enchantments?

  She opened the book carefully, not wanting to loosen its already-damaged spine, and turned the pages.

  What was this stuff? Where did Mrs. Grigsby get something like this? There was a long chapter on “Wortcunning,” the Saxon name—it said—for knowledge of herbs and plants. It came complete with an incantation for fertility.

  Hallie read on. There were instructions on how to tie bunches of certain herbs with red wool, because red is the color of fire and blood and—

  Suddenly the book was snatched from her hands.

  She hadn’t heard Simon come into the room. Without a word, he walked across the room and returned the book to its spot on the shelf.

  “How dare you!” she snapped, nearly overcome with rage. “What an incredibly rude thing to do. Don’t they teach you manners in Holyoake?”

  “Obviously more than they teach you where you come from,” he replied.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”