Tales From High Hallack, Volume 3

by Andre Norton

  I jumped. The packed earth and springy grass between the huts had deadened the sound of his approach, but Sterling Winterhue was back.

  “She had to meet with one of the committee,” I answered after a hasty swallow.

  “And to see what brought me here.” With this comment—and without invitation—the artist stepped into the outer section of the shop. He had removed the peasant’s cap with its towering peak and, as he bent briefly over my display, the top of his head showed a few grudging strands of gray-brown hair that looked as though they had been painted across his scalp.

  Suddenly he looked up, and even in the dim light I could see his eyes glint. “So—Guildswoman Wilson is willing to miss her tryst with Sir Sterling, is she? Well, now, mistress, you won’t.”

  Before I realized what he intended, Winterhue strode up and put a hand on my arm. Nodding and grinning, he drew me out into the road, then laughed as he set me free.

  “Think me a lusty rogue, do ye? Nay, I am not such. Also—” Winterhue gestured toward his hut, “—what I have to show is displayed in sight of all.”

  I shall never understand why, but, without a murmur of protest, I went with him.

  We came up to the outer “shop” section of the artist’s cabin. Its front now stood fully open and was further extended by a wide table that doubled the show space. However, what was displayed there seemed scarcely able to be contained even in so generous a frame. If a giant whose hobby was miniatures had taken the entire faire for his collection, Winterhue’s Renaissance panorama would be that scene. Here, wrought to impossible fairy-scale, were the castle, the lane with its shops, the tourney field, the famous rose garden. But these settings, impressive as they were, were eclipsed by the inhabitants. Those were plentiful, and every person, from high to low, was an individual portrait, rendered with almost disquieting accuracy. In spite of the afternoon heat, I shivered, for I now knew who Sterling Winterhue was.

  “You did the Lansdowne goblins!” I exclaimed. Late in the spring, a craft fair had been held at the castle, and at that festival, two disturbing life-sized goblin figures had been the main draw. They had been assigned a price that had astounded most viewers, but they had been purchased for that astronomical amount for—rumor had it—no less a personage than a screen director.

  The sculptor nodded again. “Yessirree, that was me.” He made a sudden predator’s swoop upon the tabletop world and, scooping up one of the of the figures clad as one of the nobility, he lifted it to my eye level.

  “Our hostess—and a fine lady she is.”

  The resemblance was unmistakable—this was indeed Mrs. Magin, clothed in the richest of court dress. Winterhue smoothed her full skirt of green satin; then, after patting her on the back with a forefinger, he leaned forward to insert her once more into the rose garden. There a stout, gray-haired doll in red velvet waited, using a silver-headed cane for support.

  “Yeah, Court and Faire,” the miniaturist stated as she positioned the figures. “This is going to be good PR for them both. And there are only a few more people to be added—”

  My host reached under the edge of the table and pulled out a drawer. In that receptacle lay more images, each dressed in the garb of a different social rank of the past. Here was a country woman, there a glittering courtier.

  “Are you going to sell these?” I asked. I did not have to give any of the small sculptures further scrutiny to be assured that they were works of art.

  “Sell them? Yes, but kind of—backward.” Winterhue’s tone had lost the jovial well-met quality it had earlier held. “You want to appear here, you pay for it.”

  From the drawer, the artist selected another figure and held it up. This one was, as yet, bald of head and blank of features, but something was familiar—I drew in a breath as recognition struck. “It’s Deb!”

  “Just so,” Winterhue agreed. “Our good needle mistress.”

  “But why—” I began, then stopped. I could not believe that my partner had paid to have herself represented among the works of a man she so obviously disliked. I held out my hand, wanting to look at the poppet more closely, but its creator was already fitting it back into the case.

  “Her doll’s got to be done by tomorrow,” Winterhue declared. “You might remind her of that, Miss Gleason.” His hand still on the drawer he had just closed, the sculptor was now staring at me. “Gleason,” he repeated. “Amanda Gleason, maybe? Wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in all this.” He made a gesture that took in not only the table but our general surroundings. His stare grew more penetrating as he queried, “What do you think of it?”

  In spite of the heat that had glued much of my clothing to my body, I felt a chill. “Do you intend it as a permanent exhibit at the castle?” I asked in a tone I hoped was calm.

  “Right you are,” Winterhue assented. “This display’ll go into the main hall of the castle, and tomorrow CNN will be here to tape it for the news.” Abruptly he changed the subject. “Ever hear from Jessie these days?”

  If the image-maker meant to disturb me by that inquiry, he did not succeed.

  “I believe she left town some time back,” I answered.

  “Hmph,” he muttered. “Hope she’ll have better luck wherever she lights.”

  Here was another question. How had Winterhue come to know the would-be mystic who had caused so much trouble for several of the Ridgewood citizens?

  “ ‘Manda—” Deb’s voice called. She had passed our cabin and arrived at that of the artist, carrying a covered basket whose lid heaved as though something within fought for freedom. Though she did not offer Winterhue the animated container, she spoke to him. “Margaret Magin wants you to include this. . . .”

  “ ‘Zat so?” The sculptor asked casually. In another of those snake-quick strikes, he shot out a hand. His fingers did not encircle Deb’s wrists; rather, they touched the lid of the basket for an instant, and that top settled quietly into place. Then he did reach for the handle, but Deb swept the container out of his reach.

  Her movement bumped the lid askew so that we could see the basket’s contents: a black kitten who, at the sight of us, opened its mouth in a silent mew.

  Sterling Winterhue . . . Jessie Aldrich . . . I thought back to some nasty gossip from the past concerning the sculptor and the supposed mystic—rumors of so-called black magic and the discovery of a suspiciously dead cat. I was only guessing, but there was no question about the throbbing that had begun in my head, and which was growing worse with every breath I drew.

  “ ‘Manda, you brought a camera—get it!” Deb had suddenly become a drill sergeant barking an order to a slow-moving soldier.

  I hastened back to our shop, remembering where I had set the Instamatic on one of the shelves. As I reached for it, I could hear my friend’s voice; she was speaking more loudly than usual, as if increased volume would make her words more forceful, so I was able to catch most of what she said.

  “We’ll take some pictures for you, Sterling,” she was telling the artist when I emerged from the cabin. “Hallie’s birthday is tomorrow, and this kitten is one of her gifts from Margaret; she says she wants it placed on Hallie’s lap.”

  Winterhue did not answer immediately; Deb’s take-charge tone and behavior might have put him into a state of slight shock. Not until I came up to his booth did he take a step toward the display table.

  “Over there,” he said, “under the pine tree.”

  By now I was close enough to follow that pointing finger. Hanging from the miniature evergreen was a swing, and the doll seated in it depicted a small girl who wore a puff-sleeved dress and had her hair caught up in a net of fine gold thread. This was Hallie Magin, Roddy’s younger sister.

  “So—” Deb nearly hissed the syllable; I could tell that her anger was barely suppressed. “You dared to use her—”

  “And why not?” The sculptor’s reply held something of his usual flippancy. “Our patroness wished it. All that witchcraft nonsense is over—and rememb
er that the faire-in-small was Douglas Magin’s idea to begin with.”

  Suddenly the basket tipped in my partner’s hold, and a handful of black fur half jumped, half tumbled out. No sooner had it landed on the ground than it streaked into the brush behind Winterhue’s booth and was gone.

  Just as quickly, an expression that had probably been around since long before the Renaissance shot through my mind. Ramming the camera into a pocket of my skirt, I started after the runaway, but it had the advantages of youth, speed, and a good head start.

  To my surprise, Deb laughed.

  “Foiled!” She grinned, chuckling again. “Lucky for us the little thing’s house trained; if we get some food, we can coax it back.”

  “That would be better for you.” With this cryptic and somewhat sinister remark, the artist turned his back on my partner and placed both hands on the world-table. Under his careful urging, it gave way before him, sliding into the space at the shop front. Deb beckoned to me as she stooped to pick up the lid of the basket.

  Back in our own private quarters, I settled myself on the edge of my cot. By now I felt thoroughly confused. Our neighbor’s mysterious behavior was strange enough, and Deb’s lack of effort to locate the kitten was another piece of the puzzle.

  “You have got to tell me what this is all about,” I declared.

  Deb had bent over the cooler of food we had brought with us and was probing among its contents. When she stood up, she was holding an oversized shaker that I knew contained her sea salt.

  “Okay,” she replied. However, her tone suggested that her focus for the moment lay elsewhere.

  I had already had a good many surprises that day, but I was about to have another: Deb stepped to the nearest window and began to shake salt along the sill. Another sharp thrust of pain began above my left eye and headed inward, and I bit my lip to stifle a gasp, lest I interrupt the ritual. For ritual it was; I knew what she was doing, and I could guess why. She was now closing—according to Pagan belief—every opening in our temporary home that could be used as a means of entry by the Dark.

  I have always believed that the needleworker’s unique art flowered during her New Age research, which had, in itself, branched from her delvings into the past. As far as I knew, Deb was not a Wiccan, but she did accept a great many beliefs held by walkers of the Old Way. When, in the past, a group of us had been roused to action by the unethical conduct of Jessie Aldrich, my friend had been emphatically on our side.

  My own interest in the early religion had been piqued at that time, but my convictions were too strong to allow surrender of the faith I had observed through my life. However, what I could accept, I did, and in no way would I question that which others felt to be true.

  Deb’s silence lasted so long I feared she did not intend to answer. At last, though, she set the shaker down on top of a box and seated herself on the opposite cot.

  “Most of what I know about started at Hentytown over in Kentucky a couple of years ago. That was the first time the local Renaissance group held a faire, and they asked our people to give them tips.”

  Deb looked grim. “You know, after what we went through with Jessie, that fantasy has a dark side, and that, used for the wrong reasons, it can become truly evil. Well, Sterling likes to portray those unsavory aspects in his work. That kind of sculpture was never shown to the public, only to select customers; we always thought he made the shadow-ones to order. Anyway, he was still discreet about them.

  “Then he brought a couple of boxed panoramas to Hentytown.” Deb’s mouth pursed as though she tasted something bitter. “It got around that he had a live monster in one of them. Our adorable Roddy, who’d been taken to that faire with his sister, broke into Winterhue’s booth when the banquet was on; apparently another boy had dared him to. The kids took the box, but Hallie had followed them and they caught her. They were making her look at it when Mark Bancock found them.”

  Deb paused.

  “What was in it?” I demanded.

  “Hallie was screaming like a banshee, but she never would tell what she saw. Roddy and his friend claimed it was nothing really scary—just a scene of a girl in the woods at night with something looking at her from behind a bush. But the boys kicked it apart, so no one ever knew what it really showed.”

  My friend shook her head. “There was a lot of trouble; Sterling had done that box to order and had already taken a down payment. Nobody outside the inner Court knows what settlement was made to his customer, but it was said to have been a huge sum. Shortly after that came the nasty business with Jessie that I’m sure you don’t care to remember—” (I raised a hand in a defensive gesture, wanting indeed to ward off those memories.) “—and witnesses said Winterhue was seen at two of her so-called Black Masses. The Court banished him; but apparently, after the craft fair here in the spring and that big sale he made with the goblins, Margaret Magin took him back into the fold.

  “Now he’s managed to interest CNN—they want to do a story and get pictures once his miniature faire is set up in the castle. That may sound like good publicity, but I keep thinking we’re in for more trouble.”

  Perhaps more than you suspect, I thought. Then, hesitatingly, I told her, “Sterling showed me an unfinished doll he says is you.”

  Deb actually snarled. “Just let him try to use it! Margaret said he has to get written permission to do anyone’s likeness in one of those things.”

  “Miss Wilson?” Deb was being hailed from the front of the store and rose to see what was wanted. I followed a few minutes later, after invoking the magic of two aspirin to banish the pain-demon who had taken up residence above my left eye.

  The newcomers were a large woman and a boy who were wearing the coarse clothing of medieval villagers. “How do we look?” the matron was demanding of Deb as I came out.

  “We’re entering the contest as a family,” she continued. “I’m Helen Quick, and my husband is Robert—he’s playing the cloth merchant. Will we pass for a merchant’s family?”

  The boy, who plainly wanted to be elsewhere, shook free from the hold his mother had on his shoulder. “That guy with the little clay people,” he said, pointing to Winterhue’s display. “He liked what we had on—he said he might even put us in his table thing!”

  Mrs. Quick’s face flushed an even deeper red than the heat had already colored it. “Shut up, Mike!” she snapped, shooting a hostile look toward the sculptor’s booth. “I’ve heard about him, and we sure don’t want to get mixed up in his stuff! Well, Miss Wilson?”

  Deb inspected the pair for a moment before she nodded and delivered judgment.

  “Very good. Except—” she pointed to the child’s footgear, “—those should come off, Mike. We’re supposed to be in a small village. You might wear clogs in winter or bad weather, but you’d go barefoot on a day like this.”

  The boy’s mother caught up her wide skirt to reveal simple black shoes. “Do I go bare, too?”

  Deb smiled. “No, Mrs. Quick. For the wife of a merchant, you’ve chosen exactly right.”

  “Okay, then.” With no more in the way of thanks, the matron stepped back into the street, pushing her reluctant son ahead of her.

  I shook my head in disbelief as I watched them disappear into the crowd. “Are they all like that?” I wanted to know. It might be the needleworker’s duty to pass on the authenticity of costumes, but it appeared she had a thankless task.

  My friend laughed. “Well, there are enough like them to keep us in our places! Now that this faire has gotten important enough to draw the big media, we’re getting twice the usual number of people signing up to do characters.”

  “Is Mrs. Quick in the SCA?” I inquired. “I don’t remember her from last year.” I knew some members of the Court, but I had never witnessed such rudeness from any of them.

  “Not that I know,” Deb answered, adding dryly, “If she’s a newcomer, she may be an equally quick goer.”

  At that moment, the call of a horn rang out, making bot
h of us jump.

  “The parade is staring through town,” Deb explained. “The Court will be making their entrance now; this is their first appearance all together.” She gave a silent whistle of relief. “Glad I didn’t have to be involved with that.”

  Afternoon slid into evening, bringing a welcome breeze as we finished our preparations. Several of our fellow “merchants” hung out lanterns. No such lighting beckoned passersby to the front of Winterhue’s booth, but a dim glow in the back of the shop suggested that the artist might be busy there. Was he, I wondered, engaged in finishing the poppet that would link my friend to his miniature world, whether she wished to be so connected or not?

  Deb’s attention was also fixed on our neighbor’s quarters. “Trouble!” she said tersely. “Not my affair, though—I refuse to get involved again.” She made that statement as though repeating a solemn oath.

  Turning away, she lit three lanterns, two of which were to be suspended outside, and a camp lamp of contemporary design (and greater power) whose use must be confined to the hut’s interior. Next, she delved into a suitcase and brought out her second costume—that of the guildmistress—which she would be wearing to the banquet.

  While Deb was dressing, I went down the street in search of the barbeque that had been teasing my nose all day. It was when I left the “tavern,” supper in a bucket in my hand, that I saw the sculptor again. Unlike other merchants in the village, he had not changed his drab work clothes for more colorful and festive ones in preparation for the evening’s activities, nor did he seem to notice me.

  As I returned, I saw that my friend had two escorts waiting for her at the front of our shop. One was Mark Bancock, who was saying crisply to his companion, “If that kid tries to break into Winterhue’s booth again, they’ll have to lock him up. I’ve got no time to babysit the brat.”

  The other man was the first person I had seen in mundane clothing the whole day. Sighting me, he lifted a hand in salute, and I returned the gesture, recognizing an old acquaintance. Jim Barnes was the closest thing to a feature writer the modest Ridgewood newspaper possessed.