Faerie Tale

by Raymond Feist

  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 concerned 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 table 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 undressing you.” She buried her face in his shoulder and made embarrassed noises. “Then you thought to reciprocate.”

  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 subject.” 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 demilitarized zone in which to work. She glanced at the house and wondered if Gabbie and Jack had resolved their differences. 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 fanatic, 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.”

  Gl
oria said, “Does your Casey play baseball, Mr. Mullins?”

  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 afternoon.”

  “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 toward 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, assuming because they were twins that Sean should be capable of everything Patrick was. Sean was a good pitcher—at least, he had better than average control—while Patrick 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 outstanding. Sean’s gifts were more in the area of thoughtful consideration, 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 lurking 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 thinking. 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 Matthe.” When the boys looked at him blankly, he said, “Which, if your education wasn’t lacking, you’d know was Gaelic for the good people.”

  Sean and Patrick shot each other a glance, each silently 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 people.” 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 acquaintances, 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 channel, 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. Wa
it 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 fretting. 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 decidedly menacing aspect to the woods.