“Right. Kessler rented a room for a few weeks in White Horse, at the Rooster Tavern—part of the time we assumed he was still in New York City—then pulled up and came to Pittsville.”
“Okay, mark that down as coincidence for a moment. What else?”
“Here’s the best story of all. A few years earlier someone imported a bunch of poor Germans—sort of an unofficial indentured servitude, working off passage with several years’ labor. It was probably illegal, and just as probably the town officials were in on it. Anyway, there’s one real juicy story about Wayland, a local matron, and a German maid. Seems one night the matron walked into the kitchen and found Wayland humping the maid’s brains out on the kitchen floor while she was supposed to be serving hors d’oeuvre to guests. Anyway, there was a row, and it turned out he was boffing the old gal as well, and that made for just the sort of scandal these little towns love so much. But the kicker is the matron was the mayor’s wife and the girl was Helga Dorfmann. The mayor married her off to Kessler just after that to get her out of the house and, it seems, out of town.”
“Kessler’s wife?”
“None other. They married less than a week later.”
“So there was a good chance Kessler and Smith knew each other, or at least knew of each other.” Mark sat silently for a while, then laughed a beleaguered laugh. “Why couldn’t you have found me an Amish smith, Gary!” he said with mock anger. “Okay, so we have a regular folk hero in New York who sounds like a match for the one in Uffington, But what do we have to link him to the Wayland Smith that Gabbie met?”
“How about his wagon being pretty much as Gabbie described it to you?”
“You saw it?”
“In the paper. The picture was old and grainy, but it was there. They shot a picture of him after he ate a tree or something in a Fourth of July contest. And his horse was an old dapple-grey.”
“I don’t suppose you got a copy?”
With a grin and a flourish, Gary produced a photocopy. The reproduction was bad, but there was the smith standing before his wagon. The caption read: “Wayland Smith, recent arrival to White Horse, victor in the Independence Day horseshoeing contest.”
“What do you think?” Mark looked disturbed. “Para-psychological phenomena? Is Gabbie seeing ghosts? Is she picking up on some sort of psychic field in the area? Maybe we got evidence of our first true time fugue, and for a while she passed back to 1905? Or he came forward in time for a few minutes? An other-life experience?” He sighed in resignation. “I don’t know what to think.”
“I don’t know either, but rule out subconscious suggestion, hysterical self-delusion, and the other hypnotic schtick. Gabbie’s new here and has not heard those stories. I doubt ten people here in Pittsville have.”
Mark drummed on the arm of the chair. “Maybe she’d let us test her for paranormal abilities.”
Gary looked hard at Blackman. “I’ve known you too long, Mark. You’ve already thought of something. You just don’t want to tell me.”
Mark covered his eyes as if tired. After a moment of silence, he said, “You’re right. Let me think for a while.”
“Okay, you think. I’ve got to call Ellen. I’m late and I owe her one.”
Gary hurried upstairs to use the phone in his room. Mark sat alone, nursing his scotch while he pondered an answer forming in his mind. It was so fantastic he wanted to exhaust every answer more probable. And there were still too many blanks. He sat back and suddenly wished he had stayed in experimental psych as an undergrad. Rats and pigeons never gave one this much trouble. Or this much potential for terror.
9
The rain pounded. It beat on the boys and Bad Luck like a thousand tiny hammers, insistent, unrelenting, stinging eyes and somehow getting up noses, making them sneeze. Patrick and Sean marched purposefully through the woods, drenched to the skin already. The rain was cool but not yet chilling. Their moods matched, caught between irritation at the rain-out and delight in getting sopping wet and muddy with a good excuse. They had never seen a sudden summer thundershower in California to match this one. The peals were deafening and the lightning flashes impressive. The dim, late afternoon light, almost forgotten behind the thunderclouds, made distances odd; the woods looked flat and impossibly dense. Bowers became caverns of menacing gloom, with familiar boles now sinister shapes of black against dark grey. The boys took delight in the delicious scare the shadowy woods provided, as if they were embarking upon an adventure of gigantic proportions. Bad Luck seemed not to mind the rain, or at least he was more caught up in the boys’ fun than in concern over wet fur.
They cut across Erl King Hill, as usual in coming back from the park, and when they topped the hill, a staggering blast of lightning and thunder caused them to halt. As one they jumped, for this display was considerably more terrifying than those before. Patrick let out a yell, something between a shriek and battle cry, and ran down the hill, Sean a step behind. Halfway down the hillock, Patrick clutched his chest and fell, shouting, “I’m hit!” He rolled, and Sean rolled after him. Both boys reached the bottom covered in wet grass, mud, and stickers. They were now a complete mess. Bad Luck barked in joy and nuzzled first one brother, then the other, licking faces already wet. Patrick leaped up and ran to the trail that led home.
The rain drove them on, an insistent pressure. Where drops fell unobstructed by branches, they struck muddy ground, exploding upward in rebound, splattering the boys with droplets of mud. The cuffs of their jeans turned black. Where the drops struck branches, they gathered, combining, then shot downward larger, somehow wetter, and struck the boys with an audible plop. Never had the twins known quite so magic a rain. Even while menacing, it was the most wonderful, most excellent, best ever rain.
Patrick veered off the trail and down the bank, toward a shortcut they used across the creek. Sean yelled after his brother, who ignored him. Sean didn’t know if Patrick chose not to hear or couldn’t because of the sound of the rain and the wind in the trees, but he was upset at the slight.
At the base of the cut in the woods he grabbed Patrick, swinging him around. “Hey!”
“What!”
“Don’t go down there.”
“Why not?”
“We got to go back and use the bridge. Jack said there could be floods.”
Patrick gifted his brother with a look that said his concern was unfounded and resulted from lack of nerve rather than thoughtful concern over risk. “It’s too soon. The rain just started a half hour ago. Boy, you sure can be chicken sometimes.”
Sean stood speechless. There was something he fought to recall about Jack’s warning, but he couldn’t remember—something about rain in the hills. Patrick turned and walked down the short distance to the edge of the stream, halting there. The stream was now swollen to ankle depth or more, and the swift-moving water presented a different picture from the meandering rills they were used to seeing. Bad Luck waited, halfway between Patrick and Sean, uncertain which brother to follow. Patrick hesitated, seemingly on the verge of turning back, but he caught sight of his brother and his decision was made. He plunged into the water.
“Patrick!” Sean yelled. “Mom’s going to get you!”
Patrick waded out, finding the water already up to his knees. “Why? You going to tell?” He turned to face his more timid brother, a defiant look on his face. “Huh?”
The rain had begun in the hills two days before, at first a gentle sprinkling, but growing in strength each hour. Pools formed in the rocks, gathering until they found escape downward. Trickles became rivulets, which gathered into streams. Near Wurtsburg the level of the water in the flood control basin had risen until the operator decided to bleed it off and opened the valve. That small flood rushed down the usually dry stream bed toward Munson Springs. At Dowling Mills the water swirled down a broken culvert, diverted to a small creek that turned it toward Pittsville. At the north end of the Fairy Woods, the water gathered behind a clog of branches, leaves, mud, and debris. It l
eaked through, causing the stream which ran below the Troll Bridge to rise as thousands of gallons of water raced over normally dry rocks. Then the surge from Wurtsburg, turned aside at Dowling Mills, struck the clog of wood and brush. The inadvertent dam held, then suddenly disintegrated and was swept away. A crest of water two and a half feet higher than before rolled down the stream bed.
A deep thunderpeal and the masking noise of rain was counterpointed by a more ominous sound, a rolling, surging rumble. Patrick hesitated, and that moment trapped him, for he turned to look upstream, rather than move toward either bank.
Sean looked where his brother’s eyes fastened, and down the gully the wall of water moved. “Patrick!” he shrieked as the water engulfed his brother. He scrambled down the bank, seeking to reach Patrick.
The water was little more than waist-high, but it knocked Patrick down, then picked up the boy and bore him along. Sean watched his brother’s head vanish below the roiling brown foam. With a cry of terror he jumped forward, grabbing Bad Luck, who had been about to leap into the water after Patrick. Sean’s mind reeled, but he knew that no matter what Patrick’s fate, the lab would also be swept away. He pulled hard on the dog’s collar and scrambled back up the bank, his feet churning the mud as he sought to race to the Troll Bridge.
The rain turned everything to a chiaroscuro, a grey haze devoid of color, and suddenly Sean was lost. Crying in terror, he shouted his brother’s name while he spun, seeking the path he had stood upon a moment before. Bad Luck hesitated and with a bark bounded off between two trees. Sean ran after the dog, hoping he knew where the path lay.
Patrick choked as he fought vainly against the force of the water; then he came up, spitting and coughing. The stream wasn’t that deep, but it moved with staggering force against the little boy’s body. And the rocks seemed uniformly slippery, so that no handhold was possible. He tried to shout for help, but each time he opened his mouth, he sucked in water. Trying to keep his head, he struggled against the stream, but in vain. Something he had been taught while playing at Santa Monica beach, about rip currents in the ocean, intruded on his panic-stricken thoughts, and he attempted to move at a right angle to the flow. All he succeeded in doing was turning himself in circles and bouncing off rocks. The boy was terrified, and his natural bent for keeping calm was escaping him. Then suddenly he was in darkness.
Instantly he knew: He was under the bridge. And so was the Bad Thing.
Claws seized him, and he felt his T-shirt rip, while pain erupted on his arm. He struck out with small fists, which hit something soft and fleshy. He felt himself being lifted up, and his nose was filled with the stink of rotting meat.
The Bad Thing hung by three limbs beneath the bridge, upside down like a giant spider. It clutched the boy’s arm in one clawed hand, and above the pounding sound of the water Patrick could hear its inhuman sounds. The boy vomited, his stomach constricting in terror. He kicked and hit, and screamed for his mother and father.
The water pulled him under again and sharp claws tore at the child’s flesh. As the Bad Thing sought to grab the boy, claws raked along Patrick’s face and chest. He was seized and lifted, and for a moment lightning illuminated the area. A strange and distant snapping sound briefly intruded on the boy’s awareness before horror filled his world. A black mask with yellow eyes hovered scant inches before his face. An evil sharp-toothed monkey grin split that face as the clawed hand painfully pulled Patrick closer. The Bad Thing was smaller than the boy but impossibly strong.
Another wave, courtesy of the flood control basin at Wurtsburg, raced down the stream. The wave slammed against the sides of the bridge and hesitated as the barrier repulsed its first onslaught. Then it forced through the opening, rising in level and picking up speed. Patrick felt the water hit him, tugging him free of the Bad Thing’s grasp. Choking on water and fear, he felt himself being pulled along. The claws gripped at him again. An inhuman shriek sounded in his ears in counterpoint to his own cries of terror, cries choked off by water rushing into mouth and nose. Patrick spit and vomited. His lungs burned for air; he tried to inhale, but there was nothing there, and his lungs spasmed, ejecting the water. He inhaled, managing only a single breath while his head bobbed above the water. Again he heard the snap-snap sound; then darkness washed over him and water filled his nose. Blood welled into his mouth as he bit his own tongue. Pain revisited him as claws once more seized his arms, cutting him cruelly.
Then the water moved him and the claws were forced to yield their prey. Patrick struck the stone sides of the bridge with stunning force and felt consciousness slipping away as fatigue, pain, and terror took their toll. He was being lifted up, and he felt water exploding from his lungs as he coughed, spit, and vomited water a last time.
In a distant fog he heard his name called and vaguely understood it was Sean’s voice. The snap-snap sound resolved itself into Bad Luck’s barking. He forced open his eyes and realized that a familiar face was looking down on him. Through near-blinding rain, Jack hovered above him. “It’s okay, Patrick. You’re okay.”
Patrick felt Jack cradle him in his arms as the young man began to run—a slightly awkward, limping gait—through the woods toward home, Gabbie and Sean beside him, Bad Luck at his heels. Patrick wondered, in a strangely detached way, how Jack and Gabbie had come to be at the bridge, and why the Bad Thing had let him go. Then he passed into unconsciousness.
10
Gloria’s face was set in an emotionless mask. She kept her eyes on Patrick while the doctor ministered to his wounds. When the boys had been late coming home from the game, and given the sudden rain, she had become worried. Jack and Gabbie volunteered to backtrack through the woods. They were only fifty yards from the bridge when they heard Bad Luck’s barking. Gloria opened the kitchen door at Jack’s shouting, to discover her son a mass of bleeding wounds. Not waiting for an ambulance, they had quickly done what they could on the fly, bundling Patrick up and driving through the rain to Pittsville Memorial Hospital. Gloria called over to Aggie’s, where Phil was discussing his newest manuscript.
Now they were all waiting to hear how Patrick was doing. Phil had rushed to the hospital and together with his wife pieced together what had happened.
For the fourth time she said, “If I ever catch either one of you near that stream again.…” She let the threat fall away.
Patrick squirmed. Sean was a few feet away, outside with his father, Gabbie, and Jack, and it was unusual for only one of the brothers to be taking the brunt of their mother’s ire.
Through the door to the waiting area, Sean sat with eyes fixed upon his brother. Gloria glanced in his direction and he seemed to shrink within his chair. Somehow he had gotten the message he was equally responsible for Patrick’s recklessness. He had been scared for his brother, but he was also angry that he was being blamed for Patrick’s stupidity. Letting his voice rise, he said, “It’s not my fault, Mom. I didn’t go down there. Patrick did.” His father looked down at him, shook his head, and smiled. It was okay, he seemed to say. It’s only Mom being angry. It will pass.
Gloria looked back to where the doctor tended Patrick and tears threatened to form in her eyes, but she said nothing.
The doctor left it to the nurse to finish the last bandage and smiled reassuringly. He led Gloria back to where Phil and the others sat, then said, “He’s fine.”
Gloria felt relief break inside and the tears came. “Thank God,” she said in earnest.
The doctor was a young resident, barely older than Jack. He smiled as he said, “He’s pretty banged up and a few of those cuts look nasty, but most are superficial.” He glanced around. “Just how did he get so many cuts?”
Jack said, “He got caught in the stream over in the Fairy Woods and swept along under the Troll Bridge. There was a block of tree branches under it and he was pulled through.”
The doctor winced at the description. “It looks like it. Anyway, the cold water cut down on blood loss and we’ve sutured the one big gash on h
is scalp. We’ve bandaged the little ones and given him a tetanus shot. I don’t think there’s anything else wrong with him. You can take him home. Just keep an eye out for fever or other signs of infection. I’ll want him brought in in a few days to change the dressings. In a week the stitches can come out.”
Gloria said, “What about … scars?”
The doctor shrugged. “Nothing to worry about. He’ll have a couple on his upper arms and chest he can brag about to his friends. They’ll all fade by adulthood. And his face has only a few minor scratches. He’s not disfigured, if that’s what’s worrying you.” The last was said softly, but with a firmness showing it was not worth considering that possibility.
“Well, he looked so bad,” said Gloria softly, obviously relieved.
The young doctor nodded. “A lot of things look worse than they are until you clean them up. Scalp wounds are messy and Patrick had a beaut. That’s where most of the blood came from. He really wasn’t as bad as he looked.”
Gloria nodded. “It’s just there was so much blood.”
The young doctor spoke in calm, firm tones. “As I said, it’s not as bad as it looked.”
Phil comforted his wife and said, “Thank you, Doctor.”
“You’re welcome. Before you leave, check in over at administration and they’ll do the insurance stuff. I’ll leave his chart at the nurses’ station for your own doctor to review in the morning, before it gets buried in the administrative archives.”
“We haven’t gotten around to getting a local doctor yet, though I guess you could say Dr. Latham. He took care of our daughter.”
“Well, John Latham’s a good choice. He’s one of the last true general practitioners left. He’s good with kids, too. He’ll be checking on his patients tomorrow. I’ll give him Patrick’s chart.” He shook hands with Phil and left.
Phil said, “Jack, if you’d take everyone home, I’ll stick around and do the paperwork.”
Faerie Tale Page 17
