Faerie Tale

by Raymond Feist

  Sean approached the auditorium. The other kids had already begun to gather. There would be some organized activities, a lot of booths set up with games of chance—pitch a dime to win a goldfish, darts and balloons, a wheel of fortune, beanbag toss, and other stuff—and free treats for everyone. They’d also have organized games and records, so kids could dance, though Sean thought that was something the girls would like more than the boys.

  Sean heard his parents’ car pull away and glanced back to watch as they drove off. The high clouds hid the last rays of the setting sun, reducing the landscape to black and grey as the mist turned to a more honest drizzle. Sean considered: The party was scheduled to run from six to nine, so he had to time everything perfectly. Sean looked about, joined a knot of kids by the door, and waited.

  24

  Aggie negotiated the turns in Highway 117, the main artery down to Pittsville from Interstate 90 out of Buffalo. She squinted against the dazzling lights of oncoming cars, reflected off the slick roadway. The rain had halted, for which she was thankful, for her old full-size Ford handled like a battleship on these slick roads. She made the transition from the state highway to the local road heading toward the Hastingses’ place.

  As she passed under the overpass, the classical music station faded and the rain resumed with a vengeance. Sheets of water poured down, obscuring everything but the yellow broken line that ran down the road. Aggie flipped the wipers to high speed and slowed the car. There were two bad turns before she reached the cutoff to the Hastings farm, and she wasn’t exactly sure where she was. Familiar landmarks were nonexistent. With no roadside lamps, all she could see was the area covered by the glare of her car’s high beams. She rode through a tunnel of night. Distant lightning flashes caused the radio to issue raucous noises, so Aggie turned it off.

  She drove for a while until she began to wonder if she’d somehow taken a wrong turn. She was tired from lack of sleep—she had spent long hours at the Hastings home the last week. And she had also lived with a bone-deep weariness born of worry for Patrick. The conversation with Barney and Sean the day before had put her on edge, visiting her with an unfocused pensive anxiety. She had been troubled by a feeling with no name. Since Mark had called she had a name for the feeling: fear.

  Aggie glanced at her passenger, who sat stoically with eyes forward, saying nothing. Less than six hours before, she had received a call from Mark Blackman. He had tried to call Gary, but the younger man was off someplace for a day with his girlfriend. Mark had tried the Hastings house, but the phone had been busy. In desperation, he had called Aggie and, with that strange and cryptic long-distance conversation, had plunged her into a frightening world, a world she had glimpsed for the first time when Sean had come to Barney Doyle’s shack the day before.

  Then another call had come, and with persuasion beyond Aggie’s understanding, her passenger had convinced her to make the drive to Buffalo, to pick him up at the airport. And all Aggie knew about this man was he was German and said he was expected by Mark Blackman, when he showed up. Aggie had not be able to articulate her confusion as she agreed to come fetch this stranger. Some power was at play this night, and that power was beyond her ability to know fully, but she could discern part of the whole; she could see how alien that power was. And recognizing that alien quality added to her understanding.

  What she had at last come to understand, even if only a part of a larger whole, frightened her, frightened her more than she would have thought anything could. She was so concerned over her passenger’s presence that she had to force herself to keep her mind on her driving. Mark and Gary’s speculation about some secret organization to which Kessler belonged being in existence in this era was no longer a theory. For a member of that organization sat in the passenger seat, after a long flight from Germany. And they were riding down to the Hastings place in this terrible storm because somehow this man must get there before Mark.

  Mark had not told Aggie where he was. He might have called from New York City, or from Buffalo, or from Toronto. He might have flown in an hour before this man, rented a car and be just a few miles ahead, or he could be speeding to overtake them. But however he was coming, Mark had said it was imperative he reach Erl King Hill before midnight, yet no one should know he was coming. And without Mark’s saying anything, Aggie had understood his life was at risk.

  And despite her promise to say nothing about Mark’s return, this stranger had overcome her will, had made her come for him, tell him what she knew, and bring him to find Mark. Now every shadow held menace, every dark place a threat of destruction.

  Aggie considered what knowledge meant and the never before understood wisdom inherent in the old saw, “Ignorance is bliss.” The threat of a mugger was unreal to a farm boy, while it inspired terror in a city dweller. Such was the price of knowledge. Now threats Aggie would have dismissed as fantastic and impossible days ago were a tangible danger, terribly real. She felt the same as that farm boy would have to find himself suddenly in an alley with a gun pointed at his head by a drug-crazed junkie.

  Aggie wished she could have tracked down Gary before driving to Buffalo and told him to meet her at the Hastings house. But some force of this man’s will had prevented that. She decided that she’d call Gary as soon as she got there—assuming her passenger would let her. She glanced over at him. He had barely spoken a dozen words, all with a heavy German accent, to her since she found him at the airport. He looked nothing so much as a small-town businessman, portly, balding, and wearing an inexpensive, rumpled suit. All she knew was his name, August … something. She gripped the wheel tighter. She was scared, for despite the man’s harmless appearance, he radiated that alien strength she had sensed all night.

  Aggie blinked several times, wondering where she was. Then she saw the first landmark, Lonny Boggs’s mailbox. The Hastings place would be two farms up. They made the first turn in the road carefully, but as she approached the second, she picked up speed. She spoke softly to her passenger, saying they were almost at their destination. All the man said was a half-grunt, which might have been, “Gut.” As Aggie came out of the turn, a lighting flash illuminated the road.

  Something sprang across the road from out of the woods. For a scant moment Aggie thought it a deer, for she saw a rack of antlers. An instant later, she was turning the wheel furiously, for the thing in the middle of the road had stopped, preventing her passing. The car swerved and Aggie reflexively hit the brakes as her passenger swore an oath of astonishment in German. Suddenly the car was spinning out of control, and Aggie vainly attempted to turn back into the drift of the automobile.

  To Aggie it was as if everything was instantly moving sideways. For a second, whatever was in the road was illuminated by the sweep of the car’s headlights, and Aggie saw a figure sitting atop a horse. As the car spun, Aggie had a brief thought that somehow Jack or Gabbie was out riding in the rain, then, as the car completed a circle, the figure was again visible in the lights. It wasn’t Jack or Gabbie. The horse was impossibly white, nearly glowing in the rain, the mane and tail almost aflame with golden highlights. And the rider wasn’t human. Squarely atop the shoulders rested a golden helm, topped by ivory antlers. And in the open face of the helm, a visage of inhuman features regarded the out-of-control car. Eyes glowing with their own inner light followed its spinning path. Aggie’s mouth opened in a scream of terror, more for certain knowledge of what she faced in that instant than for fear of the crash. Through her own fear she was dimly aware that her companion was shouting, but not so much in fear as in anger and warning. Aggie’s mind rebelled at the truth seen, even though she had known what it was, and she closed her eyes and braced herself against the steering wheel as the car began to turn over.

  As Aggie’s car left the road, slamming into a tree, the rider threw back his head and howled an inhuman laugh. The noise of the crash was muted by the driving rain.

  Aggie sat motionless, in shock for a long minute, then she shook her head to clear it. Her e
yes burned and she wiped them. Her hand encountered warmth, and she knew she was bleeding. She glanced toward her passenger and saw the man’s head had smashed the side window, spider-webbing the glass. Blood was flowing copiously across his forehead, but the blank, slack-jawed expression and vacant eyes told Aggie the man was dead.

  Somehow the car had landed mostly upright, pointing up toward the road as it sat on the embankment. Aggie vainly tried to unfasten her safety belt, her fingers unable to coordinate to push the simple button. Through the window, the rain beating down upon it, she could see movement. As she tried to free herself, waves of nausea swept over her and she collapsed as her head swam, leaning against the side window, her vision blurring.

  Aggie closed her eyes and that made the dizziness worse, so she forced herself alert and opened them. She felt an odd detachment and wondered if she was dying. Upon the road she could make out the rider, a dim figure in the dark, and she could feel the creature’s malevolent gaze on her.

  As the creature spurred his mount toward the wreckage, Aggie felt her strength ebb and knew that soon she would be dead. The rider knew of their coming, and knew that Aggie’s passenger was an enemy. Old tales remembered, tales now known to be, as Barney had said, true stories, those old tales made her understand that destruction rode toward her at leisurely pace. Aggie found her fear had fled with the certainty of death, but she felt a deep regret at the price others would soon be forced to pay.

  Then the night was lit by flashing red and blue lights as another car rounded the corner, a county sheriffs car. Aggie saw the rider turn his steed and spur it back into the woods. As darkness began to enfold Aggie, she was dimly aware of the squawking sound made by the car’s police radio. She thought that someone at Lonny Boggs’s farm must have heard the crash and called in. Aggie cried out and her voice sounded weak and distant in her own ear. She fought to stay conscious, since there was so little time left, only hours.

  As darkness closed around her, she thought she could hear another car approaching, pulling over, then a door slam. From a great distance away she could hear a voice, Mark’s voice, calling her name. Her last thoughts were, Poor, poor Patrick. Then she sank into a black void.

  25

  At seven-thirty Sean walked to the auditorium door and asked Mr. Hanes, the third-grade teacher, if he could go to the boys’ room. The instructor nodded absently, for kids had been going in and out all evening. Several boys were using the rest room, and Sean made a show of entering one of the stalls. He sat with his pants around his ankles for what he judged the proper amount of time, then left. Instead of returning to the auditorium, he ducked into a side hall, then ran in the opposite direction from the auditorium, toward the library. He remembered a piece of trivia he had overheard: During any school activity, all doors in the building were set so the crash bars would let people out, even if they couldn’t be opened from the outside. Sean reached the outside door next to the school library, he pushed down quietly on the crash bar, and the door opened with a loud click. Sean made good his escape. Within minutes he was running across the park, heading for Barney’s shack.

  It was raining again, heavy and cold. Sean was wet and chilled when he reached the shack. He hit the door with his fist, yelling Barney’s name.

  After what seemed an eternity, the door opened and Barney stood before him, holding a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey, obviously halfway to being drunk. The handyman said, “Ah! Have you come for some treats, Sean Hastings? I’ve none, as you no doubt know. Come in, then, for you’re certain to catch your death if you stand there gawking.” The boy entered and Barney sought out a fairly clean towel and tossed it to the boy, who dried himself as best he could. “’Tis a foolish thing for you to be doing, dashing about in the rain without a coat, Sean, and you just being over a high fever.”

  “Barney, I’ve got to find Patrick. You said the Good People were leaving tonight!”

  “True. At the first stroke of midnight, they’ll pack up, kit and kaboodle, and off they’ll go. And by the twelfth stroke they’ll be gone from sight, finding some other plot of woodlands—God knows where—and some other poor community to terrorize. God grant that it’s the English.” He lifted the bottle of whiskey in salute to that and drank. Fixing the boy with a still-steady eye, he said, “Then have you brought a silver arrow and a bow, or a silver sword, as I told your brother?”

  Sean reached down into his boot and pulled out the silver letter opener. “I got this.”

  Slowly Barney went down on his knees before the boy. He took the letter opener and turned it in his hand. It was silver. He looked at it for what seemed a long time, then looked at Sean. He let out a soft sigh. Tears welled up in his eyes as he reached out a shaking hand to touch the boy’s shoulder. “You’re bound to do this thing, then?”

  “I’ve got to, Barney. Patrick will go with them tonight, won’t he?”

  Almost whispering, Barney answered, “Aye, and he’ll be lost for eternity, for the chances of finding the Good People again are scant. I’ve seen them once and then once again in my life, and it was a good fifty years between. And most see them not at all during their mortal span. But it’s a fearful and dangerous thing you’re proposing, Sean Hastings. Your parents may mourn two sons this night. Have you wrestled with that?”

  Sean nodded his head curtly, then said, “Where is Patrick?”

  Barney got up, taking the letter opener. He turned and took up a sharpener he used on scissors, shears, and knives, and put a sharp edge to the blade, paying special attention to giving it a wicked point. Satisfied the ersatz dagger was as keen as possible, he returned it to Sean. Barney fetched a coat from a hook, placing the half-empty bottle of whiskey in one large pocket and a long waterproof flashlight in the other. He took down a small jar and emptied all the screws from it. He searched and found a lid, then fit it into place. “Then if you’re committed, you’d best go armed with whatever you can find. Come with me quickly, for there’s scant time, in truth.” He started to move, then thought of something. He pulled open a drawer and rifled through it until at last he pulled out a string of rosary beads and a cross. “’Tis an age since I’ve had the good sense to pray, Sean, but this night I’ll make up for those lost days.”

  Barney led the boy out of the shack, slamming the door behind but not bothering to lock it. He half ran, half walked, as fast as his old legs could manage, while Sean trotted beside him. “First,” said Barney, “we must go to St. Catherine’s.”

  He hurried Sean along to the large church on Third Street, four blocks from the park. Pushing open the large doors, he whispered, “’Tis All Saints’ Day on the morrow, and there’ll be those at prayer, so walk softly.” He led the boy through the narthex of the church to where a font of holy water awaited the congregation. Barney unscrewed the cap and filled the jar, quickly screwing the cap back on.

  With a motion for silence, Barney led the boy into the nave. They passed a pair of silent worshippers who didn’t bother to look up as Barney and Sean moved toward the front of the church. In the transept stood a statue of the Virgin, before which were burning dozens of candles. Barney reached the point before the altar and knelt, crossing himself, and Sean imitated him. Then he moved to the altar of the Virgin and rummaged through his pocket for coins. Depositing some quarters in a box, he took a candle and gave it to Sean. “Light this, and while you do, pray to Our Lady to watch over you, Sean. This sort of undertaking must have holy sanctification, or ’tis doomed to failure. Do you understand?”

  Sean nodded. His parents had never practiced, but he had been to church with his Grandmother O’Brien. He lit the candle and placed it before the statue of the Virgin. He closed his eyes and softly said, “Please, Lady, help me find Patrick and get him back safe.”

  Barney studied the small boy for a long moment, his eyes showing approval. “That’s as honest as a prayer can be, in truth. Now we must hurry.”

  He led the boy down one aisle, past the confessionals. Outside the church the rain pe
lted them as they hurried along the streets, past Barney’s shack, then into the woods. Barney took out the flashlight and turned it on. “From here you must listen carefully, for the way is perilous. Should you become lost, you’ll be lost forever. Do you understand?”

  Sean swallowed his fear and nodded. Barney sighed in resignation. “Then listen: The way to the land of the Good People lies under the hill on your property.”

  “Erl King Hill,” said Sean.

  “So the German called it. A proper fairy mound it is, no doubt.” They walked slowly through the trees, along the path the boys used to travel to and from the park. Sean knew the way and had little trouble following Barney’s lead. The half-drunk Irishman continued his instructions. “Facing the setting sun, you walk nine times widdershins—that’s anticlockwise, lad—until you find the entrance to the land of the Good People.” He rubbed his face, forcing back to the surface long-forgotten lore. “Once through the cave, you’ll find a path.”

  “Like the Yellow Brick Road?”

  “You can think of it that way, lad. But it won’t be yellow. But if you say this: ‘By the blessed St. Patrick, Our Lady, and in the name of our Lord, guide my way,’ you’ll find a guide.”

  “A guide? Who?”

  “I don’t know, lad, for the stories are confused. It may be a raven, who you must be leery of, for he is a wily and treacherous guide who’ll try to lead you astray unless you keep an eye on him and command him to truth. It may be a man or woman, who’ll speak in a foreign language and may seek to beguile you. Or it may be a child. But most likely it will be a golden ball of light. Or so the legends say. Follow it. You must not leave the roadway save to follow the guide. You must not stop longer than it takes to catch a breath, or you’ll lose your guide. And you may not trust anyone you meet, no matter how fair they seem.” He thought, then said, “Save one. There may be a man, called True Tom, so the stories say. He cannot lie, so if you meet him, you can trust his answers to be without falsehood. You’ll know him by his speech, for he’s a Scotsman, which means he’s almost Irish.” Then with a shrug, he added, “At least he’s not an Englishman.”