by Joanne Pence
As Michael anxiously waited for his father, he stood by the windows looking out at the storm. As he’d driven onto Wintersgate’s property, it had hit with fury. Now, the rain fell in sheets.
His headache grew worse as he waited over twenty minutes before he heard footsteps behind him.
William Claude Rempart seemed smaller than Michael remembered. His hair was snow white now, and framed his face in a halo-like cloud. But he appeared healthy, even robust, for a man of eighty-eight.
Michael squared his shoulders, standing erect as scowling black eyes took in every detail about him, and seemed to find him wanting.
“This is a surprise,” William Claude’s words were curt, his voice as deep and reverberating as always.
Michael wasn’t sure how to greet his father, opting for a simple, “Hello, father.”
William Claude’s lips tightened. “It’s been a long time.” He walked to an armchair covered in a yellow fabric decorated with bluebirds and sat. Michael remembered that his mother had loved the pattern, calling it a French toile. Seeing the upholstery now faded and worn saddened him, yet another sign of loss and the passing of time.
Michael took a seat facing his father as Stedman brought in a tray with coffee, brandy, and an array of appetizers. He poured their drinks and left the room.
William Claude reached for his brandy. “Archeology has been good to you, I understand. Finding that Spanish galleon some years back and getting a TV show.”
Michael found the whole episode an embarrassment. At the time it happened, he was young, bitter, and wanted to prove to the world that he could be important, that he was worth something. He had taken a ridiculous risk going after a treasure dismissed and mocked by better men than he. It had paid off. Hollywood had decided he had star-quality good looks and had dubbed him a “real-life Indiana Jones.” For a while he even headlined a National Geographic series on archeology.
That attention led to opportunities for fascinating digs and more discoveries. Yet the attention he most sought never came.
Eventually, he stopped hoping for it.
“I’m glad that part of my life is over,” he admitted.
“I should think so. Someone in town gave Stedman a copy of some tawdry magazine. People, I believe it was called.” William Claude sniffed. “Pictures of you with beautiful women. Starlets. I half expected to hear you would star in some outlandish adventure film. Quite beneath you, Michael.”
Michael felt irritation stir. He worked to tamp down his reaction. "I’m here so we can talk."
“Good.” William Claude finished the brandy and put the snifter back on the table. “Have you attempted alchemy yet?”
“You say that as if you expect I will.”
“I do.”
“And I do my best to keep away from the occult.”
“Not successfully, from what I’ve heard.” William Claude’s eyes narrowed. “For example, your strange adventure in China last year, and an ancient, highly valued pearl.”
The words surprised Michael. He had done all he could to keep the episode quiet. “I can’t imagine where you would have heard such a thing.”
“Who knows?” William Claude shrugged, then his lips curved sardonically. “Was it worthwhile, or just another publicity stunt?”
Michael sucked in his breath. Coming here, facing this man, hadn't been easy. “Neither. The stories about the pearl were all false. It’s worth nothing.”
William Claude’s lips pursed. “I assumed the pearl was, in fact, a philosopher’s stone.”
“Only to someone who sees alchemy wherever he looks,” Michael said with a mocking tone.
“And rightly so!” William Claude bristled. “So tell me, what did you do with the pearl?”
“Nothing worth discussing.”
His father smirked. “Afraid I might steal it, are you?”
“Of course not.” Michael stared hard at the man now, at dark eyes similar to his own. "But I’m not here to talk about the pearl. I’m here for answers to my own questions.”
The smirk broadened.
Michael glared. “I want to know what happened sixteen years ago. It’s well beyond time for me to learn the truth."
A low chuckling began deep in William Claude’s throat and erupted into a bark of laughter. "Of course you do. You’re so predictable, Michael."
Michael remembered other times his father had laughed at and mocked him. The memory, the laughter, made the pounding in his head grow worse.
Abruptly, William Claude’s laughter ended, and he coldly eyed his son. "You haven’t gone back to archeology, have you? Not after what happened to Lionel.”
The headache became a migraine, and streaks of color flashed before Michael’s eyes as he thought of his older brother, Lionel, who had been William Claude’s favorite. “I’m not quite back yet,” he murmured, “but archeology is my passion.”
“As alchemy should be.”
“But never was.” Michael’s voice grew hard and determined even as he rubbed his brow. “You know, don’t you, that alchemy is the reason Lionel is dead?”
“If Lionel had used it properly, he would still be alive.” William Claude’s eyes were harsh, but his expression gradually eased. “You shouldn’t mock it, not with your abilities. As much as I hate to admit it, you are one of the fortunate Rempart men blessed by the alchemical world.”
“If so, it’s hardly a blessing.”
“But there, you’re wrong.” William Claude leaned forward in the chair. “I see your head hurts. Let me help.” He pressed his hand across Michael’s forehead.
The hand felt icy, but the pulsating throbs immediately ceased, and the flashes of light hurting his eyes vanished. Despite that, Michael jerked back in his chair. He was shocked; his father never touched him. And he couldn’t ignore the sense that something was wrong, perhaps evil, about it.
William Claude dropped his hand. His lips spread wide and thin in a grin. “You should rest, Michael,” he said as he stood. “Dinner is at eight.”
Chapter 4
Rachel’s eyelids fluttered, but then opened wide as they moved from all-white walls to the tube taped to her arm. She gasped, scared.
Ceinwen placed a hand on Rachel’s shoulder to steady her. “It’s okay. You passed out. You’re in Oxford’s infirmary and they’re giving you fluids. Dehydration, they said. You should be fine soon.”
Rachel took a deep breath. “I remember walking across campus to get lunch, and then … nothing.”
“You did scare a few folks,” Ceinwen said wryly.
“How did I get here?” Rachel asked. “And why are you here?”
“I was sitting in a coffee shop and saw what happened,” Ceinwen said. “When the medics arrived, I told them you’re a student and that I’m your roommate. They asked me to come along. You were out of it. Not making a whit of sense.”
Rachel looked stricken.
“Do you remember anything at all?” Ceinwen asked.
“Only a killer headache. I remember thinking how beautiful Oxford looked that morning, the spires and towers against a bright blue sky, but …”
“But?”
“It was weird. All of a sudden, I smelled sage and dust, as if I were home, back in the high desert. Maybe I was hungry, and somehow, that triggered me to feel homesick.” Rachel dropped her gaze, her expression troubled.
“Maybe,” Ceinwen murmured. “Anything else?”
Rachel swallowed hard. It was a look of fright, one Ceinwen had seen often enough when Rachel awoke from one of her many nightmares.
“What was it?” she asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Rachel rubbed her eyes, her temple. “It might have simply been another nightmare.”
“But you were awake,” Ceinwen said. “You seemed to be in a trance.”
“I don’t know what’s happening anymore.” Rachel bowed her head.
"A counselor will talk to you soon. I’ve heard your teachers say you’re working yourself too ha
rd, that you need time away, and since you’ve already turned in your papers and have no finals, you could leave school now. Start summer vacation a week or two early and rest.”
Rachel shook her head. “My schoolwork has nothing to do with this. I enjoy the classes. In fact, I don’t find them hard at all. If anything, they’re too easy.”
“But this was a warning about something. You need to listen to it.”
Rachel looked away.
“Listen.” Ceinwen waited until Rachel’s gaze met hers. “Could all that’s happening to you now-–the nightmares, the trance or whatever it was–-be connected with the strange occurrence in Idaho?”
“No.” Her lips pressed together. “It can’t be.”
“What is it, then?”
“It must be what I said. I’m homesick. Maybe I do need to go home for a short while,” she murmured.
“Home to Idaho?”
“Yes.”
Ceinwen hadn’t expected that. The thought of joining Rachel and visiting the area where so many strange things supposedly happened was beyond exciting. Of course, the possibility was strong that the whole disappearance story was nothing more than a murderous rampage, or even a hoax—but finally, she’d learn the truth. Maybe there was even a book in it. She didn’t doubt her ability, once there, to find out what really happened to all those people. “Look, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go with you. I love to travel and I enjoy your company. What if you pass out while you’re traveling? No one will understand. It’d be good to have a friend with you.”
Rachel shook her head. “I’m sure I was dehydrated like the doctors said. Nothing more than that. Besides, it’s expensive and I don’t have the money to pay you back.”
“I wouldn’t let you. I can afford it, and I love new places, new experiences. Besides, I’ve never been to Idaho, or any place remotely like the American West. I’d like to come along.”
“There’s not much to see,” Rachel said, her mouth downturned.
Ceinwen gave her an indulgent smile. “Let me be the judge of that.”
Chapter 5
The evening before, despite being at the dinner table at eight on the dot, Michael had eaten alone. The housekeeper, Patience, had told him his father was tired, and had requested a light supper in his room. The quality of the dinner surprised Michael—filet mignon, braised asparagus, French onion soup, and a bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild to wash it down. He half expected his father to have given orders that Michael be served only bread and water.
But trying to sleep that night had been another story. He dreamed about his childhood, one filled with memories of his mother and brother.
In the dream, his mother had been just as he remembered her; the way he would always remember her. Lionel had faded in and out. He had few memories of his older brother. Ten years' difference in age was a lifetime to a young boy, and both boys had spent most of those years at different boarding schools. As adults, they were never close. But as the dream continued, it changed. He watched his mother and Lionel die and decay into horrible, malformed creatures that reached out to him, wanting him to join them.
He had forced himself awake, but once awake, felt he wasn’t alone in the room. Ghosts walked the halls of this house. He had believed that as a boy and continued to do so now. Ghosts, or something worse.
He switched on the lamp. He was in his old bedroom. It should have been a typical teenage boy’s room filled with posters and books, stereo equipment, and sports paraphernalia, but it had none of that. Instead, it had a single bed with a high wooden headboard, a dark wooden desk with an ancient computer and printer, and three bookcases filled with scholarly tomes as well as several science fiction and historical fiction novels. More than any person, those books had been his friends as he grew up.
Perhaps being in the room he had used as a child had caused the strange dream. Despite his rationalizations, a couple of hours passed before he could sleep again.
That morning, more than ever, he wanted the answers that he had come here to obtain. Then, he planned to leave Wintersgate and never return.
In the breakfast room, a sideboard held a choice of breads, eggs, sausage, and fresh fruit, along with coffee, tea, and orange juice. After the meal, he took the stairs two at a time up to the laboratory where, in the past, his father could always be found.
He knocked, but received no answer. To his surprise, the door was locked.
His father’s bedroom and study were also empty, as was the patio. Finally he went into the kitchen to talk to the cook. Patience told him Stedman had driven William Claude to town in the Bentley. She had no idea when they would return.
Michael walked down to the beach, and after a brief hike, headed back to the house. As William Claude had not yet returned, he went into the library. The room had been out of bounds for Michael until he was of college age and William Claude no longer feared his “grimy, sticky, little boy hands” touching the books. Of course, once in college, Michael had no time or interest to go through his father’s library.
The light in the room was poor, and the shelves high. He had just begun to pour over a section with a number of very old tomes about the Reformation when he heard a book fall to the hardwood floor with a distinctive “thwack.”
A thin book lay on the floor across the room. He went over and picked it up to find it had the strange name, Kwaidan, written by an author with an equally strange name, Lafcadio Hearn.
Something about them, however, resonated with Michael. Not until he flipped through the book to see it was a collection of Japanese ghost stories did he remember what it was. Several of the stories had been made into an art-house movie years earlier. In college, Michael had watched it on video with a few of his fellow students and discussed it deep into the night over beer – probably the best way to talk about ghost stories. Michael smiled from the memory as he flipped through the book’s pages.
Near the end of the book was a piece of linen paper. Michael took it out. The ink had faded, but the old-fashioned script was neatly written and still legible:
* * *
In the world of sleep, all the dead people we loved meet us again; the father recovers his long-buried child, the husband his lost wife, separated lovers find the union that was impossible in this world, those whom we lost sight of in early years—dead sisters, brothers, friends—all come back to us as loving, and as young, and perhaps even more beautiful than they could really have been. In the world of sleep, there is no growing old; there is immortality, there is everlasting youth.
* * *
The passage was startling, almost as if whoever wrote it had known about his dream—or about the part of it he had enjoyed before it turned into a nightmare.
No one had signed the passage, and there was no other indication as to who had written it. Michael noticed several books by Lafcadio Hearn on the shelf, including an empty space were Kwaidan must have sat. He wondered why it fell, but this was an old house that probably creaked and shifted and settled over the years. His footsteps alone might have caused it to topple over. He was about to put it back on the shelf when he noticed a small bundle of papers there written by the same hand as the note he’d just read. Included were letters that had been signed, “Lafcadio.”
Down the hall, he heard the front door open and shut. William Claude had returned. Michael left the papers but took Kwaidan with him to the breakfast room. William Claude sat near the windows.
“Did you have an interesting time out?” Michael asked.
“A doctor’s visit. I’m not ready to push up the grass yet, boy, so don’t get your hopes up.”
Michael held his tongue, then glanced down at the book in his hands. “I saw your collection of Lafcadio Hearn writings. I didn’t think Japan interested you.”
“It doesn’t. All those books were here when I inherited the house. I’m surprised you’ve heard of him.”
“I've heard little except that he’s one of the first Westerners with real literary skill
to write about life in Japan.”
“Sit down, Michael. I’m getting a crick in my neck trying to talk to you.” William Claude rang for Stedman to bring them some whiskey and soda, then eased back in his chair, legs crossed, as he put tobacco in his pipe. “Actually, Hearn might interest you, him being a devotee of the Japanese occult and alchemy.”
“Alchemy? That’s hard to believe.” Michael sat as William Claude took two more puffs on the pipe.
“He was an interesting man, son of an Army surgeon for the British, and a saucy Greek woman. Apparently, when his father was reassigned away from Greece, his mother moved to Dublin to live with her in-laws.” He took another puff. “The Hearns were elevated in Ireland’s Protestant society, and when the colorful Greek Orthodox woman showed up with three unruly children, to say she was unwelcome was putting it mildly.” William Claude chuckled at the image.
“I can imagine,” Michael said.
“She soon returned to Greece alone. Lafcadio never saw her again.”
“She abandoned him?” Michael asked, surprised a mother would do that.
“She did. And after his father married a woman more socially acceptable, he also paid no more attention to his half-Greek offspring. Relatives doled out the children, and the aunt who was ‘stuck’ with Lafcadio soon shipped him off to boarding school. He was always small and shy, and after losing an eye playing sports he was sure he looked ugly, and that people were hell-bent for an excuse to abandon him as his mother, father, and aunt had done.”
His father stopped speaking as Stedman brought in their drinks, giving Michael a moment to reflect on Hearn’s childhood. He understood it. He had rarely spent time with other children when he lived at Wintersgate, so when he was sent to boarding school he had no idea how to fit in. After his mother died, he felt rudderless, and his sense of loneliness grew worse. A couple of times he had “acted out” in school. The first time William Claude went to the school to handle it. The second time, it was Stedman.
