by David Ward
“She’s pretty,” Yeats said.
“Yes,” his father murmured. “I never noticed. We were too busy having adventures. Her mother was Persian.” Yeats nodded and continued to look at the photograph. The girl had dusky skin and sculpted eyebrows. Her hands, resting on her lap, were both delicate and clever.
“And she was well named,” Gran added. “Just like Shaharazad she lived with tragedy around her. And yet she hunted for ways to help the family through troubled times. A Persian princess.” She sighed. “She was entranced by the story of the Arabian Nights. She so wanted to turn a sad story into a happy one.”
William unclenched his fists. “Shari and I became good friends. This house and the land around it were our playground. The creek, the woods …”
“The library,” Gran interrupted.
“Everywhere,” William hurried on. “Shari was wild—adventurous isn’t even the right word—fearless is better. She wanted to save the world. She combed these woods looking for things to save. We rescued a kitten from a rotten tree, mice that had lost their mother, anything that breathed and needed saving.” He suddenly stopped speaking and loosened his shirt collar. He removed a necklace crafted of worn leather. Two objects hung in the middle: a clear marble with a hole through its middle and a tiny silver bell. It gave a faint tinkle as he laid it in Yeats’s hand.
For as long as he could remember, his father had worn the necklace regardless of whether he was dressed formally or casually. When Yeats was a toddler he would play with the necklace until asked to give it back. It was always a treat to be allowed to hold it.
His father pressed the marble and bell into Yeats’s hand. For the briefest moment, the other people in the room faded. His father spoke with clarity and certainty.
“There,” he said. “That’s better. I believe with all my heart that you will be safer with that in your possession. Don’t lose it.”
“I won’t,” Yeats answered. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Well, that’s a first,” said Faith. “That’s been your good-luck charm for as long we’ve been married. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“I remember the bell,” said Gran. “It was Shari’s.”
Yeats slipped the necklace around his neck. The marble was cool against his skin. He felt a little embarrassed by all the attention.
“Yes, it was,” his father murmured. The thought returned him to the story. “One day, Shari and I were in the back room. Mum—your gran—was out. We were reading some of the books in the library. …”
“One of the books,” Gran corrected.
“One of the books—the Arabian Nights. There were several versions in the library and Shari insisted that we read them all. Something strange happened then, although what it was, I don’t exactly remember.”
“What do you mean?” Yeats asked.
His father stood up. “Have you got any beer, Mum?”
“No.”
“Wine?”
“There’s a flask of Scotch on the second shelf to your left. I keep it for Mr. Sutcliff’s nightcaps. Don’t spill, please. Odysseus likes it too.”
Yeats toyed with the necklace at his throat. He had never seen his father drink before. His mother said nothing but was clearly agitated. One more nail in the coffin, Yeats thought. He had to do something, but he was trapped in this room.
William sat down again, this time with a shot glass. He shuddered as he drained the golden liquid. “Shari was taken away,” he gasped.
“While reading Collfield’s unexpurgated version of the Arabian Nights,” Gran interrupted. “Why do you keep avoiding the facts?”
William’s eyes had glazed over. “They took Shari.” He looked at his son. “It nearly brought me over the edge. I can hardly remember anything. It sent Mr. Sutcliff mad.”
Gran swirled her tea wrathfully. “He’s not mad. That’s the easy way out. This was not an everyday occurrence! Her abductors came from a special place. You know what I mean.”
William stammered, “I had to return, Yeats, to see where it all happened, for the hope of closure.”
There was a long pause.
Faith’s frown turned into an astonished “oh.” “You’ve always said this story was a dream. I assumed what really happened was buried underneath your grief. What are you trying to say, William?”
Gran fidgeted. “That’s all, William? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“For now.”
“May I add to it?”
“Not yet, Mum. Please, we haven’t been here an hour.”
Odysseus stretched luxuriously.
“Do you think, William,” Gran said, and peered at him sagely, “that more time will ease the facts? While time may be a healer, inaction most definitely is not. Your story leaves unsatisfying, gaping holes.”
William turned to Yeats, and father and son regarded each other.
“I don’t need to know,” Yeats assured him, “unless it helps.”
“I’ll start by talking to Mr. Sutcliff,” his father said. “That’s as good a place as any.”
Gran raised her eyebrows. “Everything starts with a story, my boy. Even poems. I thought you could start at the beginning.”
“That’s why I’ll go to Mr. Sutcliff, Mum.”
Gran shook her head. “You and a missing girl are the beginning. I’ve lived my life without knowing the secrets of this house. At least, not all of them. We must start with what you can remember. And that may take some digging!”
“What secrets?” Yeats asked. His skin prickled.
Patting the wall, Gran said, “This home has an extraordinary history, my boy.”
“Don’t, Mum,” William pleaded.
“Why not? It is Yeats’s history too. Besides, I promised him two stories. And now, for the second tale, and one that is closer to his heart than he knows.” She ran her finger lovingly along the oak window ledge. “Your great-great-grandfather Philip Walter Trafford was a collector of sorts. His antiques were rather unusual.”
“How?” Yeats asked.
“Well, they were …” She waved her hand, fishing for the right word. “Ancient. Connected to literature in some way and …”
“Yes?” Yeats encouraged.
Gran leaned forward. “Magical.”
Yeats raised his eyebrows.
His mother snorted. “If it wasn’t so absurd I might be amused. Doesn’t sound very scientific.”
“And so you have been brought up to believe,” Gran said. “Science is so limiting when it is the only lens you use.” Before Faith could reply, Gran added, “Grandpa Trafford did not share your faith in science. Oh, he loved chemistry and the apothecary arts to be sure. But he also understood their source.”
“What do you mean?” said Yeats after an uncomfortable silence.
“Good!” Gran tapped Yeats’s hand. “That is proper science. Clarify the terms so that we can understand one another better. Magic is what we are talking about. Not the silly kind found at a country fair with tricks and gimmicks. No—your great-great-grandfather was interested in something deeper. Something so grand the ancients could only express it through anthropomorphism, gods and goddesses, through Muses and inspiration.”
Gran indicated the room with the closed door. “There are some very old books in the library, from a time when people did not rely on science as they do these days.” She nodded knowingly. “Grandfather Trafford loved the great books of literature. He said they were the best reminders of the first and greatest act of inspiration.”
“And what was that?” asked Yeats.
Gran raised her eyebrow. “Creation.”
Yeats looked from one adult to another. His father’s face was drawn tightly, not with skepticism but with concern. His mother looked at the floor, smirking. Gran stared back at him unblinkingly.
“Oh,” said Yeats.
Gran continued. “Your great-great-grandfather collected as many of the greatest works as he could. Paintings, sculptures, antiques of all kinds, even
a pair of bookends made by a Dutch sculptor.”
“Bookends,” William repeated. “I remember those.”
“Mr. Sutcliff believes the bookends are the key,” Gran said. “Which is why I mentioned them.”
Yeats gaped at his father, then at Gran. His mother spoke for him.
“You’re not serious? I know the house is weird, but please!” She appealed to William. “You said that you and Shari had wild imaginations, that perhaps …” She checked herself when she saw her son’s face. “Yeats? Would you go outside for a few minutes? Apparently I’ve been excluded from some important conversations.” She glared at his father. “I want some clarity before we go any further. Perhaps Yeats could take Odysseus for a stroll?”
Yeats looked at his father, who nodded. Gran frowned but lifted her arms to allow Odysseus to jump down from her lap.
“Don’t touch anything,” Faith warned.
“Touch whatever you want,” Gran countered.
“The house isn’t safe, Mum,” William said.
“Life isn’t safe, William.”
As he made for the door, his father suddenly grabbed his wrist. A line of sweat trickled down his face. “Don’t take off that necklace, Yeats! It’s important. Promise me!”
“I won’t, Dad. I promise. And promise me you won’t drink anymore when you’re upset.”
His father squeezed his eyes shut. “Never again, son. You have my word. Tastes awful anyway.” They shared a rare, brief smile.
Before the door closed behind him he heard his mother say, “You’re scaring him, both of you! I’ve had enough of all this.”
Yeats bit his nails as he plodded into the garden. The weekend could hardly be going worse. And now, banished outside, he couldn’t even be a referee between his mother and father. He longed to be home, or anywhere else. But there was no getting away. His father’s depression would come and go like clouds extinguishing the sun, following their family forever. The endless counseling sessions had not worked. The antidepressant drugs had failed. His mother and father were in the worst fight of his life. His mother was at her wit’s end. And how could he blame her after what he had just heard?
Magic? Yeats sat heavily on a garden stone and covered his face. His heart thumped. His worst fears rose up like ghastly shadows and darkened his thoughts. His family would break apart for sure now. He could still hear his mother’s skeptical voice.
His heart skipped again as another fear rushed over him. What Yeats had always believed was that his father suffered from a treatable depression. Now he saw it as something far deeper: his father was losing his mind. It was obvious. He acted childlike around Gran. He broke out in a sweat at the mere mention of Shari. Like old Mr. Sutcliff, his father was overwhelmed by tragedy and was slowly falling from reason. How long before he stopped cutting his hair and rang a bell for his tea? What would they do if his father lost his job at the university? Where would they go? Would he and his mother leave to let his father wallow in madness?
A tear squeezed out. It wasn’t fair! Things were going well. Their house was in the middle of the street surrounded by kids his age and his school only a short distance away. Why did this have to happen now?
Yeats rubbed his eyes as a last specter loomed. Perhaps insanity ran in the family! His father, and now he learned his great-great-grandfather, were both completely loopy. Maybe it was only a matter of time before Yeats went mad as well. He saw his father’s face again, white and sweating.
And then his mother’s words echoed in his memory. Your father is brilliant, Yeats. Don’t let his gloomy clouds fool you. You have a right to be proud. I married an intelligent, kind, and handsome man. And our son is too. She had not said anything like that for a long time.
Taking a breath, he looked around. He needed something to focus on, something to break up the adult banter and worrisome thoughts in his head. Gran’s garden spread out in front of him.
Gran. What a character. And, yet, there was something comforting about her too. It felt good to have her hands on his shoulders. How could someone so strong, so clear, be caught up in a conversation about magic?
He glanced over the yard to where the fountain gaped open. With nothing better to do he made for it via an overgrown trail. Vines and mysterious shrubs spilled their dew on his jeans as he passed. Burrs scratched his T-shirt and he had to leap over a wicked little thorny bush.
He nearly banged into an old well but caught himself at the last moment. He put his hands on either side of the opening and peered into the darkness of the hole. The air rising from the deep was cool and damp. “Gran’s old wishing well,” he murmured, and the words echoed quietly back to him.
The mouth of the well looked rather grubby, with mottled lichens covering the inside as far as he could see. Despite his somber mood he grinned, for he realized his father might have stared down the same hole some twenty years before.
And then his frown returned. His father had said that his wish had not been granted. What did he mean? Was he alone at the time or was the girl with him? His frown deepened. Perhaps his father had wished for the girl to come back. Yeats leaned a little deeper into the well mouth. If that was the case, then the well was truly broken.
“I wish I knew what was going on,” he added, more loudly than he had intended.
The moment his words were out he felt a tremor in his fingers, a ripple that stemmed from the cool stone and rattled up through his elbows. He felt the stones shake beneath his feet. From deep below came an ominous moan. His eyes widened, but he didn’t let go of the fountain.
The moaning grew louder. Yeats caught his breath when he heard a voice. It sounded like a boy.
Yeats tightened his grip. “Stay calm. It must be my echo,” he assured himself. But the tone was different. It didn’t sound exactly like his. And there was desperation in the voice. He could have sworn he heard someone say, “I wish! I wish!”
“Is anyone down there?” he asked experimentally. When there was no answer he took a deep breath. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think through the moans and trembling stones. He had said the words I wish, hadn’t he? Perhaps the length or depth of the well tunnel could change the echo so that it sounded like someone else.
And then an idea popped into his head. It was a memory of standing at the state capitol fountain. His mother had said, “Make a wish, Yeats!” He remembered throwing something into the water.
Yeats let go of the well and dug into his pocket. He pulled out a penny. He held the coin briefly above the opening and then dropped it into the darkness. There was no splash or even so much as a tinkle. But the moan died instantly. The stones stopped shaking. There was complete silence for a moment. A crow cried raucously from a nearby tree.
“Weird,” he murmured.
And then it happened. There was a muffled boom from below. Suddenly the ground began to shake so violently that Yeats was flung across the yawning mouth. His cheek scrunched against the stone. He fought blindly for a grip. His stomach dipped into the emptiness.
There was a succession of tiny low sounds and he felt pressure against his chest. Something was coming up the well. A second later the wind struck. It hit him like a gale, ripped his hands free, and blasted him into the bushes.
Dazed, he stared back at the well. From the wind a voice cried out, “I wish, I wish!” echoing a thousand times over. Tree branches blew straight up and leaves and twigs hurtled skyward in the volcanic debris.
Several of the stone slabs on the well mouth shook loose from their mortar and fell with a crash into the depths. The noise and wind stopped as suddenly as it had begun. A moment later the ground stopped shaking. Yeats stood slowly. The garden was quiet again, although, he noted, there were no birds chirping. Not after such a blast.
“Wow,” he murmured softly. He stepped cautiously to the well and touched the cold stone with a quaking finger. Nothing happened. The well itself was now completely broken. It had gaping holes in the sides and the mouth was clogged with debris
.
He was about to peer more closely when a sound caused him to turn his head toward the fountain. Only steps away, one of the tiles on the ground rocked on its edge, the scrape of stone on stone unmistakable in the silent garden. Then the movement stopped.
Yeats knelt and glanced around, wondering if Odysseus kept any feline company. But the cat was nowhere in sight. And no wonder. After the well’s volcanic eruption he wouldn’t wonder if Odysseus was attached to some tree trunk. “The well must have done this,” he said. “Shaking up the ground and breaking the tiles with all its rumbling. I wonder if there is volcanic activity in the area?” The thought was somehow comforting in comparison to any mysterious alternatives. He sighed. It was just an earthquake. He glanced toward the house. Mom and Dad! They must have felt the earthquake too.
When no one rushed from the house, Yeats turned back to the tile. His hands were shaking. “Get a grip, Yeats,” he scolded himself. “There’s a simple explanation.”
He gave the leaning tile a poke with his finger. Then he turned to the fountain. Some of it was blocked from view by vines and moss. The vegetation tore away easily after a few good tugs. He could see a basin now, and part of a pedestal. When a larger patch of moss broke free in his hands he suddenly came face-to-face with a gargoyle.
He fell backward, nearly landing on the broken tile. The leering face of the gargoyle was alarmingly close. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was only stone.
There was some writing cut into the smooth plane of the lip of the hideous face. The script was Gothic—hardly readable—and it trailed from one end of the creature’s mouth to the other.
“‘Come away, O human child,’” Yeats read. He scrambled to his knees. Scrubbing at the tree- and dirt-stained words with his sleeve, he uncovered more. “‘To the waters and the wild. With a faery, hand in hand. For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.’”
The scraping sound started up again, and Yeats turned quickly. He could see the broken tile better now and stretched out his hand to lift it. At the last second he retreated.
Can you, Yeats? Dare you, I wonder? Mr. Sutcliff’s words echoed. Peering over the brush, Yeats saw Odysseus sitting up. Their eyes locked.
