by Farris, John
"I cannot, sir; your motives appall me."
Langford was rabid at this impertinence. "And what do you know of my motives?"
Tesla, wearied from exposure to the overweening machine, spoke before he thought.
"The Cherokee woman said you would destroy everything. Now I think I believe in her strange clairvoyance. Your web may be harmless at this moment, though I doubt it; but a reckoning is very near. More power, gathered from the cataclysmic surge of an electrical storm, may have untold effects—distinctly unpleasant effects—on anyone within range of the web. They might dissipate in a puff of flame. Or, God forbid, suffer"—he lowered his voice—"even as I believe you have suffered, debilitating molecular changes."
When he turned from his last appraisal of the aloof machine Tesla was talking to apparently empty air—Edgar Langford had altogether disappeared. From sight. But his cranky laughter resounded in the lantern. Then the head of the walking stick appeared, thrust beyond the electromagnetic field between the chimerae. The head of the Sumerian serpent was tiny in comparison to the shapely machine, but impressive in its store of undiluted evil. Tesla quaked, and wished again he had not spoken of the woman.
"She said? I must pay a visit to this Cherokee who claims to be of Erim—who seems to know so much of my affairs. The train is waiting, Tesla. I bear you no ill will. Your fate is to be slighted and obscure, while I am reverenced by all of mankind. Farewell."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
By early afternoon the sun had passed on, leaving a trace of light like a thin radium bone as the sky piled on more sultry, funereal gray. But the air was charged, as if a storm might be in the offing. Arn, weather wise, knowledgeable when it came to changes in the atmosphere of Wildwood, was sure it wouldn't rain. Not from the way his skin prickled. Something else was suggested, more spectacular, perhaps, than a locomotive screaming hellishly out of thin air.
The Walkouts, at least those who had been around for a few years, must have sensed it, too; but they went on with their games of croquet on the broad rectangle down by the meeting house. It looked as if everybody played: something they had in common, he reckoned, besides disfigurement. Maybe they liked the game because they were reminded of the good old days. Or it might mean more to them than that. The way they went at it, croquet looked to be more of a ritual than a social event, because the Walkouts didn't just hang around jawing the day away like loafers on a whittling bench. In fact, they talked very little. If he was one of them, Arn thought—and the more he thought about it, the uneasier he became, sensing a madhouse in their seclusion, lunacy thinly under control. Arn's cousin Jewell was on the simple side, always had been, but he could make out all right as long as someone clearly explained what was expected of him and showed him how to do things. But these people, the Walkouts, most of them (he assumed) had been rich, educated, and important. Now they were quasi-beasts on this stamping ground, freakish even to one another. How many; he wondered, had climbed up to the top of the bluffs behind the town and jumped in despair? What was the cost to the survivors merely to go on surviving, what did they have to live for? Croquet and other games; rules to be taken seriously, rituals to observe. The ablest minds concerned with trajectories, lines of force, winning and losing. Could be it came down to just that: win or lose, against whatever nemesis happened your way. His own experience told him something. Momentarily idled on a battlefield, sunk in mire and nearly subhuman from exhaustion, the emotional toll of bloodletting, he would aim and re-aim his rifle, totally concentrated, thinking of nothing but sightlines and windage and the perfect, fatal shot. His version of croquet.
Along with the cracking-together of hardwood balls he heard someone walking up the path to his hut. Am felt seriously cast down when he glimpsed the thickset curlecue horns of the goatman brushing aside dark boughs of balsam. Maybe they had decided hanging was too good for him and were handing him over to the goatman to be drawn and quartered with the slick hand ax. Then he recognized Terry Bowers trailing after the nigger, and Terry had Bocephus, panting and scrabbling, on a short leash. Arn broke into a smile and got up a little stiffly.
"Hey, Terry! What you doin' here, son?"
Terry looked shocked to see the noose around Arn's neck. He wet his lips and glanced at the goatman.
"They said I could come talk to you."
Bo was whining ecstatically, standing up to pound Am on the chest with his muddy front paws.
"Easy, Bo! Get down. Terry, make yourself at home, such as it is."
The goatman leaned against a tree nearby, his arms folded, yellow eyes on them. Arn wondered if he had a goat-sized brain to go with his homed head. As far as he knew, Josie Raftery did the thinking for the two of them.
The sky took on a midnight look of lightning, or voiceless gunfire; treetops turned a more flagrant green, like shining combers of the sea before a hurricane. But the air was stifling, and didn't move. Only the light moved, flickering through the caves of cloud. Arn sat down again, trying to keep his back to the goatman. It put quite a strain on his already raw neck. He could better appreciate just how much that little butterfly girl had been willing to put up with in order to ensure he would not escape her trap. The girl had sand; he admired her almost as much as he admired his own wife. Whom he probably wouldn't be seeing again. But then, he hadn't anticipated seeing any friendly face, and here was Terry looking him in the eye while he rubbed Bocephus behind his ears. Plain mother luck: although Terry might not have the run of the place without an escort, he certainly wasn't tied down, which could prove to be useful.
"Reckon you wonder how I got myself into this predicament."
"I already know," Terry said. "Josie told me."
"Josie, huh? And where did you meet up with our little flygirl?"
Last night, a few miles from here. I'm not sure just where I was. I came with Faren."
That raised Arn's pulse. "When was the last time you saw Faren? These Walkouts, they've talked her into somethin', could be dangerous for her."
Terry did his best to describe the sequence of events that had taken place at the brink of the quarry; Arn listened to a description of the serpent's head in the clouds and the Well of Sorrow without apparent skepticism. The serpent reminded Terry of what had happened in the parking lot of the Church of God, and he told Arn about that too.
"That's a hell of a tale," Arn said carefully when Terry was finished.
Terry, not looking at Arn anymore, scuffed in the dirt with the heel of his boot.
"I wasn't dreaming. And I'm not lying."
"Never figured you for a liar. Seen a few things myself in these woods that would qualify me for a straitjacket if I let on to anybody. All that counts is, Faren's missin', and I—we got to find her and help her out. You agree?"
Terry nodded.
"But I'm not goin' nowhere trussed up thisaway."
Terry raised his head. "Dad's missing too. Josie went to see if she could locate him, but she hasn't come back yet."
"Forget about Josie," Arn said in a harsh low tone, hoping the goatman wouldn't overhear. "I'm dependin' on you, Terry, to get me out of this noose. Right now I don't have another friend in the world. It's just you and me, son—against all of them."
Terry looked anxious. "I can't—"
"That's okay; I know you're watched close now. But you're a smart boy, you'll find an opportunity to slip away, come back with a knife or ax I can use."
Firelight in the clouds accentuated silence, except for the tock, tock of maple balls emulating pendulums, gaunt clocks of the weather that measured erratic seconds, the untimed distortion of all their lives.
"Josie showed me where you cut her," Terry said to Arn. "Why did you do that?"
Josie again; what was wrong with this boy, was he hypnotized by her pretty wings? Or maybe it was her pretty red pussy that had got to him. Arn smiled culpably.
"I played a little rough with her; and you can see where she nailed me in the head with that rock. I might never get the normal sig
ht of my eye back. I'll call it evens with little Josie. But she ain't the reason they got this noose around my neck. In '38, when I wasn't much more than a kid, I hunted one of the Walkouts down. He had the wings of a hawk. I shot him out of the sky."
"What for?" Terry said, horrified,
"Terry, I'd never seen nothin' like that hawk boy, and—well—I just didn't have good sense at the time. If I had it to do over, I wouldn't shoot, but they ain't in no mood to accept apologies. It's blood for blood where these Walkouts are concerned. And Terry"—Arn risked cutting off the oxygen to his brain, leaning closer to whisper—"don't get to thinkin' you're in a better spot than me."
"I haven't done anything to them," Terry said, not as sure of himself as he tried to sound.
"You know about them. And you know where their town is." Arn paused, looking into Terry's eyes until he saw a swarming of doubt, then concluded, "That could be your death sentence too."
Taharqa had come up silently behind them, but Arn smelled him even before Bocephus got his back up. Terry looked past Arn, then rose stiffly, a hand on Bo's leash. Light hunted in the clouds, like a pack of ghost hounds, a fox of fear.
"I need to go now."
"That's okay," Arn said hoarsely. "You think it over, Terry. I know you've got plenty of savvy for your age, and you'll do what's right. For both of us. By the way. The last time I saw your old man, he was in good shape. Little bump on his noggin. Hell, him and me went through a war. I know he can take care of himself. And what I always admired about him, he took care of his men first."
Terry seemed to get the message; at least Arn thought he saw the boy give a little nod as he walked away, tugging at the reluctant and whimpering hound, who turned despondent eyes on his master.
Arn crept in the direction of the hut to give himself slack rope, and breathed easier.
It wasn't quite as good as having a knife in his hands, Arn thought. But at least he had something to hope for now: that young Terry was half as resourceful as Whitman Bowers, a Medal of Honor nominee, had been in wartime.
There was a different mood in the clouds, bristling circlets of orange fire steadier than lightning, rings within rings. And the Walkouts played on without comment, tock-tock. Am felt soft in the head, puzzled, morose. Something big coming 'round this time for sure. Unless Faren figured out a way to stop it, if she'd managed to fetch up all of a piece, wherever that damned serpent had dropped her off in time.
Faren and snakes: she could never bring herself to kill one, even the streaking black racers that frequently found their way into the chicken yard.
There'd always be something about her he would never get to know, never be a part of. Maybe that was one reason the marriage had worked out, although admittedly he'd done a lot less than his share. Like the elements she surrounded him, sometimes cool, sometimes blazing; she preyed enticingly on his mind like the thin moon of severest night.
Well, if they all lived through this—
But he didn't want to dwell on it. Just bide his time, try to stay alert. First things first.
"Terry," Josie said, "would you mind bringing the lamp closer?"
He put down the wood whistle, cut from a spring-green elm branch, that he'd been softly amusing himself with. The kerosene lamp stood on a cedar stump table that had been shellacked to a high gloss by Taharqa. He carried it near the curious bed, part hammock, part saddle, where she reclined. Suspended like a swing from the roof beam, the bed was furnished with many small cushions fluffed with tiny bird feathers. Josie had passed through the torture of a megrim, but she still lay pale from exhaustion, and madder-eyed.
"Not too close," she cautioned. "You might singe me."
With great effort she lifted the wings drooping on either side of the hammock.
"Will you look for me? It's a poor state I'm in."
She had flown widely for most of the day, in search of his father. Had returned too drained of energy to feed or bathe herself.
"What am I looking for?"
"Wear and tear," Josie told him. "Me wings can't last forever, I'm saying."
It was a new thought, and a shock to Terry; Josie without her wings? He looked carefully at them, holding the lamp high and low. She watched him.
"What do you see? You saw something. Out with it."
He had discovered a small hole, like a cigarette burn in fabric. But he turned away with the lamp and said casually, "No, they're okay."
Josie sighed, dark eyelids closing. "Praise all the saints."
"Don't you want something to eat now?"
"No. But I'll trouble you for another drink of the honeyed tea. I need sugar in me blood. Too little sugar and I commence to shaking in an anguished fit. Once I frayed a wing as I was tossing about."
There was a pottery jar of dark yellow tea on the table. He replaced the lamp and took the jar to Josie. She raised her head and he supported her with one hand, holding the jar so she could sip the sweet drink.
"Aye. That's much better. Me headache's almost gone. And is it clammy to your touch I'm feeling?"
"No." He continued to hold her in the crook of his arm. "You didn't have to wear yourself out like this."
"Many a day it's not such hard going. But today the air was heavy, fiercely charged. Not twenty-four hours by there was a crossover: the birdcage."
"The what?"
Josie described the aviary, and its origins, to him.
"Today I saw fine feathers, lovely birds of the tropics that put me to shame."
"Drink more tea," he urged her, noticing a tremor.
She smiled gratefully, eyes on his face. Tired and troubled eyes, but showing less red than before. She had a few sips from the jar.
"We will all perish, of course. The sky-blue cockatiels. The snowy egret. The blushing flamingo. And Josie, the butterfly girl."
"Don't say that!"
"But better off she is than Josie the little seamstress could ever have hoped to be. We sewed day and night, until our fingers dripped blood, to the very hour the Revels were beginning. When me work was done I went out for a bit of air, beneath a sky I shall never forget. There was nothing familiar of heaven, nor stars in their saintly distance. All was fire-slaught and hideous, rainy hues of blood in boiling cloud. But no comets fell to earth they merely grazed us, shooting into the radiance of the lantern."
"What lantern?"
Josie frowned, concentrating, wanting to describe it precisely.
"It was a cupola of sorts, but vaster, and all of glass. The dome could be opened. The lantern was at the very top and center of the chateau. None of us were told what it contained; no one dared to trespass. There was said to be a machine inside, spun entirely from silver wire fine as the webs of spiders. This machine made no sound, but it shed a fabulous light—in the black of night outdoors all green and human things glistered like corpses in sea-wrack. When I looked at the tips of me poor worn-out fingers silver light was twirling there, forming into clusters brilliant as olden treasure. I could not account for it—thought I must be hallucinating surely, so destroyed was I from me labors. I had finished the costume some woman of great worth would be wearing that same night. I sewed a thousand spangles on silken wings. I only wished to know the luxury, to have them on for a minute or two, and dream of handsome men who would quarrel over a dance with me. These wings sat lightly on me shoulders then, as they were meant to do."
"What happened? Your wings aren't silk, they're real."
"I cannot explain the sorcery of it; nor can any who were worse afflicted than meself."
She closed her eyes again, and began to breathe deeply. Terry decided she was, sleeping, but when he removed his arm gently and got up to return the jar of tea and honey to the table, Josie spoke to him.
"I don't wish to fall asleep yet. Meanwhile, if you would sit next to me, it's easier I'll be. I've missed having someone close to me own age to talk to. But I know I'll not be having you for very long."
Terry came silently back to sit on the rush-matted fl
oor of the hut beside the suspended bed. He ran a finger over the leading edge of a fallen wing, and found it rough.
"I know; they are fraying faster. Next may come a lengthy tear, and then—" She returned to the theme that haunted her. "The life of a butterfly, so I have read, is but little more than a week. It's borrowed time I'm living on."
"Josie—"
She shifted her weight on the bed, facing him. "Lay your head against me breast. There's a comfort."
He did, and was aware of the flighty beating of her heart, the dampish fragrance of strawberry hair, a timid nipple, a charge in her body.
"I'm wanting pity like a cat wants the mange. Just saying what is true: for we must all pass on in old God's time. I do have more than a groundling's death to think about, Terry. Because if Mr. Travers and the Jewman are correct in their calculations, us Walkouts may have the opportunity to retarn."
"Back to the chateau? But—it's not there."
"Oh, yes 'tis. Exactly as we left it. Now, that again is sorcery, but twice at the ending of summer, when I had the desire to up and fly by the light of the full moon, I saw it meself surely, from afar—because no bird nor butterfly nor dumb beast of the wood may pass over that perch of mountain where the chateau stands. D'you follow me, Terry?"
"I don't know how you could see it if I can't."
"Maybe you will, and soon. Providence and Mary, and didn't you see for yourself a divilish serpent come down from clouds, bolts of lightning crackling from its supernatural eye?"
"Yes."
"Well, mister honey, on the brightest of nights, when the air is still and the light is rare and sparkling, the chateau appears in its own firmament, but heavily veiled. Faith, I heard music. I knew beyond a doubt, gliding high on wings I sewed meself, that I had been gone but a moment, and no one missed me. But I could find no way back in. The veils are purest electricity. So powerful they were, they tumbled me right away from there, head over heels in the sky."
