"Sybil Saunders." She gestured in a wide sweep of her arm. "This is her home, and her own bloodline, too, has been unbroken for more than a thousand years here in the New Forest. She is of the early Wicca."
She watched his face, waiting for whatever expression might reveal his thoughts. She saw recognition and respect.
He nodded slowly. "The ancient religion," he said. "Then it must be your mother who had you change your name to Gale Parker."
"A witch's family has its problems in today's world."
"Agreed," he acknowledged. He looked about him. "And this, the New Forest, is your home?"
"I was raised here. Except for four years, which I spent in Germany with cousins. Hard schooling, flying gliders, learning different languages. I returned when I was eighteen. To here, my true home. That of my family."
"You don't live in the woods," he said, again studying her.
"Oh?" her smile was mocking. "Then pray tell me where do I live?"
"Where you are with friends, the comforts are all about you, the food is wonderful, and you commune with nature, and"—he paused, locking his gaze with hers—"what lies beyond everyday vision of nature."
"You do not tread lightly."
"No need to," he replied easily. "I understand. I have been here before. With the Romanies—"
"They care little for outsiders," she warned.
"I said I have been with them, joined their campfires, learned their names, shared their friendship."
"Remarkable for—" Her eyes widened and she stabbed a finger at Indy. "I know you!" She corrected herself quickly with a sudden shake of her head, her bright red hair swirling like a lovely mist about her face. "I mean, I know of you! You're the professor bloke from America—" Again she shook her head as if to force belief into her mind. "You were with the giants at Stonehenge."
"Yes."
"From what I hear, you did not interfere, with your presence, I mean, with the Dance of a Hundred Years."
"You are right. I did not interfere," he said, more stiffly than he liked. "And yes, I was finally accepted."
"Then it's a handshake between us that's called for!"
They clasped hands. "I'll give you some help with that boar."
"You would share the kill with me?"
"Of course," he said. "I'd be very pleased to."
"Then we eat here," she announced. "Look about you, Indiana Jones. Darkness settles about us, a fog that would make our way through these thick bushes and the gullies and ravines almost impossible. In the dark, the gorse bushes would tear our clothes to shreds. No. We will cut what we need from the animal, build a fire, eat as people ate here a thousand, even five thousand years ago." She smiled, creating a devastating warmth in the settling gloom. "I promise a hearty and delicious meal."
He bowed in deference to ancient courtesy, then eased the pack from his back. "I travel prepared," he said.
"Which means?"
He placed shakers of salt and pepper on a leather sheet. "Red wine and a loaf of bread," he announced. "And if you like, some cheese."
"A feast!" she cried, clapping her hands. "Wonderful."
His hand dropped to his holster. Faster than her eyes could follow, the Webley was in his hands, hammer cocked back for instant firing.
"What would you shoot, my American friend?"
"I heard something moving in those bushes." He pointed. "If it's the mate to this boar, we could be hurt badly before we have time to react."
"Thank you," she said with deceptive calm. "There is no need. What you heard, the bushes rustling, no doubt were noises made by those who will share our kill."
"Who?"
Her laugh was the tinkling of silver bells. "Why, the people of the forest night, of course. We have always shared with them. Put away your weapon. They are friends. And what you heard was the carving of the boar. The finest meat will be left for us."
"The people of the forest night?" he repeated, his study of her expression piercing. "Would they also be known as the little people?"
"Perhaps."
"You're being something of a pixie yourself, Gale Parker."
"Would you start the fire, please? You ask so many questions!"
No food tasted better, the flavor of the boar heightened by the seasonings and wine he always carried on such treks. When they were done, she gathered ferns and moss. "We will sleep here tonight. Soon you will be unable to keep your eyes open, my new friend, and you will sleep deeply, indeed."
"What makes you so sure?" he asked, yawning. He was sleepy.
"The spell, of course."
He could barely keep his eyes open. "Spell?"
"You are accepted. We have nothing to fear. The little people will tend to our safety."
"That's ridicu..."
Indy had awoken in a sea of drifting golden mist. He blinked, trying to remember where he was. Soft moss had been his pillow. He sat up slowly and saw the gold from the rising sun streaming through the trees. Gale sat against a rock, studying him. She smiled; all the good morning he could ever ask for.
They had worked their way through the New Forest to a picturesque little village, seemingly untouched by modern civilization. Everyone seemed to know Gale, nodding or waving to her. She led Indy to a bakery shop where they shared steaming biscuits and mugs of coffee.
In the days that followed, he became ever more impressed with this young woman. Behind the stalker of wild game in the forest lay a swift mind and an extraordinary spectrum of abilities. She was an expert geologist. She knew the name, history, and properties of every plant, bush, and tree they saw. She laughed at his surprise. "When you grow up in this forest, you learn all these things at an early age. It becomes second nature. You learn to live off the land, and if you are kind to the forest, it is kind to you."
"That include the little people?" he asked, half in jest.
She peered slyly at him. "It does."
"What do you call them?" he pressed.
"Oh, the world has its own names," she said airily. "Elves, faeries, gnomes, wee folk—"
"You haven't mentioned troglodytes."
"Ah, those are supposed to be the evil ones." She smiled. "The nasty denizens of the dark woods."
"You don't seem to believe in such evil folk?"
"I've never met any."
That had been answer enough—and all he could get from her on that matter. When she talked about her mountain climbing and geological expeditions, her flying, hunting—she'd even made more than sixty parachute jumps from airplanes!—he had realized how talented and rare a person was this Gale Parker.
Then he had been plunged into helping American and British military and civilian intelligence agencies on their wild pursuit of the international power group that had been amassing enormous wealth and military forces. A group that killed in cold blood, and shocked governments with their reported find deep within a South African diamond mine of a mysterious cube, reputedly thousands or even millions of years old, and marked with unknown cuneiform symbols. They offered the cube, which could possibly have unlocked secrets of an ancient alien civilization, with all the enormous ramifications of a technological leap into super-science, for no less than one billion dollars.
That was where Indy came in. Both the American and British governments sought his cooperation in attempts to decipher the mysterious, perhaps extraterrestrial, cuneiform markings. The deeper Indy went into the twisted snarls of international intrigue, power plays, and remorseless murder, the greater was his need for the speed, versatility, and firepower of a rugged machine that could fly, land, or take off from almost anywhere.
The investigation into allegedly ancient markings exploded into a constantly hazardous, life-threatening series of confrontations in which Gale was Indy's almost constant companion. When the flaming conclusion to the affair finally occurred, the two knew they were a formidable team, had complete faith in one another—and Indy was more frustrated than ever in still not being able to pilot an airplane.
&n
bsp; He drove anything with wheels, navigated over seas and oceans with great nautical skill, clambered up steep mountains—but he could not fly a plane. Every time the opportunity presented itself, something, including rather nasty people who were out to end his life, would interfere.
Now his misadventures were behind him, he and Gale were back in England, and he would use the young woman's skill as a pilot and flight instructor to win his own wings. Off to the Salisbury Plain they went. Indy rented a cottage. Gale was to teach him every possible hour, seven days a week, a nonstop cram course—which was how Indy always attacked new challenges.
Now, on his first lesson, after he had insisted that Gale fly their little trainer through the gamut of aerobatics, he had succeeded splendidly in turning green, throwing up, and then...
Then the searing flashes, the leaping flames, and smoke pouring above the treetops of St. Brendan Glen in the New Forest.
Where Gale's mother and her closest friends lived.
Gale swung the trainer over the grass field, chopped the power, and swung about in a wild approach into the wind. She landed hard, bounced, gunned the engine, and tramped rudder to turn to the far end of the field where Indy had parked his sports roadster.
When she climbed from the cockpit, Indy was startled to see tears streaking Gale's cheeks. "They're dead," she choked out. "My family... friends... dead."
"How do you know?" he asked quietly.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, wiping tears from her face with the sleeve of her flight suit. She placed her right hand over her heart.
"When something like this... happens," she said falteringly, "we feel it here. Like a knife."
She grasped his arm. "Please, Indy. Hurry."
2
Indy roared away from the Salisbury airport, tires spinning on gravel as he headed for the main road leading westward. Gale sat quietly to his left, her eyes almost vacant as she struggled against the emotional pain. Indy needed no urging to run his Bentley BG 400 to high speed. His car was a modified convertible with a powerful eight-cylinder in-line engine of 220 horsepower, and high torque that made it perfect for the winding narrow English roads. For perhaps twenty miles he drove along a paved highway; then Gale sat up straighter, pointing to a cutoff before them. "Take that turn to the right, Indy," she directed.
He eased off their speed, downshifting. The turn she indicated seemed more a country path than a road, tree branches hanging low over its surface. He started to question her, then reminded himself that she had lived in this country most of her life. He made the turn, ducking as branches whipped over their heads, and glanced in his rearview mirror.
Indy's eyes widened. The road directly behind them, the very road on which they were driving, skidding around turns, dashing up and down the sharp rises and dips, was gone! The dust clouds thrown up by the powerful car swirled back, then vanished as if sliced off neatly by a huge knife. He kept checking the rearview mirror. The amazing effect continued.
"Gale, tell me about this road," he said to his passenger.
She looked up slowly, turned to see behind them, shrugged, looked forward again. "Its not a road for everyone," she said at last.
"That makes a lot of sense." His sarcasm was obvious.
"I mean, only certain people can see the road. Normally, I doubt if you could." She pursed her lips, thinking hard. "But then again, being who and what you are, and everything you've done with the unusual, you might be able to see it."
"I see it well enough to drive on it!"
"Yes, because I'm with you. Otherwise you'd never have seen the turnoff."
"It's disappearing behind us as we drive. Like it rolls up invisibly." He glanced at her. "You know that's impossible."
"Yes. But it's a magic road."
"A magic road," he echoed in a hollow voice. What next? he wondered. A marching band of pixies blowing bagpipes?
"I mean, it's used only by the people of the forest. It's really a horse-and-cart trail."
They slammed and bounced around a rough turn. He clenched his teeth to keep from biting his tongue. "I can believe that," he grunted. "But what makes it magic?"
"Only certain people can see it. It's been like that for hundreds of years. The old legends say it was used by sorcerers and kings for protection against bandits and marauding gangs."
"That's nice," he said. "Legend. Fairy tales. But you didn't really answer me. How does it disappear behind us?"
"Oh, I see what you mean. It doesn't really disappear. It's really still there. See?"
"No."
She looked at him, shaking her head. "Indy, you should understand. Being a scientist and all that."
"Explain some more."
"Aren't there things in life we know are there but we can't see with our eyes? We don't see the air about us. Or radio waves. And there are mirages. Reflections of things from many miles away that shimmer on the ground or float in the sky. You can even take pictures of them with a camera, but they're not there. They just seem to be. The road is still behind us, but it takes special sight to see it. The light curves, or bends, around it, so someone looking at the road sees only where the curved light goes. They see trees and bushes, but"—she shrugged, holding out her hands, palms upward—"no road. Does all that make sense?"
"Strangely enough, it does."
"Really?" She looked surprised.
"Sure. Like looking at a fish under water when you're above the surface. The water bends the light, shifts its rays. The fish isn't where you see it. It's displaced, so to speak, but it's all a trick that distortion plays on the eyes."
"Like a prism?" she offered.
"You bet. I still don't understand why I can't see the road because I don't understand how you—or whoever—is bending the light."
"Oh, that's easy. It's sorcery. Magic, you know."
"I know?"
"Of all the people I know who live outside the New Forest, Indiana Jones, I do believe you're the only man I have ever met who would know. It's... it's, well"—she struggled for the words—"like when the sun turns green."
"Sunset seen through thick dust," he said quickly.
"Or when the moon eclipses the sun. The sun is still shining, but you can't see it."
"That's classroom physics," he came back at her. "Where does your magic come from? Who's the sorcerer?"
"Who sliced our dinner that night we shared the boar?"
"You said it was the little people," he answered, almost in rebuke.
"It wasn't?"
"I don't know, Gale. I never saw anyone there!"
"Then you don't know it wasn't the little people, do you?"
"Well, um, not really, but—"
For the first time since they'd begun their wild dive for the ground in the training airplane, she showed the edge of a smile. "There. I rest my case." She looked ahead. "Oh, Indy, slow down, please. We're coming to a river."
"We cross on a bridge?"
"No bridge."
"What then? A raft? Or is it shallow enough to ford our way through?"
"No raft and no one knows how deep it is."
"Maybe we'll simply levitate across," he said, irritated with the exchange.
Again a smile. "You'll see."
Indy slammed on the brakes. He didn't conceal his sudden irritation. "You're playing word games," he said. "If there's a river and it's deep and you expect me to go plunging into the water, I expect more of an answer than you've given me."
She studied him carefully. He understood what was running through that carrot head. The lethal dangers they'd faced, the times each had saved the life of the other. The trust they had for—
She seemed to read his thoughts. "You trust me, Indy?"
"Don't ask silly questions. It's my life we're talking about."
"So go ahead," she egged him on. "Shoot the rapids!"
"A Bentley isn't a kayak," he said, almost snarling at her. But he jerked the gearshift down and back, floored the accelerator, and shot ahead. They starte
d down a long slope, and through the trees he saw water ahead. The river and—
A blast of frigid air hit him with shocking effect. He felt as if he'd been thrust into a huge freezer. He glanced at Gale. Frost on her hair! Frost? Moments ago it was warm and comfortable, then suddenly...
He felt his ears, painful from the cold. His nose. Frost spread across the windshield. It was like the arctic!
There; the river. Straight ahead. No... not water. It couldn't be... but it was. In the few seconds he had had the river in sight as they rushed down the slope, the blue water had misted over and assumed the colorless sheen of ice.
The Bentley sped across ice, tires beginning to skid and slip. Just as he realized he was losing control they bounced up on the opposite bank, the tires dug in again, and he accelerated up and around a turn. By the time they completed the turn, his ears and nose were wet with melted frost and water was streaming down the windshield.
"The little people again?" he shouted above the roar of the engine and the howling wind.
"Yes!" she called back. "Just like the light that curves! They turned away the warmth of the sun!"
"That's impossible!" he shouted.
"I know!" she shouted back, laughing.
He couldn't argue with that infectious laughter, or the manner in which she accepted magic and sorcery as if they were as common as flowers and sunshine. Besides, he knew better than to mix his own battered perception with the task of whipsawing the Bentley through the horse trail. Too bad, he muttered to himself, they don't have the magic to turn this rutted mess into a decent highway.
Yet through it all he was grateful for the intrusion of fog and bent light and curving sunshine and the "little people" he couldn't see, but with whom Gale maintained a warm and friendly relationship. For these brief moments of wild driving and inexplicable magic, Gale seemed free of the terrible gloom and fear that somehow was being communicated to her.
He heard her laugh again, and then he knew there would be no more for a while. He could feel her misery. Several times he glanced at Gale and saw the lines of empathy appearing on her face. The closer they came to St. Brendan Glen, the more intense became Gale's mood. He was startled to see her flinch as though a wave of pain had shot through her body. Blood appeared at the side of her mouth; Gale had bitten down unknowingly against her own lip.
Indiana Jones and the White Witch Page 2
