He strongly doubted anyone was behind it, and he decided to look there later. Right now, the stairs in the hallway beckoned to him. As he climbed the broad steps, he noticed how worn the carpet was in the center, how bright the colors along the edge where feet seldom, if ever, trod. The banister rail was smooth and polished from years of hands gliding up it, and, possibly, young bottoms sliding surreptitiously down. He paused and looked down at the newel post at the bottom. Its top was wide and flat, perfect for landing on. A childhood memory flashed through his head of his grandmother's farm.
Childish laughter echoing through an upstairs hallway as six-year-old Rhiannon ap Owen chases her big brother, Daffyd. “I gonna getcha, Daffy,” she shrieks in delight. He, aged eight years, and already stocky, laughs as he vaults to the banister rail and slides to the ground floor. He has barely dropped to the floor when Rhee hurtles into him. She hasn't yet mastered the art of slowing her speed with her hands.
"Oooof!” The air rushes out of the boy as they tumble down in a heap.
“You two better not be sliding down that banister again!” Gramma Jones’ voice shouts from the kitchen. “I told you I'd warm your bottoms for you if you did!”
“Ma!” Evelyn's voice drifts to them.
"We just fell down, Gramma!” Daffyd yells, gesturing to Rhee to be quiet. They subside into smothered giggles and dash upstairs to repeat the game.
He smiled to himself and resumed his climb.
The stairway hugged the left wall as it rose in a straight span to the next floor. At the top was a wide area with a window that looked out over the back yard. Over the tops of the trees, he could just see the ubiquitous field of grass. The yard seemed quite spacious, with a long row of lilac bushes off to the right and a small orchard leading to the edge of the hill.
He looked around the landing. A waist-high rail ran around the stairwell, allowing him an unobstructed view of the second floor hall. There were six doors in all, most slightly ajar. He started with the half-open one closest to the top of the stairs. It led him into a large square bathroom. After the hand pump in the kitchen, he was surprised to see a flush toilet, a sink and a tub with a shower. He turned the tap on the sink, and was rewarded with a few distant clanks and rattles, but no water. A coat of dust dulled the chrome of the fixtures. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the cupboard under the sink, merely a dry sponge, and an old rag. The medicine cabinet was curiously empty.
He left the bathroom and went straight across the hall to the next door. This room proved to be someone's arts and crafts room. A treadle sewing machine stood mutely near one window, a half-stitched quilt square still caught under the needle. Shelves on the wall nearby it held bolts of material, packages of buttons, rickrack, ribbons, and lace. Whoever the seamstress or tailor had been, they had certainly been ambitious.
Near the other window stood an easel with a half-finished painting on it. It appeared to be a view of the field below from this very window. He looked at it, wondering why anyone would paint that boring scene. On a small table, close to the easel, were a palette with dried blobs of paint, a bottle of brushes standing bristles up, and another large bottle with dried pigment crusting the bottom, evidently once a container for cleaning fluid, and a paint-spattered rag.
He wondered if the painter and seamstress had been the same person, or perhaps two different sorts of artist sharing a space and a passion for creating. He imagined them working together, laughing, each urging the other to new heights, and he smiled again at his own fancy.
He saw other paintings stacked against the wall behind the open door. He went to them, and flipped through them quickly. They were all landscapes of varying kinds; mountains, seasides, cities, farms, villages, and places that could surely only exist in a fevered imagination, with purple grasses, and green skies. Someone's been having interesting nightmares, he thought.
One picture was of this house, as if seen from the crest of the hill on the other side of the road. He could even see the tire swing and the tricycle, and it gave him an odd feeling. He set them back in place, glanced quickly around once more, and went out into the hallway.
The next room was a child's bedroom. It held a small bed, a dresser, a desk with the drawer under the seat, the desktop connected by a wooden arm. He hadn't seen one like it since his earliest childhood. It even had a hole for an inkpot in one corner. A half-scribbled page lay on the desk, either gibberish or a language with which he was completely unfamiliar. On the little bed sat a handful of forlorn-looking stuffed toys, looking as though someone in a hurry had casually thrown them there. There was nothing to indicate what had happened to the inhabitants.
Meanwhile, downstairs, Seren had located a good canvas knapsack hanging on the back of the kitchen door. It would be a lot more efficient than her plastic bags for carrying supplies. She felt somewhat guilty about absconding with it, and decided she would leave a note for the homeowners, in case they ever returned. She seriously doubted it would really be a problem, but she didn't want to feel a total vandal.
What do we need? she pondered their situation. Food would be good, and a pot or pan to cook in, some utensils. What else? She tried to remember the last time she had gone camping. Blankets or sleeping bags; maybe Daffyd will find that upstairs.
You don't have to camp out, a voice in her head suggested.
“I'm not staying in a house full of dead people,” she said out loud, and jumped at the sound of her voice.
Maybe it's just an empty house. Maybe you've just seen one scary movie too many. Or written one horror novel too many! A laugh very like Vincent Price's drifted through her memory. She shuddered and then laughed. Vincent Price had always been one of her most favorite actors.
She thought the voice might have a point about her novels, though. One critic had referred to her as a ‘Stephanie King wannabe'. Seren had sent a note of apology to Stephen King. She had not wanted him to think the phrase was of her doing.
As far as moving on or staying put, she would have to talk with her new traveling companion and find out what he thought. It might not be too bad to camp out in the yard, or even the living room, but she had already decided sleeping in the beds upstairs was just too creepy for her, at least right now.
While she thought this all through, her hands had been busy moving things from the plastic bags into the sturdy knapsack. Then she folded the bags as small as possible and jammed them into the small pocket on one side of the knapsack. They would probably turn up useful for something; they almost always did.
Next, came the pantry. It was dark in there. No window let light in to spoil the food on the shelves, but there seemed to be a light in the ceiling. If she could just find the switch. Her hand fumbled up and down the wall beside the door. An unfamiliar rounded bump under her searching fingers caused her to pause. It didn't feel like the light switches at home, but she wasn't AT home, was she? She tried rolling it, pushing it up, down and side-to-side. Finally, she simply pressed it. It made a little ‘tick’ sound, and the room filled with a soft glow.
The light was like afternoon sunshine, not like any electric light Seren had ever encountered before. She almost expected to feel heat washing down over her as well, but the light source was cool. It was really rather nice, comforting somehow. She began to feel less tense.
Now she could see the whole room clearly. A counter ran around three walls. Below it, cupboard doors hid their wares behind impassive carved faces. Above the counter, shelves lined the walls. There were deep shelves along two walls, a shallower set on the last wall. The shallow ones held bottles and jars of what appeared to be an assortment of home canning. The labels were neatly printed in an alphabet, or possibly pictographs, she really couldn't be certain, of a language utterly unknown to her. This, more than anything, drove home the fact she really wasn't anywhere near home. Seren was no fool, nor was she uneducated or ignorant. These labels were in no Earth language, she was certain. The letters, or whatever they were, weren't Cyrillic, were nothing
like the Oriental languages, nor even the pothooks and swirls of Arabic languages. They were simply, utterly, alien.
She began to search the cupboards methodically.
Upstairs, Daffyd continued his own exploration. The remaining doors led to two more bedrooms and a linen closet. The two bedrooms were quite large. One had two tiers of bunks and an assortment of dressers and desks. A collection of toys and models suggested the room had been shared by at least three people of vastly varying ages or interests.
There were toy vehicles he could not identify. They might have been tiny farm equipment or they might have been military vehicles. His own childhood had been so focused on music that he'd never had time for these sorts of things. Then he had lost all interest when puberty struck and he had developed a whole new set of problems to occupy his mind.
One bottom bunk was strewn with small stuffed animals similar to those in the smaller bedroom. A desk under one window held a globe of a world similar to his own but with subtle differences. He toyed with it for a moment, watching it spin. It was mounted so that it rotated vertically, the poles appearing off to the sides.
The desk also held what appeared to be schoolbooks written in a language he did not recognize. This surprised him somewhat because he was fluent in several tongues and could hobble along in a few others. Pictures and diagrams in one served to identify a math or possibly a science text. Other books had too many words and not enough graphics for him to guess at their content.
The other bedroom appeared to be a master bedroom shared by a man and a woman, judging by the clothes in the closet. He marveled over this for a moment. The clothes were neatly separated and organized. Two dressers also contained male and female garments, one dresser for each. A dressing table with a mirror and a chair stood against one wall. Nearby stood a simple straight back chair, a man's sweater thrown casually across the seat.
Taking up most of one side of the room was a king-size bed. The far side was close to a window that looked out over the front yard. There was enough room to walk around the bed, but only just. The blankets had been carelessly thrown back and were covered with dust, as was everything else he'd encountered. He looked again at the big bed, the dressers, the closets, and frowned thoughtfully. As he turned to leave, he noticed something unusual.
All the rooms had had paintings on the walls; landscapes like the ones in the art room. He had given them a cursory glance but hadn't really looked at them closely. Now he approached one and stared intently at it. He reached out a cautious finger and ran it across the frame first, then the painting itself. His finger came away spotlessly clean. The colors of the painting gleamed brightly, undimmed by dust or grime. He examined the other paintings in the room. They too were curiously free of the ubiquitous dust.
He retraced his path through the other rooms and the hallway, checking all the paintings on the walls. None held so much as a single mote of dust. Now why is that? He wondered. He started down the stairs, intent on his own thoughts. He failed to hear the sound of a door quietly opening downstairs.
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CHAPTER 5
“He was supposed to be here an hour ago!” The theater manager was fuming. The orchestra had been sitting, essentially twiddling its collective thumbs, waiting for the conductor to arrive for rehearsal. This was their first meeting with ap Owen, and the musicians were all eager to see if the Great Man was all he was reputed to be.
“What do you want me to do about it?” whined his assistant. “He's not at his hotel. He doesn't have any boyfriends in town. Or girlfriends, for that matter,” he added after a thoughtful pause. You never could tell with these creative people.
The manager looked at him with distaste. “How dare you suggest such a thing! Ap Owen is extremely well regarded, and your casting aspersion on his character is unbecoming, at best. Still, if he thinks we're going to pay him three quarters of a million not to be here, he can think again!” He paced anxiously, anger warring with concern. “But where can he be?”
Not turning up for a rehearsal without ample warning was unheard of for Daffyd ap Owen. He was one of the world's most respected and sought after conductors. It was rumored he could craft an orchestra to make angels weep with joy, in a single afternoon, even if the musicians had never played together before.
Right now, the Place-des-Arts orchestra members were restless. Monsieur Balmont, the manager, had had the option of pacing and fuming, but the musicians had been sitting in one place for over an hour. Finally, the First Cellist rose to his feet and approached the frazzled M. Balmont.
The manager looked at him in irritation. “What is it?” he snapped.
“Excuse me, m'sieu', but we have been waiting an age for the illustrious Mr. ap Owen. The lunch hour is almost upon us. Might we be dismissed for a time to get something to eat, walk around.... “He looked hopefully at M. Balmont, who was prevented from snarling a reply by his assistant's restraining hand on his shoulder. Balmont reconsidered his reply. The request wasn't that unreasonable.
“Why don't you and the others go backstage and wait there. In case you forgot, where ap Owen goes, there is ample food and drink for everyone. You might as well start in on the buffet.” He bared his teeth in what was intended as a smile but looked more like a death's head.
The musician acknowledged this unprecedented generosity with a graceful nod. He had understood that there would be refreshments every day during the conductor's three week stint, but he hadn't expected to be allowed to sample it without ap Owen being there. He hurried back to the orchestra pit to share the good news.
In a matter of minutes, instruments were set aside and a mob of disgruntled players was descending on the splendid spread backstage. The long tables were laden with platters, plates, and bowls of food, ordinary and exotic. Two trestles, draped in linen, held cold items: meat trays, cheeses, salads, fruit, breads, and seafood. A third was for hot dishes, with three young waiters ready to carve the roast beef or turkey, to serve the soup, and to dish out the rice or vegetables. A bar stood in one corner, with a generous assortment of soft drinks, and a selection of wine. Everyone stood in awed silence at the sumptuousness of it all.
Josée Malenfant, the First Violin, turned to the Second Trombone, Darren Johnson. “Ma!” she exclaimed. “This is quite the feast, enh?”
“That's for sure!” he agreed enthusiastically. “I hear ap Owen does this everywhere he goes.”
“'E paid for this?” she said in surprise. “Why, I t'ought the t'eater did this for ‘im!”
“Oh, no,” said Darren. “ap Owen likes to reward his musicians. He claims happy, well-fed performers make for a happy, well-fed performance. Or so I've heard.” He picked up a china plate from the stack on a serving table. Josée followed suit. They joined the queue.
“'Ave you work with ‘im before?” she asked, helping herself to a lobster tail.
“No. I met him once, though, in New York. My brother plays French horn with one of the orchestras there, and ap Owen was the guest conductor. My brother has worked with him quite a bit. He says that ap Owen drives you harder than you think you can stand—he's very demanding—but he makes it worthwhile.” He put one piece of smoked salmon on his plate, and wolfed down a second. “It was my brother that told me about this.” He waved a hand to indicate the generous supply of delectables.
“It must cost ‘im a fortune,” said Josée, taking it all in.
One of the oboe players overheard and commented, “Yes, I'm sure it does, but do you know how much he makes in a week? He can afford this, no sweat.”
“But still!” she exclaimed. When she had heard there was to be a buffet, she had expected the meat and cheese trays, perhaps some crackers and rolls, and juice or other soft drinks. Nothing had prepared her for the lobster, the caviar, and the wine. Nor had she expected the linen tablecloths, the china plates, and the heavy silverware. This was magnificent.
“I heard they're paying him three quarters of a
million for the three weeks,” someone said. “How can they afford that?”
“Because when he's here, they can charge whatever they want. Some of those seats will go for a hundred, easy.” He popped an olive into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Look, the Place holds about thirty thousand people, am I right?” Nods greeted this. “And it's already sold out for all performances. Even if you average the tickets at around seventy-five a head, that's two and a quarter million per performance. That's a lot of money. Is it worth less than one to make over eighteen, when all's said and done? I think so.”
“You're not counting the one show he does at the regular price,” said the Timpanist.
“It's sold out, too, though, and that still brings in around half a million. I'm telling you, he's worth the money.”
“Why does he do that one cheap show? I mean, who's going to pay seventy-five or a hundred to see him, when they can get in for fifteen or twenty?”
“I heard him say in an interview that his music isn't just for the rich. The people who go to the cheap show have to bring pay stubs to prove their income is below thirty-five grand a year. He's covered the loopholes as well as he can, I guess. In any case, his contract specifies at least one regular price concert, even if it means a cut in his own salary.”
“I ‘ad no idea ‘e was so generous,” Josée shook her head in admiration.
“You don't know the half of it,” said the Third Trombone. Everyone looked at her expectantly. She sipped her wine, then said, “Several years ago, I was the First, actually, Only Trombone, in a small town orchestra. Really, we were not much more than a band. This was in the middle of absolute nowhere. The town had a population of maybe three thousand people, if you counted all the surrounding farmers.
Angels Among Us Page 3
