by Lisa Tuttle
“Do just what she told you. Grab hold of her, and hold on tight, and don't let go until it's morning—when the first cock crows, or when you see the first rays of the sun, whatever. And as soon as morning comes, cover her with your coat. You'd probably do that instinctively anyway—she'll probably be naked.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I know you probably think I'm a useless wimp, but I think I can manage to hang on to a naked woman—all night, if necessary.”
So that was how Fred became my project. I was determined to save her.
My excuse for spending so much time with her was that I needed help that only she could give. We had long discussions about the folklore of fairies, and she gave me books to read: Kirk's, of course, and Evans-Wentz; British Fairy Origins by Lewis Spence, and Katharine Briggs's wonderful An Encyclopedia of Fairies. I still couldn't take it seriously as she did—to me, it was myth and delusion—but, like someone wanting to get involved in a role-playing game, or becoming an expert in the trivia of The Lord of the Rings, I absorbed all she could teach me. Maybe it softened me up and made me more open to belief, opening cracks in my surface rationalism—I don't know.
Although she didn't complain about it, Fred wasn't just living on a budget, she was surviving on next to nothing. What had seemed like plenty to live on at the end of June had all but vanished by the end of August, and although the couple who were renting her the caravan (what I would have called a trailer) had been willing to give her a discounted rate for October, they still insisted on having the money up front. I'm not saying that without me she would have starved to death, but I made sure she had two good meals a day.
To make my charity easier to stomach, I pretended this was an all-expenses-paid job and carefully collected every receipt.
Fred was not someone I would have chosen to spend a lot of time with under other circumstances. I wasn't attracted to her, and she was too odd and prickly for an enjoyable friendship. Yet I felt responsible for her. I was possibly the only person in the world who knew she was in trouble; like it or not, that meant I had to save her.
I only wished I knew how.
I was curious about what had made her give up on this world and pin all her hopes on Fairyland, but she wouldn't explain. Occasionally something personal would slip out—like the fact that she had two brothers—but if I pursued it, asking their names, for example, she clammed up.
“I don't want to talk about myself. I've left the past behind. It's over. Don't ask me again.”
One evening, over dinner in what she referred to as “the posh restaurant,” I asked Fred to go to Edinburgh with me the next day.
Alarm flared in her eyes. “What for?”
“To look for Amy. Thought I might put some flyers up, maybe visit the American consulate to see if they've got any suggestions.”
“But why do you need me along?”
“I don't need you; I just thought you might like the chance to get away, do something different. You wouldn't have to go around with me all day—you could go to a movie, or a gallery, or see the sights . . .” I shrugged. “Actually, I want to see the sights myself. Maybe we should stay overnight.”
She shook her head, gazing at me tenderly. “Oh, Ian. You're very sweet. And kind. And I do like you. But—”
“I didn't mean it like that,” I said quickly. “You can have your own room. I'm on expenses, remember?”
“You're very sweet,” she said again. “But I'm not going to change my mind. It doesn't matter how slowly you take it . . . it's not you; it's me. I just don't want a relationship with anyone.”
“Neither do I.”
She smiled, obviously disbelieving. “Yeah? Why do you spend so much time with me, then?”
“Because I need your help to find Amy. And you have been very helpful; without you—”
“Oh, give it a rest, Ian! You think it's all nonsense. You saw her with your own eyes, and still you're going to check the homeless shelters in Edinburgh?”
I shrugged. “I'm going to be on Doon Hill on Halloween, don't worry. But until then, well, I'm not putting all my eggs in one basket.”
“Eggs being faith and baskets belief systems?”
“Something like that.”
In the end, Fred did go with me to Edinburgh. We spent two nights, in separate rooms, in a modestly priced guest house, ate Indian and Chinese meals, and visited the castle together. On my own, I visited a homeless shelter, the American consulate, and the university campus, talked to lots of people, and took out an ad in The Big Issue. All this meant I had something to report back to Mrs. Schneider, something to disguise the fact that I was still no closer to finding her daughter.
A week later, again accompanied by Fred, I did similar things in Glasgow.
As the weeks passed, we fell into certain routines, to all appearances a regular couple, although we weren't intimate, and I still knew very little about her.
And then it was Halloween.
The day was cold, but blessedly dry. I piled on my warmest clothes—I'd need layers if I was going to give Amy my coat—then went out for a daylight reconnoiter of Doon Hill.
At the summit, a familiar figure waited for me, standing in the center of the grove of trees decked with strips of cloth.
“I don't suppose we'll have it to ourselves tonight,” she said gloomily.
“Kids?” I guessed. “All dressed up like ghosts and fairies?”
She shrugged. “Wiccans. Witches. Pagans of all sorts. Come to pay their respects to the Reverend.” She finished with a bow toward the big pine tree in which, according to one legend, the spirit of the Rev. Robert Kirk was lodged. “Better if it was a rainy night.”
“Speak for yourself! I'd rather not spend the night out in the rain.” I looked around. “I'm going to have a wander. Meet at the café for lunch?”
We went our separate ways. I made my way to what I thought was the spot where I'd encountered Amy, or her apparition, more than a month earlier, but I couldn't be certain. At some point, probably while I was away in Edinburgh, the bender and its contents had been removed—whether by the police, the local council, or scavenging kids, I had no idea. Maybe it had even been Amy herself.
I couldn't find anything suspicious, and after making notes of a few landmarks and familiarizing myself with the area, I admitted there was nothing more I could do and walked back down to the village. I was early for my meeting with Fred, but so was she.
“Just tea,” she said. “I'm not hungry.”
“You should eat,” I said, knowing she wouldn't have had breakfast.
But she shook her head. “Maybe later.”
At least she drank her tea with enough sugar to power an entire classroom of five-year-olds. I ordered a bacon roll and a cup of coffee.
“What time shall we go up the hill?” I asked. The clocks had gone back a few days earlier, and I hadn't adjusted yet to just how early night was falling.
Fred didn't answer, concentrating on stirring her tea.
“What's the matter?”
“I have to go by myself,” she said. “It won't work if you're there. I have to be on my own.”
“That's real likely, if the tree decorators are out in force tonight.”
“I can't help it if they come.”
“You can't help if I come, either,” I said, annoyed. “You know I have to be there, for Amy.”
“Fine. I'll go on the other side of the hill, well away from the path.”
I couldn't think of anything to say to that. She sipped her tea, eyes down. As the silence went on, I felt unaccountably sad, as if we were a couple breaking up. “Any last-minute advice?” I asked, trying to sound normal. “Maybe we should have a pop quiz.”
“You know what to do,” she said quietly. “Even if you don't believe, just do it.”
“And if she doesn't come?”
Fred shrugged and finished her tea. Then she got up.
“Hey, don't go!”
She heard the alarm in my voice.
“It's too early,” I added, trying to cover.
She shook her head and put her jacket on. “We might as well say good-bye now.”
“Not yet—can't we talk?” I knew at that moment, with absolute certainty, that I had not saved her and that I could not. I had missed my opportunity if, indeed, I'd ever had it.
“No,” she said. “It's too late, Ian. I won't see you on the hill. Let's say good-bye now.” As she spoke, she came around the table, leaned over, and kissed me, for the first and last time. It was only a fleeting touch, but firmly on the lips. Before I could respond, she'd pulled back and was winding the dark green scarf, which I'd bought for her in Glasgow, around her neck. “Good luck,” she added, with a brief, wavering smile; and then she was gone.
I didn't go after her.
I lingered over another cup of coffee and a sweet roll, then wandered around Aberfoyle, killing time until, a little after four, it seemed near enough to twilight to venture up Doon Hill once more.
I'd told Mrs. MacDonald that I'd be away for the night, possibly for a few days—she was used to my comings and goings by now. I'd packed a small bag and locked it in the trunk of the rental car, which I left in the public car park in Aberfoyle.
Before it was fully dark, I was settled in the woods on my newly purchased “car rug,” with a flask of hot coffee close at hand. Despite Fred's predictions, I saw no sign of any other visitors to the hill; no wiccans or pagans, not even any guisers. Mrs. MacDonald had told me that “trick-or-treating” was not a local custom; rather, Scottish children went “guising”—dressed up in costume and carrying lanterns made from hollowed-out turnips.
Occasionally, as the night grew deeper, I caught sight of flashes of light here and there in the woods. From farther down the hill there were shouts, cries, laughter, and the barking of dogs. I heard rustling in the undergrowth around me, but no one came near. The moon rose slowly, majestically, three-quarters full and shining brightly in the clear sky. Gradually the sounds of people and dogs grew more distant and infrequent.
By eleven-thirty I had finished the entire flask of coffee and relieved myself more than once. To stave off worried thoughts and pass the time, I recited every poem I had ever learned at school, as well as a number of scatological limericks and various advertising jingles before getting into old television theme songs. Occasionally I got up and stomped my feet to make sure I could still feel them, or ran in place, or marched about flapping my arms. It began to get very cold. I couldn't decide whether hypothermia or boredom would do me in first.
I'd just checked my watch for about the tenth time in as many minutes when I heard the faint sound of bells jingling rhythmically.
The back of my neck prickled. I jumped up and, despite the brightness of the moon, switched on my brand-new flashlight, sweeping it about like a light-saber.
And there she was. Amy Schneider, only a few yards away, stumbling through the woods, looking miserable. She had on a big, saggy, knitted pullover and jeans. Her hair hung in lank rattails around her face. Even when I shined the light directly at her she didn't seem to notice me, far too absorbed in picking her way over the uneven ground.
I heard the bells again, and a sound like whispering, and quickly flashed the light around, looking for the source. But all I could see were trees and shadows. The shadows clustered in odd places, melted away, then regrouped, giving the impression of people moving, dashing from bush to bush, just outside my main line of vision, always faster than the eye could see.
I couldn't afford to worry about that. I knew what I had to do. I stuffed the flashlight into my pocket and stepped right in front of Amy, my arms open. She walked into my embrace like a sleepwalker. As soon as her body met mine, she stiffened, and would have pulled away if I hadn't held her tightly.
She went limp in my grasp. I staggered, and had to struggle to keep upright. She was a big girl, nearly as tall as I was, and her deadweight was a real burden. Had she fainted? I whispered her name.
No response. Seconds ticked past, lengthening to minutes, and the weight in my arms was unrelenting. Although she pressed heavily against my chest, I couldn't feel her heart beating or hear her breathing.
My own heart began to race in terror. Was she dead?
I gave her a shake.
Still no response, and her head lolled worryingly.
I'd learned about the kiss of life in a first-aid course, but I couldn't stretch her out into the approved position without letting her go. What should I do?
Go with your instincts. Do what seems right. I could almost hear Fred's gentle Scottish burr in my ear, and for a moment I seemed to feel her lips on mine again.
I took a deep breath, steadied Amy's head with one hand while gripping her firmly with the other, and pressed my mouth to hers, and exhaled.
Immediately, my breath filled her lungs, and I felt vitality surge through her. She came to life in my arms, and quite suddenly began to kiss me back. Her tongue thrust into my mouth, her arms snaked beneath mine, and she clung to me.
She felt absolutely wonderful. It had been so long since anyone had kissed me like that, and I was starved for sex, for female warmth and affection. I opened my mouth wide and kissed her back, at the same time pulling her even harder against me. We were both wearing so many layers of clothes that her body remained a shrouded mystery, yet instinct joined with imagination to make me vividly aware of her large, soft breasts. Her hands dug into my back; as she held on so tightly, I thought it was safe to slip one of my hands around to fondle her breasts. Through the thickness of her sweater I couldn't even tell if she was wearing a bra, yet I was sure I felt her nipple grow erect beneath my teasing fingers.
She rose up on tiptoe and ground her pubic bone against mine: thick denim rasped against corduroy, and our belt buckles met with a grating clink. Then she began to fumble at my belt. She seemed desperate to get into my pants, and I was more than happy to let her, yet one small, rational bit of my brain raised a warning that penetrated the fog of lust:
This can't be for real.
This sort of thing happened in movies, not in real life—not to guys like me. She didn't even know me.
So what was going on? Was I being set up for something?
Visions of satanic covens and human sacrifice, and blood-drinking vampires, tumbled through my brain. After all, it was Halloween.
I caught Amy's hand just before she could undo my zipper, and, reluctantly, pulled away from her sweet, ravenous mouth. “Slow down,” I mumbled, gripping her hand tightly. My eyes darted everywhere, seeing threats in every shifting shadow, looking everywhere for the danger except in her face.
It happened in an instant. I realized abruptly it was a man's hand I held; it was not a woman but a man pressed close against me. Even as I turned disbelieving eyes to his face I recognized through some other sense—smell, perhaps, or a tactile memory going back to infancy—that the man I embraced was my father.
“Dad?”
He looked at me without understanding. Then, all at once, recognition lit his eyes, followed immediately by a look of loathing. I might have been the most disgusting creature on the face of the earth. With a grunt, he tried to pull away from my grasp.
I almost let him go, pained more than I can say by the expression on his face. But then I remembered Fred's solemn instructions, and a line from “The Ballad of Young Tam Lin”:
But hold me fast, and fear me not . . .
And I gripped him just as tightly as I had held Amy.
I stared into my father's face—knowing this was not my father but only his appearance—and held on grimly as he wriggled and writhed, panting hard with the effort to free himself. Yet he didn't try to lash out at me, to hit or kick or bite.
This time I watched closely, yet the change when it came was just as sudden and shocking as before.
I was still holding a man, but he was no longer anything like my father. He'd become a young stranger, a malevolently handsome, devilish-looking youth with golden eyes,
long black lashes, and lips like Mick Jagger. And, while I blinked in surprise, he moved his arms and sent long, cool fingers to stroke my back, my neck, finally to twine in my hair.
As he moved to kiss me, I jerked my head back out of reach. He pulled me, painfully, by the hair, dragging my face toward his and, like a striking snake, he struck with his tongue. He kissed me, probingly, insinuatingly, and pressed his hard, undeniably masculine body against mine.
I've never in my life been sexually attracted to a man, but I'm not homophobic, and it never seemed to me either shameful or impossible (although, I admit, disturbing) that someday I might feel just the tiniest bit aroused by some mysteriously attractive bisexual . . .
But this was not that time.
My erection—legacy of Amy's embrace—died abruptly.
His tongue in my mouth, his hands on my body, sickened me. I felt under attack in the most revolting way and I couldn't do anything about it.
This isn't a man, this is Amy—I told myself that again and again, denying the urge I felt to fling him violently away and throw up. I kept my mouth firmly clamped shut and tried to resist his relentless assault on my body. Yet whatever I did somehow made it worse: I was aware each time I flinched or wriggled in a vain attempt to escape that my movements excited him more. I could feel his penis pressing against my leg, getting bigger and stiffer, seemingly ready to burst out of his pants.
I was so revolted, even with my endless mantra of this is really Amy, think of Amy and hold on, that I didn't know how much longer I could stand it. If he went much further, I'd have to sock him. How far was too far?
Hating him, hating myself, I hung on. I held him even tighter, wishing I had enough strength in my arms to squeeze him unconscious, or break a couple of ribs . . .
That was when I realized I was holding a woman again, squeezing her tightly.
But this was a different woman, bare-armed, scantily clad . . .
Looking down, I saw my mother: dressed only in her underwear, and wriggling lasciviously in my arms, her eyes half-closed, a wide and willing smile on her face.
