The Stone Bull

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  My eyes were aswim with tears because his gentleness destroyed my defense. He was very close and in a moment, if I chose, I could be in his arms and he would hold me tenderly, kindly. Yet that wasn’t all I wanted, and I made no move.

  The telephone shrilled across the room, making me jump, and Magnus went to answer it. While he talked, I picked up a book that lay open face-down on the sofa and let my eyes wander idly down the spine. Oliver Goldsmith, of all things. I hadn’t known anyone read Goldsmith anymore. I turned the book over and found a verse on the open page:

  The only art her guilt to cover,

  To hide her shame from every eye,

  To give repentance to her lover,

  And wring his bosom, is—to die.

  I closed the book quickly and put it aside and Magnus came back to me.

  “That was Naomi. She wants me to come down to the Red Barn at eight tonight, but she wouldn’t say why. Some sort of showing she’s planned. Do you know what it’s all about?”

  “Only that she has a scheme afoot that she’s being mischievous about.”

  The moment when he would have held me out of kindness was gone, and I made no effort to bring it back, but stood up and held out my hand.

  “Thank you, Magnus.”

  His smile flashed. “For what?”

  “For being more patient than I’ve deserved. For being wiser than I am. I won’t try to stay on here. I’ll leave in a day or two.”

  “You’ve made the right choice,” he said and took my hand in his big one.

  “I’m sorry not to finish posing for you.”

  “I’ve those sketches of you I can use. And I’ve already got the thing strongly in my eye.”

  “You’ll finish it then?”

  “Of course. Perhaps I’ll show it in New York sometime—and then you’ll come to see it?”

  “Oh, I will!” I told him, and felt that I might easily cry again unless I went away quickly.

  “I’ll walk back to Juniper with you,” he said.

  I was fumbling into my jacket before he could help me with those big hands that could create such astonishing beauty.

  “No, don’t bother. I’ll see you tonight—at Naomi’s affair, whatever it is.” I picked up my sketching kit and put it under my arm.

  He didn’t insist, but stayed in the doorway watching me go. Neither of us said good-bye, though I had a feeling that it was really that. When I looked back and waved, he was still there.

  In the glen Juniper neighed at the sight of me, bored with her grazing and glad to see a little activity. I went first, however, to stand one more time beside the magnificent bull. I put my hand on the curve of a lowered horn, and for just an instant I wanted to climb up there again and view the world from that massive back. I knew this was a childish impulse and I refrained.

  “Good-bye, Zeus,” I said, and went over to Juniper.

  When I’d pulled myself into the saddle and we had started down the mountain, tears came, though just for a second or two. I wasn’t altogether sure what I was crying about. Perhaps because I knew I would never be alone with Magnus again, and that I would miss him more than I could have believed possible. No good-byes had been said between us and I would see him for a little while tonight, but I knew there had been an unspoken farewell, and something—I didn’t know quite what—had come to an end.

  17

  Naomi’s “showing” is over, and I am back in my room at the house. It is after midnight and everyone else is surely asleep. I sit here in the dark beside the window and stare out into the deeper darkness of the pines. I am bundled warm in my coat, but I still feel chilled and frightened. I’m not altogether sure of what happened tonight, not sure of its implications—yet I am frightened. Tomorrow I will be leaving as soon as possible. There is no reason for anyone to want me to stay.

  I am uneasy about this last thing Brendon wants of me, but surely it will be a small matter and quickly done. I think it has nothing to do with last night.

  We were a thoroughly reluctant crew this evening when we showed up at the Red Barn. Naomi had gone ahead to make her preparations, whatever they were, so I walked over with Irene, who seemed a little keyed up. Loring had had a relapse and she was worried about him. When we reached the hotel Brendon joined us, as stiff with me as he always was these days, yet gentle and considerate with his mother.

  Brendon and Irene knew where we were going; I went with them up to the barn’s second floor and into a small room where camp chairs were set in rows, and a screen hung against the far wall. Irene whispered that old films taken around Laurel Mountain were sometimes shown here. There was a projector at the back, where Naomi waited, her eyes bright with an anticipation I didn’t like. I had come to know that, more than anything else, Naomi enjoyed malicious mischief, and I had a feeling that this was what she was about tonight.

  Keir and Magnus arrived shortly after we did, and Naomi waved us all into seats. Magnus’ look rested on me briefly, kind, but somehow remote, and I looked quickly away. Keir was apparently feeling disgruntled by having a quiet evening at the cabin disturbed, and was probably here only because Magnus had insisted that he come. Naomi was not one to thwart, and in a sense she was still crown princess of Laurel Mountain.

  The rest of the barn was dark and empty tonight, without other visitors, and with no one on duty. From an inner window I had looked down upon the long rectangle that had once been the old stables, and had almost fancied I could hear the restless movement of hoofs, the jingle of long-silenced harness.

  When I sat down next to Irene, Naomi’s voice took up a short introduction from her place at the projector.

  “This won’t keep you long,” she told us. “It’s something neither the police nor anyone else know about. Not even Loring knows. I’ve had my reasons for keeping quiet about it. Mainly because I don’t think it proves anything. Nevertheless, I think you all ought to see it. Perhaps it will lead to questions that ought to be asked. Though I’ve never wanted to ask them.”

  The machine started whirring behind us, and Brendon went to turn off the lights. Naomi’s voice seemed to float above us in the darkened room, with only the light from the screen upon our faces.

  “First,” she said, “I want to show you something else. Something to help us all keep a memory green.”

  Dread made a heaviness inside me, as I sensed what might be coming. I wasn’t sure I could endure this without jumping up and running from the room. When Irene whispered to Brendon, Naomi’s voice cut through.

  “Be quiet,” she said. “Just watch,” and we were all very quiet indeed.

  The filming had been done in the little meeting room where I had found Naomi playing the piano on that day that now seemed so long ago. The film was black and white, and for an instant the room remained bare. Then that incredibly graceful figure in leotard and tights went across the floor in grands jetés and pirouetted to face the camera. Someone gasped softly. Perhaps it was I.

  It seemed strange and eerie that she could be up there on the screen dancing—as I had seen her dance so many times in life. Ariel Vaughn—of the long legs and lovely slender feet, the great dark eyes and dark hair, the beautiful neck and proudly held head—moving now before us as she had moved so many times before the audiences of the world.

  Pain cut through me, penetrating all defenses, and I became aware that I was biting hard on the knuckles of one hand. I put my hand down and watched, scarcely breathing.

  There was no sound accompaniment, but I recognized the steps. She was dancing the solo variation from Giselle. Those dégagé turns, the series of chaînés, the pose in fourth position—I recognized them all. The performance lasted for only moments of time, and it seemed that no one in the room moved while she danced. Then it was over and Ariel came laughing toward the camera before the strip of film ended, and Naomi turned off the machine.

  Brendon, his voice harsh with pain, said, “Why are you doing this?”

  “I wanted you all to remember her,” Na
omi said softly. “Sometimes I think you are beginning to forget. But this isn’t why I’ve brought you here. Wait while I change the film, and you’ll see.”

  We waited and now someone in the room was breathing heavily. I wanted to close my eyes, to jump up and run out of the barn so I would have to see no more. But I knew I must stay. All my sense of loss, of long-ago love for my sister had swept back in a wave that shook me with emotion. I could not hate her now.

  Naomi spoke to us again. “I used to take shots of Ariel around the grounds sometimes when she didn’t know I was filming her. I’d just set up the camera and keep out of sight. Perhaps I’ll show them all to you someday. She used to go out to those great rocks above the Lair at nearly the same time every afternoon, so I knew I could catch her there with my camera.”

  The machine began to whirr again, and this time we saw the great boulder above the Lair, and I knew it must be the one that had fallen. For seconds the screen was empty of movement, and I think no one in the room exhaled a breath. Then, as we watched, a figure stepped out upon the rock. A tall, slim figure in a sweater and dark slacks. It was not Ariel but Irene. Again there was a soft gasp somewhere in the room.

  She stood in the center of the rock looking out toward the hotel and the lake, lifting her face to the sun. Her presence in that spot meant nothing, of course. Dozens of people must have stood on that rock every day, and this strip of film could have been taken at any time.

  Then the woman on the screen seemed to test the rock with an outstretched foot—as though she felt movement under her. At once she backed toward the hillside, and the camera watched her without moving until she disappeared among the rocks on the far side of the boulder.

  Still the camera remained motionless, and for a moment or two longer the scene stayed empty. Then a second figure appeared on the trail at the edge of the woods beyond the rocks, moving into the eye of the lens. I stiffened as I recognized Ariel descending the path. She was wearing jeans, an oversized sweater and dark glasses, and she walked slowly, her shoulders drooping as she never allowed them to droop when she knew someone was watching. There was no confidence in her carriage, no authority. This was not the presence one saw on a stage, but a woman deeply troubled.

  As we watched, she turned from the trail and stepped out onto that sea of rocks, found her way to the big boulder and stood poised and graceful upon it, in full focus now before that steady, relentless camera that must be resting on a tripod. For a moment or two she appeared to be staring out over the lake toward the opposite cliff of Panther Rock. Then she edged forward, and looked down into the chasm below. I think we all gasped as the boulder under her feet began to teeter. She took a great sideways leap, landing on another rock, with no loss of balance. Before our eyes the boulder where she had stood seemed to dissolve into the air as it tumbled out of our sight. Dust rose in the pictured scene and in the silence of the room I could almost hear the terrible echoes of that crash, the sound of Floris’ scream. The lack of sound from the screen made these frozen moments of time past seem all the more eerie. I was aware of some sound in the room, but I couldn’t remove my attention from the screen to look about and identify it.

  Naomi stopped the film and the screen went blank.

  “I’ll get the lights,” Magnus said, his voice hushed.

  In a moment a switch clicked and we were blinking against the brightness overhead. For a little while no one spoke, no one moved, and then Naomi broke the silence by laughing softly, maliciously.

  “I thought you might be interested,” she said.

  I looked about for Irene, but she was gone. The movement I had heard must have been her chair being pushed back, her feet moving softly, carrying her from the room.

  “Why haven’t you shown us this before?” Brendon asked sharply.

  “I didn’t want to upset your mother. She never knew I had this film. And I’m sure her presence in it is innocent enough. I just didn’t want to stir things up.”

  “You might have warned me before you showed this,” Brendon said. “I’ll have to find her, talk to her.”

  “Yes, you will now, won’t you?” Naomi said slyly and began putting her equipment away.

  Magnus and Keir had not spoken, but both looked solemn as they moved toward the door, and neither had a kindly word for Naomi.

  I went to Brendon’s side. “There’s something that keeps bothering me. Something I keep trying to remember. It might be important.”

  They all stopped to stare at me, waiting. But after a moment I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t recall the words. When my sister telephoned me that last time, she said something—something I could make no sense of. But I think it might have meaning now, if only I can remember what it was.”

  The silence was intense—as though they all waited breathlessly for me to remember what Ariel had said on the telephone. To one of them her words might mean—betrayal—and suddenly I didn’t want to remember.

  Brendon spoke first. “Stop it, Jenny. Let it go. Don’t try to recall what she said.”

  The words were like a warning. I looked into his face that I had once been so sure I had loved, and I felt nothing at all. Yet at the moment I knew what he meant and knew he was right. It would be a good deal safer for me not to announce in public any remembering I might do.

  “It’s no use,” I said. “I’ve lost the gist of her words.”

  Brendon moved on beside Naomi, and Magnus’ hand came beneath my elbow as he spoke to his father.

  “Go along, Dad. I’ll see you out in the truck in a few moments.”

  Keir nodded and went ahead, while Magnus led me outside.

  “I meant to let you go without saying good-bye,” he told me. “But now I find I don’t want it that way.”

  Faint moonlight lay in a patina over the landscape as we followed a walk toward the hotel.

  Irrelevantly, I thought of the words by Goldsmith that I had read in Magnus’ cabin that morning, and I mentioned them to him.

  “I don’t think she died just to punish Brendon,” I said.

  “No, of course not. A good many things were troubling her. In any case, I still don’t think she meant to die. It was only a cry for help.”

  I must have sighed, for he put an arm about me. “I know what you’re feeling. I feel the same way. To see her again up there on that screen—so alive, so gifted and beautiful—and to know that it’s all gone, finished forever.”

  I touched his hand where it rested on my arm. “I’m sorry,” I said, remembering that he’d loved her. “I understand.”

  “Do you? Do you really understand what I feel, young Jenny?”

  “Don’t call me that!” I cried. “I won’t ever be ‘young Jenny’ again.”

  “I apologize,” he said readily. “And, sadly enough, I think you may be right. Though I expect I will always carry a picture of you in my mind—standing on Zeus’s back, the way I first saw you. You were very young that day.”

  “Because I believed in love. Because I believed in forever. Oh, I believed in so many things that don’t exist—perhaps never existed.”

  “Love exists,” he said gently. “It will come again. We all make mistakes, lose our heads, behave like fools. You felt free of her that day you met Brendon, and you were ready to fall in love. But we grow a little and we go on.”

  Perhaps, I thought. I didn’t know whether this strange numbness I sometimes felt was growth or not.

  “What about Irene?” I said.

  “I don’t know. I suppose Brendon will find out what happened.”

  “Magnus—” I turned toward him within the curve of his arm.

  My sentence was never finished, however, because a dark figure stepped into our path as we neared the lights of the hotel. Silhouetted against them, I recognized Brendon.

  He spoke coldly to Magnus. “I’ll take my wife back to the house. You needn’t come any farther.”

  Magnus released me at once, and turned without a word to walk back
toward the truck. We still hadn’t said good-bye.

  “That wasn’t necessary,” I said to Brendon, moving stiffly beside him because I had no other choice.

  “It was necessary,” he said coldly. “I’ve seen what’s happening. First Ariel, and now you. Rebounds are dangerous, Jenny—if that’s what you think you’re doing—and I won’t have you turn in that direction.”

  “The only direction I’m turning in is toward home!” I told him angrily. “I’ve had enough. I want to leave tomorrow, Brendon. There’s no point in my staying any longer. I don’t think the tide will be stemmed this time, no matter who might like to stop it. Everything will have to come out now. And I don’t think I even want to know what happened. We have the proof that it wasn’t Ariel’s fault.”

  Behind us I heard Keir’s truck start up and a moment later it passed us on the road up the mountain, its headlights sweeping briefly over us and then away. I didn’t look after it.

  “I thought you were going to find your mother,” I said.

  “I know where she is. She’s sitting up there in the gazebo above the garden. I’ll go up there to talk to her in a little while. First I’ll take you back to the house.”

  I dared not speculate aloud and I knew Brendon wouldn’t either. For the moment any further mention of Irene was taboo.

  “At least we know where Naomi was,” I said.

  “Do we?”

  The two words were laconic and I thought about them uneasily as we walked on. How fortuitous that Naomi had been there at all. And her camera hadn’t moved. It had simply run in a set position, and Naomi had turned off the projector tonight on an empty scene still being recorded. But this wasn’t a speculation I could put into words now.

  “Are you going to see Magnus again?” Brendon asked abruptly.

  “Magnus? How can I? I never expect to come here again.”

  “In any case,” Brendon went on, “there’s something I want to show you tomorrow before you leave. I want to make sure you will never try to see Magnus again.”