Carol looked out over the back of Maggie’s deck and down the little residential street that didn’t seem like it belonged on the outskirts of D.C. That’s why Maggie had chosen it, of course. In the old days, Maggie had lived fast and loose, and she never would have wanted to be anywhere other than the heart of it all. An attorney, she had worked long hours and partied even longer. There had been occasions when her colleagues would have sworn that she was wearing the same outfit as the day before, and more often than not they were right. She had never married, never had kids or even contemplated the possibility. There had been whispers that she might be a lesbian, and more than once she and Carol and Amy had laughed about that over a bottle—or several—of wine. Maggie liked men; she just never liked them twice.
So when a few years back Maggie had bought this place on the edge of Rockville on a quiet Maryland street, Carol and Amy had been surprised. Maggie had laughed it off, of course, but Carol wondered if maybe she regretted how her life had gone. Forty-five was by no means old, not these days at least. But Maggie acted as though it was, as if whatever life she had lived up to that point was all that she ever would.
A gust of wind came swirling down the empty street, carrying with it the chill touch of the coming fall. It was imminent now. Summer had officially ended, but in Washington the heat of the near-South held on stubbornly, refusing to bow to the calendar. But Carol could feel it. The days would grow short, the nights cold, life would flee, and dead winter would have the city in its grip.
“Yeah,” she said. “OK. Let’s do it.”
* * *
A week later they were off for two weekends and the days in between of girl time, drinking, and probably pot if Maggie had her way. They took Amy’s car, a big SUV Amy didn’t need now that her two kids were at Notre Dame.
Amy and Carol had married young, straight out of college. Carol had Chrissy and that was it, the one girl’s birth coming as close as seemingly possible in this modern world to taking Carol’s life. Amy had twins, Hunter and Haley, virtually inseparable even to this day. But now both women had joined Maggie in her empty nest. Amy’s ex, David, wasn’t dead, but he might as well be.
“Alright, bitches,” Amy said as they climbed in. Ever tanned, she wore too-big sunglasses and enough bangles to satisfy a Bollywood dancer. “Let’s go peep the hell out of some leaves.” They all got a good laugh from that.
They went to New York City first, spent a night on Broadway on Maggie’s dime and shopped and drank too much and slept in the next day. On to Boston, where whatever grip summer still held on DC was but a distant memory. Boston, so bright and vibrant in the summer days, was already beginning to dull. The ironclad clouds gathering above the Pru portended autumn rain, and the wind that whipped down Beacon Hill held no trace of warmth.
So they ate littlenecks and hot clam chowder and dreamt of Maine. The next day they paid the toll at the border and crossed over, on the way to the cabin on the lake that Maggie’s parents had owned for as long as Carol knew her, and which now belonged to her.
Maggie’s grandfather—Papa Masterson she had called him before he disappeared into the woods they would now traverse, the victim of dementia being the generally accepted theory—had built the cabin on property the family owned on the shores of Sentinel Lake. It was a large plot, covering the whole northern side of Sentinel and well into the hills beyond. They had no neighbors, not for miles by road or water. Which made it the perfect place for a getaway—or for a young and wild Maggie to grab the bull of life by the horns and ride it.
She’d lost her virginity there to a scared kid from the all-boys school that served as Hawthorne Academy’s complement. The event had lasted approximately thirty-seven seconds, she had once told Carol and Amy, before ending messily and unsatisfactorily—for Maggie at least. “I teased him too much before,” she had said a couple years later, the three of them laughing hysterically over a bottle of tequila and a game of Never-Have-I-Ever. “But don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson.”
The cabin was the first place they’d got drunk, the first place they’d smoked pot, and the only place they’d tried Ecstasy, a bit of experimentation that was never repeated. It lay down a one lane dirt road that wound through the woods, hugging the shore of the lake, even if you could only occasionally glimpse the water through the dense foliage. Amy took the road at a solid 50 miles per hour, regardless of the fact that the early autumn sun was already dipping below the horizon, rendering the blind curves even more so. Carol did not complain. No one was coming, and in truth, she was anxious to get to the cabin.
She’d been here dozens of times. But always in the summer, with its wet heat and its long, lazy days and its warm winds racing across the cool lake. It felt different now, the shadows somehow longer and deeper and darker. And she wondered if it was the season or her own mood that had changed. Amy and Maggie were doing their best, but what if even this place was cursed for her?
Carol didn’t say much on the way. Amy was a teacher at a high school in northern Virginia and spent most of the drive railing against the “bleach-blond bimbo with the pushed up tits” who was screwing the assistant principal. Maggie, and even Carol, laughed. They did not mention that Amy herself had been screwing the assistant principal less than a year earlier.
But all conversation had fallen away as they approached the cabin. Carol didn’t know why, but it also didn’t matter. She preferred the silence.
It was a cabin in the loosest sense of the word. Two stories, modern in every way, with indoor plumbing and central heating. Maggie’s parents liked the illusion of the outdoors more than its realities.
The trio pulled into the drive just as dusk was turning to full dark. Maggie made margaritas while Amy rolled joints and Carol tried to convince herself that this was how it always was. That the cabin did not feel more cavernous than before, the outdoors more foreboding. In their previous visits, they’d spent as much time outside as in, sitting on the porch, watching the stars, taking shots and telling funny stories which were at least half true.
Carol would not go out there now, no matter what her friends might say. The cool air gave her an excuse, albeit a flimsy one. The darkness seemed to gather about the little cabin, and the fire Maggie had built only made the wall of black night just beyond the window panes more impenetrable.
Maggie poured them all a drink and plopped on the couch. She grabbed the remote and turned off the television over the fireplace that Amy had tuned to a reality show about the perils of one woman dating 25 men.
“Hey,” Amy whined. “I was watching that.”
“We didn’t come here to watch television.”
Amy grabbed her margarita from Maggie. “Speak for yourself. I’m on vacation.”
“Exactly,” Maggie said. She grinned mischievously. It was a look Carol had seen many times before. It seldom ended well for anyone involved.
She walked behind the couch and reached down, and from the rustle of fabric Carol could tell she was uncovering something. When she popped up again, the grin had not faded.
“Ready?” she said. Up came a box, long and rectangular. The words written on the top almost made Carol gasp. “I found it last time I was here.”
“A Ouija board?” Amy said, her lilting voice tinged with more than a hint of mockery. “What, are we in high school?” As if to make the point, she lit one of the joints, and took a deep drag. Maggie visibly deflated.
“Oh come on,” she said. “It’ll be fun!”
Carol didn’t say what she thought. She thought it was morbid, and inappropriate, and maybe even slightly disrespectful. She had come here to forget about death. It was not a game to her anymore. It was real and terrible and not to be messed with. But she didn’t say any of that. Maggie was the leader, Amy was the rebel. They figured things out and Carol went along. She was the follower. That was the way it had always been. When together they were in boarding school, when they went to college, when they moved to DC. That
was always it.
Amy collapsed back on the couch. “Oh for shit’s sake. Alright, whatever.”
“Great. I’ll get the lights.”
With every switch she flipped, the room descended further into darkness. Soon, only the flickering light of the fire provided any illumination. Maggie came back to the couch and reached inside her bag, removing three candles—the kind in tall, glass containers Carol had often seen slapped with images of saints on the side. These were plain, and when Maggie lit them, they seemed to burn brighter than Carol would have expected.
“You remember how to do this, right?”
Amy rolled her eyes and put her fingers on her side of the planchette. Maggie took her side. Both women looked to Carol. She did not hesitate. She wanted her friends to see her strength, not her weakness.
“Alright, ladies,” Maggie said. “You know how this works. Any question is fair game. Around and round we go!”
They began to move the planchette in a figure eight, faster and faster, “to warm up the board,” or so Maggie had told them. Then Carol began to feel some resistance, and gradually the little triangle of wood ground to a halt. Maggie looked up at her, with eyes that sparkled in the firelight.
“OK,” she said, “who goes first?”
“Will Maggie ever stop being such a slut?”
“Hey!”
“Everything’s fair game right?”
The planchette swung around, and whatever else could be said for it, Carol was just along for the ride. It made a wide arc before stopping on YES.
“See, I’m settling down in my old age,” Maggie said. They all giggled, and for a moment, Carol was actually having fun.
“Will Amy ever get laid again?” Carol said, surprised at her own self. The tequila was taking hold. The planchette slid upward and then came swooping back down before stopping on NO.
“Now you’re just being a bunch of bitches,” Amy spat.
“I’m not moving it!” Maggie squealed.
“Me neither,” added Carol.
“Whatever.”
The planchette sat quietly, waiting.
“Do you have a name?” Amy asked.
The oracle slid over. YES.
“Will you tell us?”
NO.
Amy looked up at Maggie and Carol and scowled. “What, neither of you can come up with a decent name?”
“I told you,” Maggie said, “I’m not moving it.”
“Just ask another question,” Carol said.
“Initials then?”
The planchette swung to the S, and then over to an N.
Amy’s brow creased and her nose wrinkled. “S-N?”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Oh good God, this is boring.”
“Then you ask the questions!”
“I will. Alright,” she said, and that mischievous sparkle came back into her eyes. “OK, let’s get serious. Do you know everything?”
The oracle slid to YES.
“Cocky bastard,” Amy said. Maggie ignored her.
“Then tell me which one of us bitches is going to kick the bucket first?”
Even with the heat of the fire at her back, Carol shuddered. “Maggie…” she almost whimpered.
“It’s just for fun, remember. Come on,” she said to the board, “tell me.”
For a moment the oracle sat silent, while they sat on the edge of their seat. And for a moment, Carol thought maybe there would be no answer, that they’d put away the stupid game and drink more tequila and smoke more weed and wish they were twenty years younger. Then, the planchette began to move.
It circled in broad swoops, diving and rising, and the sound of its padded legs on the wooden board drilled into Carol’s mind. For a second the oracle passed over the M, and seemed to slow. But it did not stop. It sped up, in fact, and circled around again, moving so quickly that Carol almost lost her grip. Then it slowed, almost to a crawl. The A came within its glass. It slowed… slowed… slowed… but it never quite stopped. It swooped up, flew down, and made a hard right turn.
Carol let go of the oracle and flipped the board into the air. Maggie and Amy were too shocked to react.
“This is stupid. I’m going to bed.”
She had already slammed the door of her bedroom behind her by the time Maggie called out her name. Carol couldn’t hear her. All she could think was that the planchette had been heading directly toward the C.
* * *
The next morning Carol got up, showered, and put on her hiking clothes before she went down for breakfast. Maggie had mentioned wanting to explore the woods behind the cabin. It was the only good idea she’d had on this trip, as far as Carol was concerned. She could smell the bacon cooking before she saw Amy in the kitchen bent over the stove. Maggie was drinking coffee and reading the paper. She looked up when Carol rounded the corner.
“Hey, kiddo,” she said, smiling. “You ready to hit the trails?”
“Sure. But I’m starving.”
It was as if the night before hadn’t happened. They ate bacon and pancakes and fried eggs and talked about nothing in particular.
When breakfast was finished, they filled their backpacks with bottles of water and trail mix and stepped out into the crisp morning.
It was quiet on the lake. During the summer, the water would be covered in craft of every kind, from pontoon boats which served as little more than floating bars to speedboats that flew across the waves dragging adventurous college students behind them. But today, there was hardly anyone, only a lone fishing boat on the far end, so distant that even the gentle lapping of the waves caused it to disappear every few seconds.
Maggie led them into the woods, and Carol had to admit that the tapestry of multicolored leaves that clung to dying branches and carpeted the forest floor was striking. It might not have been the trip she would have chosen, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t impressed.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? My parents used to bring me up here every fall.”
“I didn’t know that,” Amy said.
“Yeah, it was before I started school. When I was just a little girl. After that, we only came in the summer.”
A breeze played the music of the season among the limbs of the trees, just a kiss of coming winter riding on it. Birds winged above the forested canopy heading south to warmer climes. She couldn’t see them, but Carol could hear whatever creatures called the woodlands home scurrying beneath and among the fallen leaves.
“I’m glad we came here,” Carol said. “This is perfect.”
“So where are we going?” Amy asked.
The path had cut across a small stream and had now begun to ascend.
“Bald Mountain,” said Maggie.
Amy and Carol shared a curious glance.
“Bald Mountain?” Amy said. “What’s that?”
“Don’t worry, chubs. It’s more of a hill really.”
Amy let the insult pass. It was easy for her. That she was the fittest—and the thinnest—of the group was beyond dispute. “Yeah,” she said, “but how did it get that name?”
“You’ll see.”
So they climbed. It was a gentle, winding ascent, and Carol didn’t mind. The forest had enchanted her, and she wondered that she had ever, even in the darkness of night, felt it to be foreboding.
They had been climbing for perhaps an hour when the forest ended. It wasn’t that the trees began to thin or taper out; they simply ceased, a ring of stones marking their limit. The ground became rocky and barren, and the path cut through terrain that was utterly devoid of life as it ascended to the crest of the hill, now visible to them.
“What the hell…” Amy mumbled.
“Crazy, right?”
“What happened?” Carol asked as Maggie stepped over the stone circle and continued along the path. The others followed her, albeit with some reluctance.
“Nobody really knows, to be honest with you. It’s just always been thi
s way, since the first Europeans showed up in Maine. They guess the Indians did it, though all the local tribes hated the place. So maybe somebody who came before? It’s our own little mystery. Anyway, they still don’t know what they did to the soil, but nothing will grow here. Not beyond the stones.”
“That’s wild.”
“Just wait till you get to the top.”
The air had shifted, and Carol’s mood with it. What had been a relaxing jaunt through the forest had changed once they reached the hilltop. The day had not been warm, but now it had turned downright cold, and Carol pulled her coat tight around her body. She found herself gasping for breath. The hill was not all that steep, and Carol was in reasonably good shape, but every step was harder than the last to take. By the time they reached the summit, she was exhausted.
What she saw took her remaining breath away.
In any other setting, it would have been the view that she found stunning. Bald Mountain was the tallest of the foothills all the way to the horizon, and from their perch the three women could gaze out upon the entirety of the lake and the forested valleys and rises surrounding it. But it was not nature that drew her eye; it was the great, rough-hewn circle of stone that crowned the hill which held them in its grasp.
“Ta-da!” Maggie said, smiling. Amy and Carol did not react. “Isn’t it amazing?” She prodded. “I found it when I was a kid.”
“It’s amazing,” Amy whispered.
Maggie moved within the circle of stone and the other women followed.
“How come I’ve never heard of this?” said Carol. Maggie shrugged.
“A couple of kids came up with their professor from U Maine to study it once. Nothing ever came of it, I guess. There are these stone rings on hilltops all over New England.”
Carol ran her hand down one of the rock pillars. It was cold, so very cold. In the center of the circle was another stone, one that lay on its side and formed a kind of table. There was a deep groove cut into the surface at one end, and Carol wondered what kind of tool possessed by the primitive people who built this megalith could have made that indentation. Beyond the groove was a large hole drilled down into the rock. Carol might have wondered what this was for, but the answer was in the fallen headpiece that lay in the dirt beside the slab—the stone dowel protruding from its bottom would no doubt slide perfectly into the hole.
The Fiddle is the Devils Instrument Page 6
