The Spirit Wood

by Robert Masello

  “You won't believe what's going on now,” she said to Byron. She tried, despite her own uneasiness, to make it sound relatively innocent. But Byron hardly waited for her to finish before he blurted out, “Why don't you get Peter's mother and a suitcase, and go see that friend of yours you visited in New York—Jackie?—for a day or two? Just until all this blows over?”

  “Because aside from all else, By, I'd have to give Jackie a little more notice than that. And it looks like a pretty major storm is blowing in. That,” she added, “should put an end to the festivities.”

  Byron wasn't placated. When he realized he could not persuade her to leave altogether, he insisted instead that she stay in the house, locked in her room if necessary. Meg remembered the night Peter had caught her in the shower. What if Byron hadn't been there to come to the rescue? It chilled her to think of it, even now.

  Especially now.

  “By, thanks again for the sweatshirt. I've got to go now.” She had to stay at least this night at Arcadia, and getting more scared than she already was would be no help at all. She was worried enough about Mrs. Constantine. She felt as if she was trying to keep the lid on a pot ready to boil over. “If anything happens, I'll call you. I promise.” Though what good it would do, with Byron over two thousand miles away . . .

  “Call me anyway. Even if nothing happens. I miss you. I'll be in all night.”

  He'd wanted to say more, but Meg knew why he hadn't; right now he wanted to leave her with a warning, an alert. “Be careful” was the one message he wanted her to remember.

  From the balcony, Meg could make out even less than before. The sky was sullen, and a cool breeze, presaging the storm, rippled the canvas tent. There was still music and laughter and voices. And in the boathouse, passing across the lighted window, a shape. Or shadow. Someone was in there right now, someone who had picked the lock. Possibly the same person who had wrecked the model of Dodger.

  Who was it? Who was responsible for that little bit of sabotage? This was one question, Meg suddenly decided, that she would find the answer to. One puzzle that she could unravel. And doing something, taking some action, was preferable to cowering in the house all night.

  Before she could change her mind, she quickly put on a pair of jeans, sneakers, and the Cumberland University sweatshirt Byron had sent her. In black and gold, the school colors. Her rubber soles squeaking on the marble floors, she scurried out into the hall, then down the long flight of stairs. She was just turning toward the back of the house, one hand still pivoting on the banister, when she realized what was wrong, the change that she had sensed before.

  The mosaic was different: the goddess was now holding the water jug, not reaching for it; the curly-haired hunter had dropped the leash restraining his dogs and was bending forward, his skin discolored a muddy brown. From his head sprouted a pair of antlers, sketched in jagged stems of black pebbles. It was the next act in the story that Byron had told, and it was here, in the mosaic, now.

  How it could have been accomplished—or when—Meg couldn't imagine. Instinctively, she backed away from the spot on the floor, her eyes still glued to it. In the kitchen, she took a steak knife from one of the drawers and stuck it under her belt. She felt ridiculous. And better.

  The wind outside was stronger now and blew her hair back over her shoulders. There was no one in sight; the gazebo was deserted, the huge tent empty except for the rows of folded-up chairs. It was already hard to believe that there'd been so much activity out here such a short time before. And yet, some sense of motion still lingered in the air. As Meg moved swiftly down the lawn toward the water—as black and shiny now as the floor of the “skating rink"—she felt an electricity, an animation, all around her. She felt, though she couldn't see anyone, that she wasn't alone. When she crept to the boathouse window and peered inside, she knew it.

  At first, all she could see were the tops of their heads, one—judging from the hair—Anita's; the other, Angelos's. Anita's naked legs were hanging off one end of the worktable. Angelos, his fat shoulders gleaming white in the overhead light, was bearing down on her, grunting. Broken pottery was everywhere; the shelves near the door had been toppled. Anita's head twisted from side to side in apparent rapture; colored notecards were strewn across the table. Meg was still staring, dumbfounded, when Angelos leaned back again, his enormous soft belly resting on Anita's body, his hands prying her thighs apart. He looked blearily toward the window.

  Meg jerked away; had he seen her? From the light to the dark, it would have been hard. She scrambled on all fours around the corner of the building. Lightning shimmered over the bay. At the end of the dock, an arm reached up lazily out of the water, as if doing a backstroke, then disappeared. Meg waited, to see it come up again. But it didn't. In the boathouse, she heard a pot shattering, and Anita's laugh, harsh, ecstatic.

  Meg clutched at the handle of the knife. How many others were there, still on the estate? Angelos—his bare chest was so fat it had looked as though he had breasts of his own. With angry, red nipples. Anita Simon?

  The arm appeared in the water again. Then a head, a woman's, sleek black hair. She reached out to the dock and, in one swift, supple motion, lifted herself up. A white dress—she'd been swimming in that?—clung to her like a sheath, nearly down to her ankles. She dug her fingers into her wet hair, fluffing it out, then skipped like a schoolgirl down the dock. Meg crouched in the shadow of the boathouse. The girl pranced across the fringe of the lawn and vanished into the trees on its western edge.

  Meg had only a second to decide. Still clinging low to the ground, she skirted the boathouse, ran to the trees; the girl's white dress was just visible ten yards ahead, weaving through the brush. Meg followed. The last light was just leaving the sky. The girl moved quickly, easily; Meg's sweatshirt caught on brambles and low-hanging branches. Twigs snapped under her feet, but the girl, never turning, must not have heard.

  Meg knew, even before she smelled the charcoal or heard the first faint notes of the pipe, where she was being led. The secret grove, with the burnt circle. For a moment, she considered stopping, going back. Then the girl disappeared, down a steep embankment, and Meg was scuttling through the brush again, after her. Once and for all, she'd know what was going on. No more mysteries. Not after tonight.

  There was a rumble of thunder that the music seemed to welcome and respond to. The girl was gone, or so far ahead Meg had lost her. Not that it mattered anymore. Through the trees, Meg could see a bright ring of light and hear voices. An unusual laugh, a quick rat-a-tat, that sounded like Lazaroff's. A strumming, too, of something like a banjo, or a bouzouki—that was it. She'd heard it on movie soundtracks. Zorba the Greek.

  Occasionally, a bleating, muffled.

  She moved more stealthily as she approached the glade, then stopped five or six feet away from the perimeter. From that vantage she could see some of the circle framed between the slender trunks of two small trees. She crossed her arms over her chest, to conceal the gold lettering and insignia on the front of the sweatshirt; thank God the rest of it was black.

  In the glade she saw a circle of dancers, hands linked, their backs turned to her. As they passed across her limited field of vision, she recognized Jack Caswell—then the blond girl—Ginny—that Lazaroff had brought, Stan Simon, Joan, Leah, and Nikos, playing his pipes. They were all half-naked, what clothes they still had on billowing open or hanging by a thread. Beyond them, on the far side of the glowing, smoldering circle, she saw Kesseogolou, his own shirt off, merrily accompanying Nikos on the bouzouki. The dancers were shouting, laughing wildly, and moving clumsily to the music; Caswell dropped out of the circle, picked a wine skin from the ground, and throwing back his head, shot a jet of purple wine into his mouth. His steel-rimmed spectacles sparkled in the glow of the hot coals.

  “To Arcadia!” he cried, waving the skin vaguely toward the side of the glade Meg couldn't see. “And a good long run this time!”

  A large raindrop spattered Meg's forehead; sh
e wiped it away with the sleeve of the sweatshirt.

  “Proseleni!” Kesseogolou shouted, his hat tilted back, sweat shining on his face.

  “To a vanguard of cultured men,” Jack declaimed, lolling back on his elbows, his pants undone and falling open, “leading the rest toward enlightenment!” He laughed, snatched hold of Ginny's foot, dragged her down. He yanked her halter top up and over her shoulders. Lazaroff, unseen, laughed. So did Joan. Caswell rolled on top of her. Joan swung herself around to face Nikos—my God, Meg thought, he's as hairy as an ape—and with her skirt flung aside, clamped her bare thighs around his waist. Nikos galloped around the glade, still tootling his horn, like a horse with a trick rider. Stan Simon swatted her on the rump as they passed.

  The girl in the white dress appeared, from the far side of the glade, and swatted him in turn, playfully, with what looked like a long feathery duster. Golden and shaggy. Stan grabbed for it—more furry than feathery, Meg realized—but she jumped away, leading him, in only his shirt and socks, around the bed of hot coals.

  She taunted him in Greek, twitching the fan at his crotch.

  It was no fan. From the way it wagged, Meg could tell what it was. It was Dodger's missing tail. The girl held it by its charred stump.

  Stan wagged his penis back at her.

  There was a crack of thunder and a sudden, powerful gust of wind. A shower of raindrops penetrated the branches overhead. The bleating that Meg had heard earlier was renewed. Kesseogolou laughed, announced something, again in Greek, and put down the bouzouki.

  “We will not celebrate alone tonight,” he said, glancing up at the turbulent sky. He hobbled toward the center of the glade; the others fell away, and subsided.

  “The revels have begun again,” he announced. “The earth is new and the races mingle.” His eye fell on Nikos, ravishing Joan Caswell in the shadows. “Soon we will even have a larger home, another sanctuary. For this, we have Alex to thank—esto en erine—” then, looking to his left, where Meg couldn't see, “and, of course, the new master of Arcadia.”

  Nikos let out a howl, like a wolf, and flopped to the earth, spent and panting. Everyone laughed.

  “It's time,” Kesseogolou said, the wind picking up sparks from the cinder bed and blowing them, like fireflies, toward Meg's hiding place.

  Leah, stark naked now except for a silver band wound around her arm, led a goat with shaggy gray fur toward the center of the glade. Caswell and Ginny rolled away, making room. There were ivy vines twisted around the goat's jaws, muffling its terror, and a brass wreath, made to look like wheat stalks, draped around its neck. Its legs, too, were bound with strips of vine, so that it could advance only haltingly, a few inches at a time.

  Peter, dressed just as he'd been at the auction, followed.

  The goat stood stock-still, several feet from the coals. Leah and the other girl, who could almost be her twin, went to Peter and began to undress him. Leah knelt, removing his shoes, while the other, from behind, unbuttoned his loose shirt. He was as hairy as Nikos now. But his hair was curly black.

  Meg put her hand to her mouth; rain ran down her fingertips.

  Leah, still on her knees, unfastened his belt buckle and drew down his baggy pants.

  Kesseogolou produced a goblet, shaped like a horn, and placed it on the ground under the goat's muzzle.

  Peter, with Leah's arms clasped loosely around his loins, stepped out of his trousers.

  Kesseogolou pulled back the goat's head and, with a carving knife Meg recognized from her own kitchen, slit its throat. The blood spurted, then streamed, into the waiting goblet.

  Leah turned to watch, sitting on the grass. Peter moved closer to the glowing coals. In the light, his legs were furry, shaggy as the dying goat's . . . and jointed like the goat's, bent backwards at the knee! They ended in hooves, pearly gray and cloven.

  Meg screamed, and leapt to her feet. Kesseogolou saw her. Then Peter did, too—under the brim of the sailor cap he still wore, his eyes were yellow, slitted. Before he could move, Meg bolted. She tore through the brush and up the embankment. The steak knife pricked her thigh. She scrambled through the wet brush, slipping and sliding on the damp ground. The wind rattled the boughs overhead, sending sheets of water cascading down. The sleeve of her sweatshirt caught, and ripped, on a thorny bush; the woods were alive all around her, shaking and sighing with the force of the storm.

  She burst onto the lawn again, just above the tent; one pole had collapsed, and a corner of the wet canvas slapped repeatedly at the chairs it had already overturned. All the lights in the house were on; they shone on the fountain, the phallic satyr—his stream exultantly arcing now over the lip of the reflecting pool.

  Mrs. Constantine—she'd have to get Mrs. Constantine. And the car keys.

  She slipped past the fountain, warily, and into the “skating rink.” The candles on the iron tripods were all burning.

  She couldn't have seen it. It couldn't have happened.

  In the foyer, she stopped to catch her breath. “Ellie!” she cried, leaning on the bottom of the banister. “Ellie!”

  By the time she got upstairs, Mrs. Constantine was coming out of her room, ghostly pale and disheveled.

  “What? What is it?”

  “We're leaving. Now. Go downstairs.”

  “But my things . . .”

  Meg had already charged into the master bedroom, grabbed her purse with the car keys. She took Mrs. Constantine by the arm, hurried her, too confused to protest, down the stairs.

  “Oh, my God . . .” Mrs. Constantine had seen the mosaic. Meg looked, too: now it was a bloodied stag, rearing up, attacked by two dogs.

  “Meg? . . .” Mrs. Constantine asked, bewildered.

  “I know,” Meg said. “I saw it.”

  The car was just outside. Several others were still parked in the drive: the Caswells’, the Simons’, a Jeep that might be Lazaroff's. Mrs. Constantine got in, pressed the lever to recline her seat. Her breathing was irregular, shallow.

  Meg started the car, fumbled for the parking brake, the lights, the windshield wipers. The sky lit up like a photographer's flash, then exploded in a crack of thunder. A plastic cup, left from the auction, skittered and flew across the gravel drive.

  “What's happened?” Mrs. Constantine mumbled, her eyes closed.

  Meg's window was jammed and wouldn't go up. “Everything,” Meg replied, “everything's happened. Everything you predicted.” How could she explain what she couldn't believe? What good would it do?

  “Where are we going?”

  Meg gave up on the window, steered the car around the crescent of the drive. “Out,” she said. “Just out.”

  In the rearview mirror, she saw the great gray bulk of the house, its windows lighted, its doors gaping open—someone was standing between them, arms outspread. She sped around the first turn; the house was eclipsed behind the trees.

  Would they pursue? Were they around her even now? The rain sluiced down the windshield, too fast for the wipers, and drummed like angry fingers on the hood of the car. The violence of the storm, increasing every second, seemed to have aroused the forest itself to equal fury. Branches flailed at the sides of the car, scraping the metal, scratching against the glass.

  Where were they going? Not far, not in this. Meg glanced over at her passenger. Mrs. Constantine was terribly still, rigid. The hospital, Three Towns General—she'd have to go there. First.

  As soon as she'd gotten them out of Arcadia.

  The driveway, circuitous and difficult at any time, was almost impossible now, in the darkness, with the tires spinning in the soaked gravel, and everything on all sides distractingly animated. Meg tried to concentrate on the road, but out of the corner of her eye she kept imagining—or seeing—a flash of white, a glint of silver. Or a black shape, blacker even than the impenetrable forest, scuttling along parallel to the drive. She cranked at her open window again, got it up another inch before she lost her grip on the wet handle. Above the wailing of the wind,
she thought she heard, hollow as an echo, a high-pitched, long-sustained whistle.

  They were chasing her. She worked the knife free of her belt, laid it across her lap.

  Something darted across the drive, just beyond the headlights. She switched to high beams, to try to catch it. But it was gone.

  One more turn, she told herself. One more turn in the drive, and then it would be a straight shot to the gates.

  There was too much reflection from the rain; she switched back to the low beams.

  She came around the last bend, broken branches littering the gravel and crackling under the tires. She reached up and pressed the electric gate release just as she saw the uprooted tree, half its trunk splintered down the middle, leaning on the iron gates like a drunken giant. Behind the leaves, where the lock would be, she saw a blue spark sputter.

  “Oh, Christ.”

  Mrs. Constantine's eyes opened.

  “It can't be, it can't, it can't,” Meg said, pressing and pressing the release button. The car stopped.

  “It's blocked?” Mrs. Constantine said, almost inaudibly. She saw the knife in Meg's lap. She was starting to say something when the trunk of the car suddenly jounced down, and she screamed.

  There was a sharp clatter, a crack in the rear window, then a dent—punched right through the roof, shattering the dome light—as something scrambled up and over the car. Pounced on the hood, and turned.

  Mrs. Constantine screamed again.

  Peter slid down, over the front bumper. His eyes gleamed like gold; his hat was gone. There were two tiny horns poking up at the front of his skull.

  Meg pumped at her window. He came around to her side, reaching toward her. She picked up the knife.