Blackbriar

by William Sleator

  The woods were mostly pine, and on this day the pathway was flecked with brilliant patches of sunlight. The other trees were still bare, but there was so much green that it really didn’t feel like winter at all. He began to walk more slowly, and soon stopped altogether. What was that noise, over to the left? It sounded a bit like the wind in the trees, but seemed to come from one particular spot. He left the path and began to walk through the trees, following the sound. There was no underbrush, the ground was covered with pine needles, and the trees were not very close together, so that he had no trouble making his way. The patches of sunlight danced when the wind blew.

  The sound grew louder, more distinct. The ground began to slope steeply down, and soon he was sliding on the needles, grabbing trees for support.

  At the bottom of the gully was a brook. Here, its sound was very loud, almost drowning out everything else. The water was perfectly clear, he could see the stony bottom, and it splashed and churned over mossy rocks, making small, foamy waterfalls. The sun sparkled on its surface. He squatted at the edge and dipped in his hand, then quickly pulled it out. The water was icy.

  I’ve got to show this to Lark, he thought, as proud of his discovery as if he had made the brook himself. Do brooks come from springs? he wondered. Maybe I’ll find the beginning if I follow it up the hillside. He stood up and started off along its edge. It was fascinating to watch the different waterfalls, the different patterns the brook made as it raced down the hill. As he went on, he saw places where the brook was fed by tiny trickles of water sliding down to it over slippery rocks. Occasionally he had to step from rock to rock in the brook itself, when there was no room to walk along the edge. It was cold under the trees, but the patches of sunlight were warm on his forehead.

  The surrounding countryside soon became very familiar to him, for he began to spend as little time as possible at home. At night, however, he could not stay away—and at night he would lie awake and listen. Above the sounds of Philippa tossing in bed, above the sound of her snores, he listened for noises from the basement, or at the cellar door. He heard the creaking of the house, and the wind and the rain, and the scuffling of all the mice that Islington no longer chased. But from the tunnel there was an ominous silence.

  When he slept, he dreamed, always. And the dreams were the same, but more terrifying, more real. The room was longer, the window farther away, the bodies were warm and clutched him more roughly. And he waited, as he struggled through them, for the laughter that would end the dream. For the laughter was familiar, almost comforting now, and he longed for it to last as it faded away in the darkness . . .

  “What were you and Lark doing while I was at the hairdresser’s that day?”

  Danny set down his glass of milk. “Nothing.”

  “You must have been doing something.”

  “I don’t know. What difference does it make? It took us a long time to walk up here, then we lit the lamps and built the fires and everything, and . . . went for a little walk, then we just sat by the fire and talked.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I don’t remember. Nothing important. Why does it matter so much?”

  “It matters so much because you’ve been different lately. You were both different that night. As though you were hiding something. What did she tell you?”

  “Nothing!’’

  Philippa pushed away her half-eaten lamb chop and lit a cigarette. “I wonder if we ever should have come here at all. It’s changed you. And that girl’s been part of it. I should have known what she was like. She’s made you secretive and two-faced.”

  “She has not. We’re just friends. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Everything in her case. I don’t want you seeing her anymore.”

  “How interesting. But I happen to want to see her, and I don’t care what you say. And may I ask what’s so terrible about her?”

  “Look at the way she’s been brought up. No mother, an irresponsible artist for a father—”

  “What makes you think he’s irresponsible?”

  “—traipsing in and out of that pub whenever she likes, going to that awful country school, never learning any manners.”

  “She always helps out when she’s here.”

  “Well, she’s not coming here anymore.”

  “But what has she done?”

  “You two have secrets. I’m sure you know something about this house that I don’t know. I’m sure you know something about poor Islington. She must know about Lord . . . Lord Barley, or whatever his name is, she’s been living here for so long. Why do you have to keep secrets from me?”

  “But I don’t know any more than you.”

  “Then why do you always make sure the cellar door is latched before you go to bed?”

  “Do I?” he said, taken aback. He hadn’t realized she had noticed. “I don’t know why. Because that basement scares me, I suppose. You know I’ve always thought it was creepy down there.”

  “Oh, you may be very glib, but I know you’re keeping something from me, and I can’t bear it. I won’t allow it!”

  “Look,” Danny said, strangely calm, “I am getting very tired of the way you constantly pick at me and tell me what to do and pry into every little corner of my life. And no matter what you say, I’m simply not going to put up with it anymore. There’s no reason in the world why I should let you treat me this way. Do you want the rest of your lamb chop?”

  For a moment, Philippa gazed blankly at him with her mouth half opened, and it suddenly dawned on Danny what he had just said. His natural impulse was quickly to say something that would soften the impact of his words; but before he had a chance to think what he might say, Philippa rose from the table. “Here,” she said, pushing her plate toward him, “take it.” And, almost as if she had been hit, she stumbled from the room.

  18

  And then, picking up firewood one afternoon, he noticed something green starting to push its way up out of the ground. It was only the smallest beginning of a leaf, but he had been waiting so long for something like this that he was suddenly bursting to tell someone. As he hurried back to the house he felt a quick wave of compassion for Philippa. Maybe this will make her feel better, he thought, she has been having it pretty rough lately.

  “Guess what?” he called as he staggered inside and dropped the wood in a heap on the hearth. “Guess what I saw in the woods?”

  There was no answer.

  Oh, God, is she still sulking? he thought. “Hey, I have some good news,” he called again. “Philippa?” He noticed that she hadn’t lit the fire, which was odd. It was usually blazing when he got back with the wood. And one of the chairs was pushed back from the hearth, wrinkling the rug underneath it.

  In the kitchen, there was a pan of potatoes on the oil stove, but no flame under them. The fire in the coal stove was almost out.

  “Philippa!” he called again. She never lets the stove go out, he thought, and suddenly he felt afraid.

  He ran up the stairs two at a time. The second floor was as empty as the first. He started to call her name again, from her bedroom, but stopped. His mind filled with all kinds of possibilities. She’s probably just gone for a walk, he told himself.

  The sun was setting, and her room was becoming very dark. Outside, the car sagged tiredly at the edge of the woods. He had never felt so alone. I’ve got to light the lamps all by myself, he thought idly. Now there was only one more place to look.

  Downstairs, he took the flashlight from its kitchen shelf. He didn’t want to turn it on, because that would mean it was truly night now; but when he reached the cellar door his finger moved almost automatically. “Mary Peachy” stood out in the sudden oval of light, and trying not to think, he quickly pulled open the door.

  He kept his mind a blank as he walked slowly down the damp steps, not wanting them to end. He stopped on the last step and flashed his light into the corner.

  The bedspring had been pushed away and was lying flat on the fl
oor about three feet from the wall. The little door hung loosely on its hinges. Numbly, he walked across the room. Lying just outside the passageway, on the cellar floor was a silver chain. It was Islington’s collar.

  “Oh, no,” he said aloud. “Oh, no. Why was I so stupid, why, why, why?” He closed his eyes and let the flashlight dangle from his hand. “Why?” he moaned again. Almost as clearly as if he had been there, he imagined Philippa and Islington being dragged through the door. Did she fight? Were they rough? Did they have to knock her out? He put his hand over his eyes and shook his head slowly back and forth. And what was happening to her now?

  There was a sudden, loud banging on the front door.

  He almost dropped the flashlight. And truly unable to think, to imagine who it could be, he dashed up the steps, through the dark living room, and swung open the door.

  A policeman stood there, and a man in a gray business suit. Danny’s immediate relief at seeing a policeman at this particular moment was followed at once by the fear that he must have some terrible news about Philippa. And the man in the suit, why was he so strangely, distantly familiar?

  “Mr. Daniel Chilton?” the policeman said. The man in the suit was staring at Danny.

  “What happened?” Danny gasped.

  “You are the one who knows that, I’m afraid,” said the man, drawing his heavy brows together.

  “What? What do you—?” But suddenly Danny realized who the man was, and his heart sank. “Oh,” he said quietly, “hello, Mr. Bexford.”

  “May we come in, please?” said the lawyer. “This has been quite a trip, I must say.” He peered inside. “Why are there no lights on? And where is Mrs. Sibley, may I ask?”

  “Oh,” Danny said again, now at a total loss for words. He thought of the chair pushed back by the hearth, of the open door in the basement and the fallen bedspring. “I haven’t had time to light the lamps yet. And Philippa isn’t here. She—went to the hairdresser.”

  “I see,” Mr. Bexford said. His voice was shaking. “She walked all the way down the hill from this primitive, godforsaken hole and into Dunchester. Or has she acquired two Land Rovers since I last heard from you?”

  “I—she—we like to walk. It’s healthy. That’s one of the reasons why we came here, so we could walk, and be in the country, and—”

  “That madwoman!” He turned to the policeman, who seemed somewhat taken aback. “How inconceivably irresponsible to bring a child out to a place like this. Why, it’s incredible, it’s—”

  “Now wait a minute,” Danny said. “She’s not irresponsible, she just thought—”

  “But where is she, young man? It’s her responsibility to take care of you, you know.”

  “She really is at the hairdresser,” Danny insisted. “She should be back soon . . .” How warm it is tonight, Danny thought. He was still standing in the open doorway, and could feel himself beginning to sweat.

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t really give a damn where she is,” Mr. Bexford was saying. “This is the end, as far as I’m concerned. The end. I’m going to get you away from her so fast you won’t know what’s happened. And don’t you dare contradict me! It is irresponsible to take a child away from school and out to a place like this. What do you know about such things anyway?”

  “I’m sorry,” Danny said, trying to think what would be the best thing to say, and knowing that he had to be polite. “It’s just that . . .” How awkward it feels to be standing in the doorway, he thought. But I can’t let them in. And then he noticed something strange far over to the right, above the trees. “It’s just that I think you’re mistaken about her, sir. I’ve passed my ‘O’ levels, and she thought a holiday in the country would be good for me. And I’ve been studying . . . I feel much better here—”

  “I don’t want your flimsy excuses. I just want you to pack your things and come with me, right now.”

  “Now? But I can’t!”

  “What do you mean, you can’t? Why can’t you?”

  “I . . . I just can’t. I . . . there’s something I have to do.”

  “What do you have to do that could possibly be more important than coming back with me, getting your finances in order, and enrolling in a decent school? The more you balk, you know, the worse it’s going to be for you.”

  “Please, please,” Danny begged. “Just let me stay a few more days, one more day, just till tomorrow. I’ve got to!” Yes, there was definitely a strange light, a bit like sunset, over there above the trees. But the sun has already set, he thought, and that isn’t west anyway.

  “I’m sorry, young fellow,” the policeman was saying, “but I have instructions to bring you back with him. I think you’d better get moving now.”

  Almost frantic, Danny suddenly remembered a distant television show. “Do you have a warrant?” he said.

  “Well, no, I don’t, we didn’t expect—”

  “Then, please,” Danny said, “both of you, go away.”

  “What?” Mr. Bexford gasped.

  “Just go away!” Danny cried, and slammed the door in their faces.

  He backed up and leaned against the wall as they pounded on the door. “Come out!” Mr. Bexford cried. “I’m your legal guardian, you impudent little monster! Do you dare tell us to go away? Do you dare?”

  “Sir,” the policeman said gently, “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. It is the lady’s house, you know, she’s signed the lease, we’ve seen the document, and we can’t break in without a warrant.”

  “We’ll be back!” Mr. Bexford shouted. “As soon as we get that warrant we’ll drive right back up this hill—”

  “But perhaps not tonight,” the policeman interrupted in a loud whisper. “They might not want us to take the car up again tonight, it’s not that urgent. It’s not as if he was a criminal, you know.”

  “We’ll be back!” Mr. Bexford cried. “You won’t get away from me again!” Muttering, they moved away. Danny heard a motor starting up, wondering why he hadn’t heard it before, and listened to it grow fainter as it bumped off down the hill.

  And then he paced the floor in the dark room, the flashlight still glowing in his hand. He paced the floor and tried to organize the thoughts that were spinning through his head. He had to forget about these men and try to figure out what to do about Philippa. The tunnel, should he go through the tunnel, did he have to go through the tunnel?

  He stopped. What was that noise? Where was it coming from? His teeth were chattering uncontrollably. It didn’t sound as if it were coming from the tunnel. And then he remembered the strange light he had seen, off above the tumuli.

  He raced to front door and peered outside. Far off to the right the jagged black shapes of the trees were outlined against a red glow. Swirling smoke was disappearing into the dark sky. A hollow, rhythmic beat floated through the stillness, faintly filling the deserted yard. The birds were silent, and even the wind seemed to have stopped. The only sounds were the deep, pulsing beats, and occasional, almost inhuman cries.

  For a moment he stood motionless in the doorway. The rhythm seemed to fill his head, to push out everything but its beckoning, mesmerizing call. He struggled against it, and finally tore himself back into the house and slammed the door. But it was hardly better inside. The drumbeats penetrated through the thick stone walls, and as he paced about in the dark room the house itself seemed to become part of the rhythm. He tried to think, to see his situation clearly, to decide what to do. But he could only wander helplessly around the room and watch the bizarre, terrifying images that raced through his head to the rhythm of the drums.

  How long he remained like this he didn’t know. Perhaps it was only a short while, but to him it seemed a timeless hell. He cursed himself for not telling the truth to the policeman. He cursed himself for not running immediately into the tunnel. But perhaps it was a trap. Perhaps Philippa was dead.

  Finally there was the sound of light footsteps outside, of a hesitant knock. It was the most refreshing sound he ha
d ever heard. Not caring who it was, just so long as it would end this awful time, he flung open the door.

  He was blinded by a bright flashlight beam. “Danny!” Lark gasped. “You look awful! What have you been doing?”

  “Oh, God,” he said, “thank God you came.”

  And while Danny talked, breathlessly, ceaselessly, Lark darted inside, began lighting candles, and by the time he had finished there was a small, bright fire and they were both holding steaming cups of tea. And the drumbeats, though still audible, were distant now, somewhere far away, outside the house.

  “I don’t know what was wrong with me,” he groaned, “I couldn’t think or do anything. I just wandered around so stupidly. Those drums got inside of me. I must have wasted so much precious time, with Philippa probably in some terrible situation, and it’s all my fault.”

  “I don’t think it was that long,” she said gently. “I raced up here as soon as I noticed the first fire, and it couldn’t have taken me more than half an hour. And don’t keep saying it’s all your fault; we both thought it was better not to tell her, and who expected them to take her away?”

  “But we’ve got to act fast,” Danny said. Was it the hot tea that made him feel suddenly in control of the situation? “The most important thing is what is happening to Philippa. Obviously, she’s got to be wherever the tunnel goes to—which is probably Harleigh Manor, right?”

  “Everything seems to point to that, and I can’t think of anywhere else it could possibly go.”

  “And it seems to me that Lord Harleigh, and whoever else he’s involved with, must have some relation to whatever is going on at the tumuli now. I mean, it would be too much of a coincidence for them to take Philippa away on the same night if they had no connection to it.”