She thought how lions stalked a herd of deer, and how one deer would become hypnotised, or was singled out because it was already in some way impaired and slow. How the lions brought the deer down. And then the rest of the herd settled, and began again to feed innocently on the grass, alongside the lions feeding on the meat of the dead deer.
Arrigo and Gina still smiled, but they did not touch her. No need for it now. Instead they took off their own sunglasses, as if to see her better.
Their eyes were not as she had imagined. They were small and round and brilliant blood-red beads, without pupil or white, set in swivelling scaly portholes. The eyes of lizards. And their strawberry tongues (lizardlike) flicked in and out two or three times. Tasting.
‘Oh,’ Chrissie said, blankly.
Arrigo and Gina dissolved. They shimmered away, they and their horrible radioactive beauty and their reptile eyes and their satisfaction.
And Chrissie once more looked back towards the policemen, who remained exactly where they were. Waiting, perhaps, as Chrissie did, to see whether or not she too could impossibly grow transparent and vanish, or if she was only a human English woman, who had premeditatedly and viciously murdered a man in the hotel, her motives clear as day, and who was too fucking stupid to have covered up her tracks.
Tanith Lee began writing at the age of nine and became a full-time writer in 1975 when DAW Books published her novel The Birthgrave. Since then she has written and published around sixty novels, nine collections and over two hundred short stories. She also had four radio plays broadcast during the late 1970s, and early ‘8os, and scripted two episodes of the cult BBC-TV series Blakes 7. She has twice won the World Fantasy Award for short fiction and was awarded the British Fantasy Society’s August Derleth Award in 1980 for her novel Death’s Master. In 1998 she was shortlisted for the Guardian Award for Children’s Fiction for her novel Law of the Wolf Tower, the first volume in the ‘Claidi Journal’ series. More recently, Tor Books has published White as Snow, the author’s retelling of the Snow White story, while Overlook Press has issued A Bed of Earth and Venus Preserved, the third and fourth volumes, respectively, in the ‘Secret Books of Paradys’ series. She is currently working on a sequel to her novel The Silver Metal Lover for Bantam Books. ‘Two of the hours of day that fascinate me the most are sunset and noon,’ reveals the author. ‘But there has always been something sinister, perhaps, about the departure of light, while midday is dangerous, not only now, but always. It is the time of sunstroke, of accident, when eyes are blinded a moment, even fatally, by the raw presence of the sun. Added to this now, the warnings of apparently no longer shielded UV rays. Only mad dogs and Englishmen are stupid enough to dare it. All over the Mediterranean, they resort to the siesta. Is there something more to all this? Some instinct valid as the uneasy alertness encountered in the early hours of morning, or in the ‘tweenlight of dusk? Bright light conceals maybe even better than shadows .. .’
<
The Boy behind the Gate
JAMES VAN PELT
As you are now,
So once was I.
As I am, now,
So you shall be.
Prepare for death and follow me.
from a tombstone in the Central City Cemetery
Central City: Today
Pine tree tops creaked overhead, but the air didn’t move in the granite-strewn gully as Ron hiked up the steep gulch. He consulted his compass then rechecked the map. Another hundred yards above him should be the Golden Ingot #9, and if the rusted mining equipment he’d been climbing over and around for the last ten minutes were any indication, the map was right. He scanned the ground, his eyes aching from sun and dust. The backpack, heavy with a powerful flashlight, rope and bolt-cutters, thumped against his kidneys. Was anything out of the ordinary? Was there any sign? A patch of cloth? A child’s shoe? Could Levi have walked this far? Ron imagined the eight-year-old being towed up the mountain, hand in hand with the stranger who’d taken him. Would Levi have been crying, aware in his little-boy way of the danger he was in?
Ron closed his eyes. He wanted to imagine Levi scared. He hoped he was scared to death because the alternative … Maybe he’d been wrapped in a blanket or a plastic sheet slung over the man’s shoulder. They knew who the man was, Jared Sims, but Levi wouldn’t have known. Ron shivered and continued climbing.
A jumble of cable, thick as his wrist and so rusted that wherever the metal crossed itself it had corroded into one piece, blocked his path. Ron scrambled partly up the gully’s slope around it. Piles of yellow and white mine tailings humped up above him, and soon he topped out to the relative flatness of the claim. The old map he’d photocopied in Central City had shown him where the mine was; it wasn’t marked on the USGS maps. Most of the abandoned mines and shafts had been filled in: too much chance of some tourist wandering around old mining property, snapping pictures of busted-down mills and what was left of miners’ cabins, and then stepping on some rotten boards covering a shaft a hundred feet deep. So over the last twenty years, the state and park service had been closing the properties. Still, the Gilpin County mining district had been huge and thousands of claims had been made. There were hundreds of openings even now for someone to find if he knew where to look: perfect, mysterious holes blasted into the mountain, timeless monuments to long-dead miners’ hopes. Perfect places to hide a little boy you didn’t want found. Here, at the Golden Ingot #9, except for the rust, it could be 1880 again. He half expected to surprise a dozen miners waiting for their turn in the bucket and the long ride down the shaft.
Ron kept his eyes down. Little chance that there’d be a footprint in the yellow gravel, but it didn’t hurt. Maybe Levi would have dropped something for him to find. It seemed years ago, but it was only last winter that Ron had read him The Lord of the Rings. The hobbit, Pippin, had broken from the Orcs and dropped a sign that he was still alive, a beautiful beech-tree-leaf brooch. Levi had said, in his little man’s voice, ‘That was very clever of him, Daddy, wasn’t it?’ Ron remembered Levi’s head resting on his arm while he read. He could almost feel the weight of his little boy leaning against him until they got to the end of the chapter. ‘Read some more, Daddy. Read some more,’ he’d said sleepily.
A pile of boards lying almost flat looked hopeful. Ron lifted the end of one. It creaked as it rose slowly, pulling a dozen nails from the rotted plank beside it. Dust slapped into the air after Ron moved it aside and dropped it. The next one showed a shaft’s edge. A minute later, he’d cleared most of the boards. The pile looked like it hadn’t stirred since Grover Cleveland held office, but since he was here, he was going to check.
The afternoon sun showed only six feet of shaft wall, while the rest was black. Was the bottom only a dozen feet away, or was this one of those deep, deep holes reaching hundreds of yards down?
As always, as he had scores of times since the police gave up looking ten days before, he crouched at the shaft’s edge, cupped his hands around his mouth and called into the darkness, ‘Levi! Levi! Are you there, son?’
Wind stirred sand behind him, blowing a little over the edge where it glittered in the sunlight, then disappeared. Only the breeze’s sibilant hiss answered him.
Central City: 1879
Images flitted in Charles’s mind as he stayed motionless in his bed, listening to the boy’s even breathing on the floor beside him. It was the small hours of the morning, when time came unanchored, and memories piled willy-nilly atop one another. Charles could see them all: his wife dying, the Laughlins, the McGaritys, the bloody hands in the mine. The fireplace coals had long since died, and the moon’s thin line outside the window cast almost no light through the muslin drape. He’d light a candle if he dared, but if he did, the boy’s eyes might be open; he might look at him through the flickering light and know that he knew.
He couldn’t sleep. No, not that. Charles would dream, and in his dreams he’d see the Laughlin children burning up, their red skin baking from within. ‘S
carlet fever,’ the nurse from Idaho Springs had said. ‘Poor things.’
Charles had stood at the Laughlins’ door that morning, a basket of bread and clean sheets hanging from one hand, blinking at the darkness in the room. Only the sun behind him provided light. They’d covered the one window, and the cabin smelled close and moist and sweaty-sick. The nurse sat by three-year-old Lisa to his left. Against the back wall lay Evelyn with her mother sitting beside her. The baby’s crib rested in the opposite corner. William Laughlin sat at the rough-hewn table in the room’s middle, resting his forehead in his hand.
The boy crept around Charles, even though he’d told him to stay with the mule. His arm wrapped around the back of Charles’s leg, and he leaned into the room. Charles put his hand down to push him back, but he didn’t. He didn’t like touching his son, the stranger who lived with him every day. Lisa panted under the blankets, blonde hair plastered to the side of her face. Four-year-old Evelyn turned to the wall, her chest still for a moment before she drew her next wheezing breath. Her mom, a hint of the scarlet flush across her own cheeks visible in the sunlight, pressed a wet cloth to Evelyn’s forehead.
‘The little one?’ Charles said.
William Laughlin shook his head without moving his hand. ‘She went during the night.’ He coughed. It sounded wet and pathetic.
‘I brung some things,’ Charles said. He stepped deeper into the room and the atmosphere pushed back. Outside the sun shone bright and men filled the valley, moving surely from mine to mill, loading ore wagons or carrying supplies. Blasting echoed off cliff walls above and Clear Creek murmured like watery wind. But here, the air felt dead with fever.
William draped a hand over the basket’s edge. ‘You’re a right Christian, Charles.’
‘You going to your shift?’ Charles moved back. The heat in the room oppressed and he didn’t want to breathe so close to the sick girls.
‘I’ll be along.’
Charles retreated to the porch. The boy leaned over Lisa, his legs bright in the sun pouring through the door, while his upper torso faded in the room’s shadows. He drew a finger across the little girl’s forehead, through her fevered sweat. He stood, facing his father, his finger up as if he’d erased chalk off a blackboard. For a moment he looked at Charles as if surprised to see him still waiting for him, then he put his finger in his mouth.
When they crossed the footbridge over the creek, Charles said, ‘Why’d you do that, boy? I told you to stay out.’
The boy held onto the mule’s bridle, his head not even coming up to the mule’s chin. ‘They’ll burn, Papa.’
Charles nearly stumbled, then glanced at the boy. He wore an old flannel shirt too big for him with the sleeves rolled up. Pale, skinny arms. Dark hair cut above his eyebrows. Dark eyes. He was given to long, unblinking looks. A serious mouth, like his mother who died bringing him into the world eight years before.
‘I’m glad he’s out of me,’ she’d said in the moment before she died screaming.
‘What do you mean, boy?’
‘I put the death in them.’ He held up his finger that had touched the girl as if in proof. ‘Just like the other lambs.’
‘Don’t talk like that.’ Charles pulled the bridle from die boy’s hand, his own hand shaking. ‘You go on home, and I don’t want to see a mess in the cabin when I get back. Sweep the floor.’
‘I can smell the fire,’ the boy said before turning towards their cabin.
Charles thought about his son all day, deep in the mine, as he worked the single jack, bent low in the tunnel only three-quarters of his height, placing the steel bit against the stone, pounding it a bit deeper with each blow, rotating it each time to clear the bit, pausing just before he drove the hammer home. The angle had to be perfect. The placement, perfect. He had to judge before he struck. Striking without looking could shatter the drill. There was always the pause before the hammer came down to be sure he was doing the right thing. So there could be no mistake. It was a feeling of good or bad in the way the drill stood. Charles considered his judgement with the hammer to be his only genius. He never struck wrongly. Clang! The hammer would fall against the rod. Rock dust crumbled from the hole. Clang! He’d hit it again, his strong right arm driving the blow home. Numbing work to create a hole for the charge. He could raise the hammer all day with that arm; the work had made it larger than the other one, a giant’s arm, but he couldn’t shape the boy with it. He couldn’t even hold him.
The boy had been bad from the beginning. His wet-nurse took sick and died. After that, no one would help Charles, so he fed the child himself with goat’s milk, certain that the first winter would kill him, having no mother to care for him, but as winter filled the mountains with snow and cutting wind, even as influenza swept through the camp taking many babies, the boy thrived. He was walking by the next summer and Charles would leave him locked in the cabin when he worked his shift, half expecting to find the toddler dead on his return. But every day the boy met him, a little taller, a little stronger, and never smiling.
Setting the powder took a half-hour. Each hole had to be filled with the proper amount. Then the fuse cord had to be measured. Charles worked methodically. This deep in the mine, the stale air hurt his lungs and gritty rock coated his eyes and tongue. He checked the candle burning brightly in its shadowgee stuck in the wall. When he set the last charge, he retreated to the bucket lift, covering his nose and mouth with a soaked bandana to protect against the dust. After the blast, he stood with head bowed, breathing through the wet cloth.
Charles wanted to love him. He tried. The weather in the boy’s heart was cold, though, and hugs meant nothing to him. He never played. He never cried. And always, around him, children died. Diphtheria. The grippe. Typhoid. The croup. Pneumonia. Whooping cough. Small-pox. Lingering diseases. Wasting illnesses. The cemetery filled with tiny corpses.
The ore cart rattled on the rails as Charles pushed it towards the broken ore. For the rest of his shift he’d fill the cart, take it back to the lift, empty it and return for another load. No candles lit the path, but that didn’t matter. Charles didn’t mind the dark most days, but today he couldn’t stop thinking about the boy. What does the boy do while I’m at work? What does he daydream about? Charles imagined him wandering through the camp, looking for children.
In the spring he’d taken the boy to a funeral. Seamus McGarity had lost both his boys and his wife to dysentery three days apart. McGarity, his kin and friends circled the coffins, two tiny wood boxes and a long one. During the prayer, Charles looked down at his boy dressed in mourning black. The corners of the boy’s mouth turned up and his eyes were shining. At the ceremony’s end, the boy dropped dirt in each grave. Surreptitiously, he also put a handful of grave soil in his pocket.
‘Lucky your kid’s doing good,’ McGarity said to him the next day as they waited for the bucket to take them down the shaft. His lunch pail dangled from his hand and the miner looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept for a month. ‘He came by a week ago. Found him sitting by the door.’
‘What did he want?’ Charles wished he could pat McGarity on the shoulder. How would it be to lose your whole family? There’d been other men whose children died who drank themselves to death. The other miners stood away from them. People died in the camps all the time, but it wasn’t easy to be next to the bereft, not at first.
McGarity didn’t answer for a while. He stared out over the valley, but he didn’t appear to be looking at anything. Finally he said, ‘Caleb used to sing his little brother to sleep. I don’t think he knew I was listening. “Amazing Grace” it was. Learned it from his mom. He had a nice voice for a ten-year-old.’
They found McGarity at the bottom of a shaft a week later. Was he drunk and fell in, or did he jump?
At the blasting site the dust still hung in the air, surrounding the candle in a pale globe. Charles hefted ore into the cart. My boy’s not human, he thought, as each rock crashed against the metal. Methodically he bent and lifted, be
nt and lifted. Not human. Not human. Charles pictured the boy with his finger in his mouth, salty-bitter from the Laughlin girl’s scarlet-fever sweat.
After a while Charles stopped loading. His hands stung. He stepped next to the candle’s feeble light and held them up. Blood ran down his wrists from his ragged fingertips. Dully he realised he’d not worn his gloves. And a certainty came to him, a gravestone-solid conviction: my boy’s a monster!
Charles lay in his bed, motionless. The boy breathed evenly on the floor below him. Only the sliver-moonlit window floated in the dark. Charles kept his eyes wide open. If he shut them, even for a second, the boy might stand. He might lean his unsmiling face close. The boy might run his finger across Charles’s forehead.
‘I see you burning, Papa,’ the boy would say. He always called him Papa, like it was a curse.
And dawn was hours away.
Ron sat in his van on the abandoned mining road near the boulders the park service had used to block the path, his map spread out on the seat beside him marked with Xs for mining claims. From Central City there were so many. The historical marker at the town limits proclaimed THE RICHEST SQUARE MILE ON EARTH. He shook his head. If only it were that small.
Starting at Black Hawk at one end of the valley to the other end of Central City was a couple of miles. Mine tailings spotted the slopes on both sides. Then there were the gulches: Chase, Eureka, Russell, Lake, Pecks, Fourmile and others the map didn’t name with mines of their own, and the road went on to the ghost towns of Yankee Hill, Ninety Four, Alice and Kingston. Nevadaville was only a stone’s throw to the west. He could almost see the honeycomb of tunnels.
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