Blackbriar (5 page)

He heard Philippa’s quick steps, then the sound of the latch. At last the door swung open. Her face was full of alarm. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he said, trying to regain his composure. He glared at Islington, who was crouching between Philippa’s feet. “The door slammed by itself. I guess it must lock from the outside.”

“But what’s down there?”

“Oh, just a cellar. There’s a big pile of coal in it.”

“How marvelous! Would you be a darling and bring some to me? I’d really like to get the stove started, it might be a big job. Oh, and after that, why don’t you try pumping for a bit. We’ve got to find out if that pump brings water up to the sink faucet; nothing comes out when I turn it on now. And I’m dying for a cup of tea.”

Danny’s ingrained response to Philippa’s requests was stronger than his fear. He realized that she was going to ask him to go down there frequently, and decided that he might as well get used to it from the beginning. This time he dashed down the steps, scooped up the coal, and dashed back up in less than a minute. But fear hung in the basement like cobwebs, and even in that brief time it penetrated to his bones.

On the landing he felt a bit more comfortable. Some light reached it from the living room, and he left the flashlight on while he pumped with his back to the wall. He was limp and panting after only thirty strokes. Just when his arms seemed about to fall off, he heard Philippa shriek, “Water! Water!” from the kitchen, and stopped pumping immediately. That will
have
to be enough to last until tomorrow, he told himself.

While Philippa banged and poked at the coal stove, Danny dragged in the mattresses and chairs and made up the beds. When he came back down, the stove was humming and crackling and the kitchen was filling with warmth. The water took a while to boil, but soon they were standing with steaming mugs in their hands, taking brief sips of scalding tea.

“Well, now that we’re a little bit organized I feel much better,” Philippa said. “But I really can’t rest until I get rid of some of this dust and cobwebs.”

Danny was looking out the window. “Can’t we take a break and go outside? I’d like to see what it’s like around here before it gets dark.”

“You go, darling. Take a little walk. I really couldn’t enjoy it with the place in this condition, and you wouldn’t be much help dusting anyway. But don’t stay away too long. You’d never find your way back in the dark.”

In the clearing there were a few thick trees. At the opposite end from the track on which they had come was another rusting gate. Danny paused there and turned back to look at the house. Under the vastness of the sky, which had become heavy and overcast, the house seemed small and defenseless. Yet there it belonged. It fit into the landscape like another tree, or part of the hillside. It was hard to believe it had been built at all, that it hadn’t always been there.

From the gate a path led through a small thicket of pine trees. As he entered he heard a rustling in the underbrush, and what sounded like a strange, choked gasp. He spun around, but could see nothing unusual. It must be some kind of bird, he told himself. But he began walking faster.

The path soon led out of the trees and ended at a wide, grassy track. On the right was a thick forest, and on the left scrub bushes and small twisted trees tumbled down the hillside. Danny realized that this track led right along the top of the long, narrow hill. As he walked he could see occasional pathways leading into the forest. On the other side he knew he should be able to see a view, but he couldn’t see over the tops of the few trees and the thick undergrowth. Yet the track was so wide that he felt free and exposed to the sky. The wind made a sound like the sea in the treetops. It almost seemed to be alive.

He reached a place where the track turned, and on the left seemed to hang over the edge of the ridge. Far below him he saw the Black Swan, and the road they had come on looked like a thin silver band. Rolling fields faded away into a thick mist, and the farthest things he could see were a few vague pinpoints of light. The wind hovered around him, and the noise of the trees, and distant sounds that he could not identify.

He felt a drop of rain, and realized with a start that he had no idea how long he had been standing there. He turned quickly and headed back along the ridge the way he had come, thankful that he had stayed on only one path. The rain seemed to be holding back, and as he walked down the track in the fading light he felt only a few scattered drops, as though it were waiting for him to get inside. It was very dark in the thicket, and when he reached the gate he could see light in the cottage windows, and smoke coming from the chimney.

There was a blazing fire in the living room fireplace, and in the warm, dim light the room seemed comfortable. Philippa was peeling potatoes in the kitchen, which now sang with warmth and light from dozens of candles. “It’s beautiful outside,” he said, and at that moment the rain broke from the sky.

“Sounds as though you got back just in time,” Philippa said. The rain was already rattling and hammering against all the windows, making the house seem even more warm and protecting.

“There’s a wide track all the way along the ridge, and there’s this one place where you can see for miles, down to the Black Swan and everything!”

“It sounds wonderful,” she said vaguely.

“Is something wrong? Was I gone too long?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that—well—Islington found this . . . strange thing. I’d like you to get rid of it, please. I can’t bear to touch it.”

Danny followed her into the living room, imagining the rotting corpse of some small animal. “It’s this,” she said.

On the mantel was a small, bluntly carved wooden figure. It was hardly more than one piece of wood with a small head on it, with another piece struck through it for arms. It was very crude, and just barely suggested an expressionless human being.

“What’s wrong with this?” Danny said, picking it up. “It’s just something somebody whittled. It’s not very pretty but it isn’t hideous. Where did you find it?”

“I didn’t. Islington kept prowling about near the fireplace, almost as if he had smelled something. I thought he was after a mouse. And then, he pulled that
thing
out of some crevice between the hearth and the wall. When I saw it a real shock went through me. I could hardly bear to touch it long enough to put it on the mantel. How can you hold it like that? There’s something so . . . sinister and . . . menacing about it. I don’t want it in the house!”

Danny fingered it and looked at it carefully. “I don’t understand why you feel like that, but I don’t mind getting rid of it.”

He started to toss it into the fire, but Philippa grabbed his arm. “Don’t!” she almost shouted. “Don’t burn it up! Don’t destroy it! Just take it away, take it outside.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to be so hysterical, but that thing really terrifies me. I don’t know why.”

“All right. It doesn’t matter to me.” He was drenched the moment he stepped out of the house. There was something wrong with the guttering, and a waterfall seemed to be pouring down just outside the door. He tramped over to the other side, planning to pitch the doll down the incline into the valley below. But he couldn’t do it. There must be something remarkable about this thing if it makes her react that way, he thought, and slipped it into his coat pocket.

Inside, he took a candle and went straight upstairs. He took off his clothes and stood there for a moment, naked and shivering in the heatless room. His body was very thin and frail and covered with goose pimples. His blond hair was plastered to his head. Breathing heavily, he took the little figure out of his coat pocket and buried it in the bottom drawer of the dresser.

When he came down he was in his bathrobe and pajamas, the dripping clothes in one hand and the candle in the other. “I’ll hang them up over the stove,” Philippa said. “They’ll dry out in no time. I’m sorry you got soaked, but I just had to have that thing out of the house.”

They cooked steaks over the fire and ate them, with grilled tomatoes and boiled potatoes, at the round table by the hearth. Danny finished his steak with no prodding from Philippa, which was very rare. Somehow it did taste better than the meat they had eaten in the city, as Philippa said. He had never realized that the taste of food could be so enjoyable.

Danny helped Philippa wash up, and they spent the evening playing Scrabble in front of the fire. The rain beat down ceaselessly, occasionally sputtering into the fire. The wind moaned and rattled at the windowpanes. And although the room glowed in the firelight and the thick walls kept out the wind, neither of them felt comfortable. The back of Danny’s neck tickled as though someone were watching him, and he found himself looking around frequently to the dark end of the room. Both were conscious of how isolated they were. Miles of darkness and trees, of wind and rain, separated them from any other human being.

Late in the evening Danny brought a candle up to his bedroom. On the narrow stairway a draft seemed to spring up from nowhere. The candle flickered and almost went out. Danny stopped at once and cupped his hand around the flame until it sprang back to life, his heart pounding. But why should I be so afraid? he wondered.

From his narrow bed he watched the shadows flicker dimly around the room. He tried to decide how he felt about the house. It had the kind of rustic charm that, as Philippa had said, one always imagines but rarely finds; and it was interesting to be in such a place simply because it was so unlike anything he had ever known. Yet he did not feel comfortable. Something about the house seemed to shut him out, to make him feel like an interloper. Yet at the same time he had the sensation that somehow, he was expected.

Probably everybody feels like this when they move to a new house, he told himself. But he settled down and closed his eyes without blowing out the candle.

A strange procession was winding across barren hillsides by moonlight. People in black robes chanted solemnly, monotonously, holding blazing torches above their heads. At the front of the procession were three crowned men dressed in white. The procession dragged on and on, over the same hills, with the droning, heavy chanting always underneath. He couldn’t tell whether he was in the procession, or whether he was only watching it. But all the time he knew that something else was there, huge and dark and menacing, lurking just beyond the torchlight, waiting and watching.

For the first moment after he opened his eyes he heard a woman’s laughter, vague and distant. It wasn’t evil, maniacal laughter, but free and easy, like a young girl’s. He had hardly realized it was there when it faded quickly away; and he wondered whether he had really heard it, or if it had just been part of the dream. The weather must have cleared, for the room was flooded with moonlight. His candle had gone out, and he was twisted up in the sheets. His forehead felt cold and moist. He was afraid. The nightmare feeling still lingered.

When he came down in the morning Philippa was boiling water and cooking bacon. She seemed groggy and tired. The first thing she said was, “I desperately need some more coal. Could you get me some?” He scurried off to the cellar, forcing himself not to think about being afraid. When he brought up the coal she said, “I’m afraid we need more water, too.” As he strained over the pump he began to wonder, in an irritable, early-morning way, just how long he was going to be able to stand it in the country.

They ate breakfast in the dark, chilly dining room. It fit their mood. The eggs were so fresh that they tasted like a new kind of food, and the bacon was lean and thick. But they ate in silence until Philippa said, “Did you have a good night?”

“Well, not really. I had the weirdest dream. And when I woke up, part of it seemed to continue for a second. It sounded like a girl laughing.”

“I had a bad night, too. I had trouble sleeping and kept waking up. Islington was restless, too. I’m so tired! And there’s so much to do today. . . .”

After breakfast Danny went to look at the cellar door. There it sagged on its rusted, curling hinges, ancient and cracked. And there was the jagged, archaic list of names; all with similar dates but Mary Peachy, dateless, at the end of the list.

It was another sunny day, but they spent most of it inside, cleaning the windows, washing the floors, arranging things. Philippa decided that they had to go into town the next day. They needed candles, and more food, and perhaps an oil lamp, and maybe some whitewash. And Danny had to start studying.

Toward evening Philippa ventured outside with Danny, along the ridge. They were heavily bundled, and slogged through the mud in heavy Wellington boots. Islington loped along behind them, dashing ahead in brief spurts of energy, spinning around and gazing back at them, then stretching out on the brown turf until they caught up.

They walked together to the place where they could see the view. On the way Philippa examined almost every bush, gently turning over the leaves in her hand, and occasionally picked a spray of brown leaves, or a barren branch with an interesting shape, or a green bough from a fir tree. “Shhh!” she would say, “Listen to that bird. Is it a cuckoo? A nightjar?” Somewhere in her dim past, about which Danny knew next to nothing, she must have lived in the country, for the birdcalls, the plants, were familiar to her. By the time they reached the overlook, Danny’s arms were laden with her scratchy finds.

Philippa too was captivated by the view. Today, in the sunlight, they could see much farther. In the distance, glinting, was a smooth patch of silver-gray that they realized was the sea.