Faerie Tale (13 page)

Gloria smiled. “Boys, go get Bad Luck and take him for a walk.”

“Ah, Mom,” Sean began to complain. She gave them both the Look and they fell silent and walked toward the house. “And make it a long walk.”

Mullins, a heavy man of middle years, said, “Fine-looking boys. You must be proud.”

Watching Sean and Patrick vanish around the rear of the house, she smiled in appreciation. “Yes, I am. They’re pretty terrific kids.”

“I’ve got a boy about their age, Casey. Ought to get them together.”

Gloria said, “Does your Casey play baseball, Mr. Mullins?”

The man grinned. “All the time.” Gloria returned the grin. “If they haven’t met already, they will.”

Mullins wiped his hands on his handkerchief and put it away. “We’ve finally gotten a Little League charter separated from Frewsburg’s and we’ll be starting teams
next year. We used to have our own, but the population fell off fifteen years back when the economy got so sour and factories closed down or moved. Lots of families went to Kentucky or Texas with the factories. We had to take our kids over to Frewsburg. Now we’ve got that high-tech stuff coming and we’ve got enough kids for our own league again.” He glanced at the dish, obviously pleased at the work. “But until then it’s sandlot. Tell them there’s a game about every day over at the field. Not the park field, that’s for the Muni Softball league, but beyond Doak’s Pond. Forms up about one in the afternoon.”

“That’s a little far.”

“Not too far. They can cut through the woods and come out over on Williams Avenue. That’s only a block from the field.”

Gloria didn’t relish the idea of the boys’ using the woods paths with regularity. But the woods were in their backyard, and it looked as if the Hastings family was settling in for a while, so she judged she should get used to the idea. As she moved toward the house with the workman, she said, “I’ll mention it to them.”

Mullins turned and shouted some instructions to his companion, who waved in acknowledgment. The boys came tumbling through the door with Bad Luck in tow, and Gloria said, “Mr. Mullins here has a son your age.”

Patrick said, “Casey Mullins?”

The man nodded while Sean said, “We played with him yesterday at the park. He’s a good shortstop.”

Gloria said, “I rest my case.”

“Well, he’s over there right now. There’s a game about every day, over by Doak’s Pond. I’m sure they would like to have you aboard.” He glanced at Gloria, suddenly Sensing he might be speaking out of turn. “If your mother doesn’t mind.”

Patrick answered for his mother. “She doesn’t.”

Gloria said, “Well, I like that.”

“Can we go, Mom?” asked Sean.

“Just don’t be late for dinner, and if anything happens,
you call. I’ll come get you. I don’t want you tramping around the woods late. Got a dime?”

“Phone’s twenty-five cents, Mom,” said Sean with ill-disguised disdain at such ignorance. “An’ we got some money.”

“Okay, Diamond Jim. Just be careful.”

“Okay!” they chorused as they dashed toward the woods.

Mr. Mullins said, “Seems they already know the shortcut.”

Gloria said, “Sure, they’re kids. Kids always know the shortcuts.”

Patrick fumed. “Boy, you sure can be dumb.”

“It wasn’t my fault!” retorted Sean.

“You don’t go running to back up the shortstop on a pick-off, dummy. Anybody knows that!” Patrick’s voice was openly scornful. Patrick stopped his brother for a moment. “Look, when I signal a pitchout, you move toward third, see? I almost hit you in the head and Casey didn’t even see the ball coming at him. You really blew it.”

Sean turned away and plodded along in silence. The misplay had ended up costing their side the game, which alone wasn’t a problem. It had reduced their stature in the eyes of the local kids, which was a problem. They would have to endure a long week of being among the last kids picked on each side, along with the nerds and wimps, until they’d established their bona fides again. Patrick was always intolerant of Sean’s shortcomings, assuming because they were twins that Sean should be capable of everything Patrick was. Sean was a good pitcher—at least, he had better than average control—while Patrick usually caught, as he could make unerring throws to any base, but the nuances of the game were often lost on
Sean in the heat of battle while Patrick always seemed to keep his head about him. The truth was that Sean was just average in many of the areas Patrick was outstanding. Sean’s gifts were more in the area of thoughtful consideration, picking his spots as a pitcher. He was a thinker, and possessed an overactive imagination that was part of the reason for his timidity. He was afraid of the dark because of all the things he could imagine lurking in the gloom, while Patrick took the more prosaic attitude that if you can’t see it, it isn’t there. Sean glanced down at Bad Luck; the dog seemed to have little interest in boyish social concerns.

Finally Sean said, “Maybe we should practice?”

Patrick shrugged. “Okay, if it’ll help. But I can’t see what the big deal is about getting out of the way when I throw the darn ball.”

They turned at the end of Williams Avenue, hiking up the little rise past Barney Doyle’s Appliance Repair. The door opened and Barney stepped out. He quickly closed the door behind him and put something on the ground before the stoop. Turning, he spied the twins and said, “Well then, it’s the Hastings lads, isn’t it?”

Sean shrugged, while Patrick said, “Hi, Barney.”

They ambled toward him while he put his keys away. Glancing around, Barney said, “’Tis certain to be a fair summer night, with a break in the humidity, I’m thinking. We could do with a bit of the dry air, now and again.”

Sean noticed Bad Luck sniffing around a saucer of milk before the door and said, “You got a cat?”

Barney leaned forward, patting Bad Luck on the head. The dog seemed to judge him an acceptable human and endured the gesture of friendship with good grace. “Not a cat, lads. ’Tis for the
Daonie Matthe.”
When the boys looked at him blankly, he said, “Which, if your education wasn’t lacking, you’d know was Gaelic for the good people.”

Sean and Patrick shot each other a glance, each silently accusing the other of betraying a trust. Noticing the exchange and mistaking the reason for it, Barney
said, “’Tis all right, boys. I’m not entirely mad. Many of us from the old country leave milk out for the little people.” The boys remained silent, and Barney glanced around as if making sure they weren’t overheard. He knelt slowly, age making it difficult, and whispered, “When I was a lad back in County Wexford, I lived on a farm a fair piece from Foulksmills. ’Twas lovely, though we were poor as mice.” His eyes, watery and bloodshot, seemed to be seeing something far off. “One fine day in May I was out looking for a bull calf my Uncle Liam had given my father. It was a grand calf, but had a decided tendency to go adventuring. Which was fine for the calf, for he’d see many new sights and make interesting acquaintances, but was a trial for me, for I’d be the one to go and fetch him home—much to the hilarity of my brothers and sisters. Well, that one May day the little bull had wandered halfway to Wellington Bridge—which for your enlightenment is a distant town and not a bridge close at hand—and it was until late after dark I was bringing him home. The night was warm and smelled of flowers and clover, and the wind was fair from the channel, and it was altogether a grand night to be abroad. Being no more than a few years older than you boys now, I was cautious being alone with the calf, but not fearful, for the troublemakers were all in their pubs and banditry had fallen off of late. Then I heard the music and saw the lights.”

The boys glanced at each other, and it was Patrick who said, “Leprechauns?”

Barney nodded solemnly. “The whole of the
Daonie Sidhe”
, he whispered. “In every shape and size that they come, they were dancing atop a hill, and ’twas a majestic and fearful sight.” He slowly rose. “I’d not seen it again since, until this spring.”

“The danny she? Are they bad?” asked Sean, his voice betraying concern. Patrick looked at him with a mixture of disdain and relief that the question was voiced.

“It’s Daonie Sidhe, though ‘danny she’ is close enough. Bad?” repeated Barney, rubbing his chin. “Well now, there’s a topic. ’Twould be hard to put a good or
bad to them, as they are. They can be either, or neither, depending upon whim. It is said they reward the virtuous and punish the wicked, but mostly they leave us alone. Wait here a minute.”

Barney stuck a hand deep into one of the pockets of his bib overalls and seemed to feel around for something. Finding what he sought, he withdrew his hand and held something out for the boys’ inspection. It was a smooth stone, with a hole in the middle, hanging from a thong of leather. “What is it?” asked Patrick.

“’Tis a fairy stone.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Sean.

Patrick looked unconvinced. “It’s just a rock.”

“Which is true, to a point. But then, a magic wand is also just a stick, if you look at it that way.”

“Is it magic?” asked Sean.

“In its way, lad, in its way. It has the power to keep the good people from harming you, so then it must be magic.”

“How can it?” asked Patrick, still unconvinced.

“As to the how, I cannot tell you, save that it does. And not just any stone with a hole will do. You can’t grab a pebble and drill through it, you know. It must be a stone washed in a stream, with a natural hole, that is found upon the bank dry. It must be magic, or else why would there be so many rules?”

That made sense to the boys. Patrick showed no great interest, but Sean fingered the smooth stone. Something caused Barney to look about. “I judge the afternoon’s ending and you late for dinner. Your mother will be fretting. Now,” he said to Sean, “keep the stone, so the Good People cause you no discomfort on your way home, and I’ll find another.”

“I can keep it?” said Sean in delight.

“Aye, lad, but hurry off now. And don’t forget that the Good People will think kindly of you if you leave a bit of milk or bread out for them.”

Sean put the thong around his neck, so the stone hung almost to his navel. He’d shorten it when he got home. “Thanks, Mr. Doyle,” said Sean.

“’Bye,” said Patrick.

The boys scampered off without further word, Bad Luck loping alongside, and when they entered the woods, began to run. They ran with a delicious sense of danger, as the shadows lengthened and deepened, casting a decidedly menacing aspect to the woods.

They ran and shouted and reveled in the fact of being eight years old with a yet endless summer stretching away before the harsh reality of school intruded. At first they had missed the Valley and friends, but the kids in Pittsville seemed okay and they played ball all the time, which was great. They all missed Little League, but the kids said there’d be a new one next year. It was shaping up to be a wonderful summer.

Then, before they knew where they were, they found themselves crossing the bald hill, the one Jack called Erl King Hill. Both boys grinned nervously and shared a secret thrill at the idea of mystery and things of magic. A sudden, wordless communication passed, and an impromptu game of follow-the-leader commenced. Patrick ran in circles around the top of the hill, while Sean duplicated his movements. Bad Luck tried to play, but couldn’t resist running alongside first one brother, then the other. They yelled for the joy of it. Then they were sprinting back into the trees. They dashed through the woods with the endless supply of energy given to children, laughing at the simple pleasure of being alive. Then they reached the bridge.

Both boys halted. Bad Luck stood with hackles rising, a low growl issuing from his throat. Panting, the twins silently understood that the bridge was once again a scary place. Many times since they had first met Jack they had crossed the Troll Bridge, and while it was never a comfortable experience, the bridge had lacked the solid sense of menace they had felt upon first viewing it. But now the feeling of danger had returned, if anything stronger than ever. Patrick rolled the Louisville Slugger off his shoulder and held it before him as if it were a club. Fingering the stone Barney had given him, Sean softly said, “It’s back.”

Neither knew what
it
was, but both knew there was a
malignant presence hiding in the dark place beneath the bridge. Bad Luck snarled and began to move forward. Sean snapped, “Heel!” and the canine reluctantly fell in at Sean’s side. He whimpered and growled, but seemed willing to obey. Patrick nodded and they stepped forward, putting foot upon the stones of the Troll Bridge.

Suddenly evil swept up from below, swirling around them like a fetid wind. Both boys moved quickly, eyes wide with fright as they walked purposefully across the bridge. They instinctively knew the rules of crossing. They couldn’t look down or back. They couldn’t speak. They couldn’t run. And they couldn’t stop. To do any of those things would allow the thing below the bridge to come rushing up, to grab the boys and drag them back to its lair. The boys didn’t make the rules, they just knew them and abided by them.

At the midpoint of the bridge, Sean felt an overwhelming urge to run and shot a glance at Patrick. Patrick returned the glance with one of dark warning. To run was to be lost. With steady steps, he led his more timid brother across the bridge, until they were free of the confines of the ancient dark arch. Bad Luck hesitated, and Sean’s hand shot down to grab his collar, forcing the dog to come along at the proper pace. As soon as their feet were off the stones and back on the path, the boys leaped forward as one and were off at a dead run. Bad Luck hesitated an instant, indulging in a defiant bark at the bridge, before he dashed after the boys.

Sean shot a glance rearward, not sure if the rule about looking back held now they were finished with the bridge. As the bridge vanished behind the trees they fled through, he glimpsed the dark presence. It had seen him! Fighting down panic, Sean overtook his brother. Patrick saw Sean pass him, and the race was on.

By the time they reached home, all thoughts of the black presence under the Troll Bridge were forgotten and the only concern was who would be first to reach the screen door. As usual, it was Patrick by a step, with Bad Luck at his side.