Faerie Tale (22 page)

Instantly he knew: He was under the bridge. And so was the Bad Thing.

Claws seized him, and he felt his T-shirt rip, while pain erupted on his arm. He struck out with small fists, which hit something soft and fleshy. He felt himself being lifted up, and his nose was filled with the stink of rotting meat.

The Bad Thing hung by three limbs beneath the bridge, upside down like a giant spider. It clutched the boy’s arm in one clawed hand, and above the pounding sound of the water Patrick could hear its inhuman sounds. The boy vomited, his stomach constricting in terror. He kicked and hit, and screamed for his mother and father.

The water pulled him under again and sharp claws tore at the child’s flesh. As the Bad Thing sought to grab the boy, claws raked along Patrick’s face and chest. He was seized and lifted, and for a moment lightning illuminated the area. A strange and distant snapping sound briefly intruded on the boy’s awareness before horror filled his world. A black mask with yellow eyes hovered scant inches before his face. An evil sharp-toothed monkey grin split that face as the clawed hand painfully pulled Patrick closer. The Bad Thing was smaller than the boy but impossibly strong.

Another wave, courtesy of the flood control basin at Wurtsburg, raced down the stream. The wave slammed against the sides of the bridge and hesitated as the barrier repulsed its first onslaught. Then it forced through the opening, rising in level and picking up speed. Patrick felt the water hit him, tugging him free of the Bad Thing’s grasp. Choking on water and fear, he felt himself being pulled along. The claws gripped at him again. An inhuman shriek sounded in his ears in counterpoint to his own cries of terror, cries choked off by water rushing into mouth and nose. Patrick spit and vomited. His lungs
burned for air; he tried to inhale, but there was nothing there, and his lungs spasmed, ejecting the water. He inhaled, managing only a single breath while his head bobbed above the water. Again he heard the snap-snap sound; then darkness washed over him and water filled his nose. Blood welled into his mouth as he bit his own tongue. Pain revisited him as claws once more seized his arms, cutting him cruelly.

Then the water moved him and the claws were forced to yield their prey. Patrick struck the stone sides of the bridge with stunning force and felt consciousness slipping away as fatigue, pain, and terror took their toll. He was being lifted up, and he felt water exploding from his lungs as he coughed, spit, and vomited water a last time.

In a distant fog he heard his name called and vaguely understood it was Sean’s voice. The snap-snap sound resolved itself into Bad Luck’s barking. He forced open his eyes and realized that a familiar face was looking down on him. Through near-blinding rain, Jack hovered above him. “It’s okay, Patrick. You’re okay.”

Patrick felt Jack cradle him in his arms as the young man began to run—a slightly awkward, limping gait—through the woods toward home, Gabbie and Sean beside him, Bad Luck at his heels. Patrick wondered, in a strangely detached way, how Jack and Gabbie had come to be at the bridge, and why the Bad Thing had let him go. Then he passed into unconsciousness.

Gloria’s face was set in an emotionless mask. She kept her eyes on Patrick while the doctor ministered to his wounds. When the boys had been late coming home from the game, and given the sudden rain, she had become worried. Jack and Gabbie volunteered to backtrack through the woods. They were only fifty yards from the bridge when they heard Bad Luck’s barking. Gloria
opened the kitchen door at Jack’s shouting, to discover her son a mass of bleeding wounds. Not waiting for an ambulance, they had quickly done what they could on the fly, bundling Patrick up and driving through the rain to Pittsville Memorial Hospital. Gloria called over to Aggie’s, where Phil was discussing his newest manuscript.

Now they were all waiting to hear how Patrick was doing. Phil had rushed to the hospital and together with his wife pieced together what had happened.

For the fourth time she said, “If I ever catch either one of you near that stream again.…” She let the threat fall away.

Patrick squirmed. Sean was a few feet away, outside with his father, Gabbie, and Jack, and it was unusual for only one of the brothers to be taking the brunt of their mother’s ire.

Through the door to the waiting area, Sean sat with eyes fixed upon his brother. Gloria glanced in his direction and he seemed to shrink within his chair. Somehow he had gotten the message he was equally responsible for Patrick’s recklessness. He had been scared for his brother, but he was also angry that he was being blamed for Patrick’s stupidity. Letting his voice rise, he said, “It’s not my fault, Mom. I didn’t go down there. Patrick did.” His father looked down at him, shook his head, and smiled. It was okay, he seemed to say. It’s only Mom being angry. It will pass.

Gloria looked back to where the doctor tended Patrick and tears threatened to form in her eyes, but she said nothing.

The doctor left it to the nurse to finish the last bandage and smiled reassuringly. He led Gloria back to where Phil and the others sat, then said, “He’s fine.”

Gloria felt relief break inside and the tears came. “Thank God,” she said in earnest.

The doctor was a young resident, barely older than Jack. He smiled as he said, “He’s pretty banged up and a few of those cuts look nasty, but most are superficial.” He glanced around. “Just how did he get so many cuts?”

Jack said, “He got caught in the stream over in the
Fairy Woods and swept along under the Troll Bridge. There was a block of tree branches under it and he was pulled through.”

The doctor winced at the description. “It looks like it. Anyway, the cold water cut down on blood loss and we’ve sutured the one big gash on his scalp. We’ve bandaged the little ones and given him a tetanus shot. I don’t think there’s anything else wrong with him. You can take him home. Just keep an eye out for fever or other signs of infection. I’ll want him brought in in a few days to change the dressings. In a week the stitches can come out.”

Gloria said, “What about … scars?”

The doctor shrugged. “Nothing to worry about. He’ll have a couple on his upper arms and chest he can brag about to his friends. They’ll all fade by adulthood. And his face has only a few minor scratches. He’s not disfigured, if that’s what’s worrying you.” The last was said softly, but with a firmness showing it was not worth considering that possibility.

“Well, he looked so bad,” said Gloria softly, obviously relieved.

The young doctor nodded. “A lot of things look worse than they are until you clean them up. Scalp wounds are messy and Patrick had a beaut. That’s where most of the blood came from. He really wasn’t as bad as he looked.”

Gloria nodded. “It’s just there was so much blood.”

The young doctor spoke in calm, firm tones. “As I said, it’s not as bad as it looked.”

Phil comforted his wife and said, “Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome. Before you leave, check in over at administration and they’ll do the insurance stuff. I’ll leave his chart at the nurses’ station for your own doctor to review in the morning, before it gets buried in the administrative archives.”

“We haven’t gotten around to getting a local doctor yet, though I guess you could say Dr. Latham. He took care of our daughter.”

“Well, John Latham’s a good choice. He’s one of the
last true general practitioners left. He’s good with kids, too. He’ll be checking on his patients tomorrow. I’ll give him Patrick’s chart.” He shook hands with Phil and left.

Phil said, “Jack, if you’d take everyone home, I’ll stick around and do the paperwork.”

“Sure,” said Jack.

Gloria walked next to Patrick while he was wheeled from the hospital. He seemed to be half-asleep. Sean walked silently behind. They left the waiting room while Phil headed for the admitting desk. Outside in the parking lot, water reflected back a low-hanging moon that peeked through the clouds. Softly, almost to himself, Sean said, “It wasn’t branches. It was the Bad Thing.”

No one seemed to hear, though Gabbie tightened her grip on his hand. Patrick was held on his mother’s lap and he didn’t protest being treated like a baby, as he usually would have. Sean retreated inside himself, sure he should not repeat what he’d said about the Bad Thing. There were some things destined to be kept to oneself, and he suspected that the final confrontation with the Bad Thing was allotted to him and Patrick alone, and no grown-up could help them. As the little boy climbed into the backseat of his mother’s station wagon, he considered this. Despite the terror he felt in contemplating the Bad Thing under the bridge, he felt a strange sense of fate. Patrick had survived. Somehow he had won past the first test. Sean felt what could only be called cold comfort at that fact. And while resting against his sister’s side, he drifted off to sleep, a strangely disquieting doze where the dreams were of slipping down muddy banks and of yellow eyes in black faces.

Patrick shouted, “Dad! It’s doing it again!”

Phil came in from his study and regarded the large television screen. The picture was breaking up, and both
boys sat with disappointment on their faces. The Phillies were playing the Mets in a crucial series, while the Cubs were due to start a game with the Pirates in another hour. The boys were looking forward to the doubleheader. But for a week the television had been acting up. Twice Mr. Mullins had been out to check it out and both times had found nothing wrong. He had expressed sympathy to Phil, saying nothing was as irritating as an intermittent failure. Phil picked up the phone and called and after exchanging greeting said, “Look, I know you haven’t found anything, but isn’t there something you can do?”

Patrick shouted, “Tell him to put in a Low-Noise Downblock.”

Phil blinked, then said, “Young Tom Edison said we need a Low-Noise Downblock.” He listened and laughed. “Yes, they do know everything.” After a little more conversation, Phil hung up. “Mr. Mullins is going to come out with a new amplifier and simply swap it. He’ll send ours back to the manufacturer and have them test it. In the meantime he’ll check the lines and make sure everything else is okay. And you should be able to watch the games. And it’s a Low-Noise Block Down Converter, smarty.”

Sean smiled, while Patrick only nodded. Patrick had been more subdued of late than was normal, and refused to talk about his experience with anyone. Phil had begun to think the child was more deeply disturbed by the accident than he had first shown. The bandages had come off a week ago, and the scars were beginning to disappear under summer tan. But where a usually loud and playful boy had been, now a thoughtful, introspective child resided. Sean had also become more subdued, but as he usually took his lead from Patrick, Phil thought nothing of it. Slowly the boys stood and Sean flipped off the television set.

“You going to the park?” asked their father. Patrick shrugged. “Maybe,” answered Sean. “Well then, you’ll need these.” He pulled open the closet door in the hall, took out a brand-new bat, and
handed it to Patrick. Patrick had lost his bat and glove in the accident under the bridge. Both boys said thanks.

Then Phil gave Patrick a new catcher’s mitt, saying, “You’ll have to break that in.”

Patrick looked appreciative; Sean tried not to look envious and failed. Phil paused a moment, then produced a brand-new fielder’s glove for Sean. “I figure you both needed new ones, anyway. Why don’t you donate your old one to the boys’ club, Sean?”

Sean grinned and pounded his fist into the stiff new leather. “Sure.”

Phil said, “Let this be a lesson to you. You can mess up and still come out ahead, sometimes. Just don’t make a habit of it, okay?” Both boys agreed.

Phil thought about his sons as they left. The thing that caused him the greatest concern was that the boys hadn’t played at the park since the accident, two weeks before. School was due to start up soon, and Phil had hoped the boys would have some vestige of a normal summer before having to adapt to a new school environment. He watched as they walked out the front door, none of the usual scampering in evidence. Even the new equipment didn’t seem to get them back to their old selves. Just as he wondered if he should consider having them talk to a psychologist, Patrick’s voice cut through the still air. “Mail’s here!”

Phil smiled. Some things hadn’t changed. Patrick would never walk back to the door and tell his father something when he could yell it across the yard.

Phil hurried out the door and met his wife coming around from the back, where she and Gabbie had been overseeing the installation of new fencing by the barn. Gloria smiled at him. “I almost got run over.”

“The boys?”

“Yes. They’re off to somewhere in a hurry.”

Phil felt relief, without knowing why. Just the fact they were back to moving from place to place at full speed seemed to him a reassuring sign. He and his wife reached the mailbox and laughed when their hands
brushed together reaching to open the box. “After you, my dear Alphonse,” said Gloria.

“Thanks, Gaston.” Phil opened the box and took out the mail. He quickly sorted through it and handed several envelopes—mostly advertising and give-aways—to his wife. He opened one and read while she opened another.

“Listen,” she said, “Tommy will be passing this way next week and is going to drop in.”

Phil said, “That’s nice. How’s Superagent doing?”

“He doesn’t say. And what brings him out this way, I wonder?”

“Well, knowing Tommy, it’s not just social. He didn’t drop by once that time he was just over the hill at the Beverly Hills Hotel for two weeks. We had to go there. Maybe he has a job offer for you.”

Gloria snorted derisively. “That’ll be the day.” They began walking back toward the house. “I haven’t worked in New York in almost ten years. The attention span of the average producer on Broadway regarding young actresses is about ten minutes—unless you’ve won a Tony—and then only if you’re sleeping with him or owe him money. And as you may have noticed, I didn’t exactly stand the town on its ear.”

“Stranger things have been known to happen. Here.” He handed her the letter he had opened.