Faerie Tale (24 page)

Patrick displayed his scars with a mixture of pride and anxiety. Proud of his badge of courage, he was anxious over what Barney would say about the Bad Thing under the bridge. They stood before the handyman while he perched on the stool next to his workbench. A disassembled electric mixer was spread before him.

“Well, he cut you good and then some, didn’t he, Patrick Hastings?” He regarded the boy with the bleary gaze they had come to expect.

Patrick nodded. “He tried to bite me. But I got away, Barney.”

Barney sighed and took a drink from the bottle he kept nearby. Moving from the stool, he led them out the door and sat on the porch. He glanced about as if expecting to see something. “A little more than two months. We’ve only got to get through the next two months and a bit.” He took another drink.

“What’s two months?” asked Sean.

“Moving Day, Sean. The Good People will pack up and be on their way by midnight, gone before sunrise on All Saints’ Day.” He took another drink and then a deep breath. “And if we’re lucky, we’ll not see their like again in this life. Twice in my life is two times too many.” He winked conspiratorially at the boys. “’Tis the reason I’m a drunk once more. The Good People have a soft spot for fools and drunkards, ’tis said, and they trouble me not so long as I’ve the smell of barley on my breath.” He winked again, tapping the side of his nose with his index finger.

“The troll’ll be gone?” asked Patrick.

“Aye, and all his ilk, though I don’t think he’s properly a troll, now. A troll’s a large and fearsome thing and springs out upon any that trespasses. I think you ran afoul of a beastie of the dark folk, those wee ones who’ve lost hope of God’s salvation. Perhaps even.… Well, then there’s no use dwelling on what it might be.” He made the sign of the cross. “But if it were a troll, you’d have had no chance to cross the bridge. This Bad Thing keeps to itself underneath. But the river swept you through its lair, and once inside you’re fair game. Stay out from under that bridge and you’ll be fine. Such as he won’t venture into the light, as a rule.” He thought. “Though from time to time the rules get broken.”

With sudden fervor, Patrick said, “I want to get it.”

“You what?” said Barney, his grey eyebrows coming up in amazement.

Near tears of anger, the little boy said, “I want to get
even. It hurt me and I want to hurt it back. I’ll make it go away.”

“Easy, lad,” said Barney putting his hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “Now, in the first, you don’t have the magic. In the second, it’s certain it’s but a little fellow of its kind, and to cause it harm might bring you to the attention of some of its larger, even less caring kin. If it’s what I think, it’s in the service of. just such a one as to cause you no end of misery. And in the third, it’ll be off by November. My advice is to let things lay.”

“No, I want to get it back.”

Seeing the determination, Barney shook his head. “Well, that’s a large order.” He sat back with a sigh, looking thoughtful, and after a moment asked, “Can you wheel a sword?”

Patrick said, “I can swing a bat.”

“Sure then, that’s a fair style, if you’re running amok with a great two-handed bastard sword, thrashing about in wondrous abandon. But this beastie sounds a quick and agile fellow, difficult to hit.” Barney looked hard at Patrick. “How are you with the bow? Have you a silver arrow to shoot it with?”

“That’s werewolves,” said Sean, in disbelief.

“That’s as may be, but it’s for the Good Folk as well. They have little enough love for metals, disliking iron—though I think they have no true trouble of it, as some tales tell you. Otherwise they’d have vanished long since when man first came to the forge. And they love their gold, hoarding it in great troves, beneath the earth—valuing it as men do. But silver, blades and arrows, or shot from sling or gun, no, they do not like silver. It’s the metal of the moon, as they are creatures of the night, and it is at one with their powers, so they fear it.” He stood slowly. “I must get Mrs. Macklin’s mixer finished.” Looking down on Patrick, he said, “So get yourself home, and when you’ve a bow with silver arrows, or a silver sword, come on back and I’ll tell you what to do next.”

“Aw, Barney, that’s not fair!” complained Patrick. Barney leaned over, hands on knees, and said, “And
as my sainted mother—God rest her soul—was heard to say upon more than one occasion, ‘What has fair to do with it? That’s the way it is.’ Now get along home, before it gets dark and that thing under the bridge gets restless.”

That was all the urging the boys needed, and as one they were off and running toward the woods and back home. As they vanished from sight, Barney shook his head and muttered, “And if blessed St. Patrick is looking after his namesake, Patrick Hastings, you won’t be getting your hands on any silver swords soon.”

The party was the more enjoyable for being impromptu. Aggie came over after a phone call, and when Ted Mullins returned from taking his worker to the emergency room, he was co-opted into the festivities. The boys arrived just as the pizza was delivered and dug in with abandon. Gloria noticed they were still subdued, but showing signs things were returning to normal.

Suddenly Gabbie said, “Oh, damn. I left the tools sitting around. I better get them.” Without comment, Jack rose and went outside with her.

As they reached the fence, Gabbie said, “You’ve been quiet. Something on your mind?”

Jack shrugged. “I didn’t think you noticed. You seemed pretty involved in your conversation with Mark.”

Gabbie looked hard at Jack a moment, then bent to pick up the tools. Keeping her eyes on the ground as she put long nails into a sack, she said, “Well, he’s pretty terrific company.”

Her bantering tone was lost on Jack. “Must be,” he said flatly, gathering up the hammers and putting them in the open toolbox.

Gabbie smiled to herself. Jack was silent as he picked up the toolbox and level; then he said, “I’ll put these away. You want to put the lumber in the barn?”

“No. Let’s just toss a tarp over it.”

Gabbie lingered by the door as Jack went inside and put the tools on the shelf to the left of the door. Sounding casual, she said, “I figure, if we do it right, it’ll be four or five weeks before the fencing is done all around.”

There was silence inside the barn, then Jack emerged from the dark. “You staying?”

Gabbie decided to keep him in his place. “I haven’t decided. But I figure I can hire someone to finish it for me, if I go.” Jack’s expression darkened. “I’ll still be coming back over Christmas and next summer.”

Without a word, Jack walked past her, grabbed a stack of fencing boards, and carried them inside, ignoring Gabbie’s suggestion of using a tarp. Gabbie began a slow burn. Jack could be a doll one moment and a dumbass the next. She’d already decided to stay, but she was damned if she tell him until he said something. She was ready to do anything for Jack, but, damnit, a girl wanted to be asked. And, liberation notwithstanding, she wasn’t about to ask him. Whatever had happened to him with Ginger had left him reticent about any final promise or commitment, and Gabbie wasn’t about to let him take anything for granted.

She sighed as she heard him rattling around in the barn, stacking wood. She didn’t like seeing him so upset. Maybe hers was a childish attitude after all, she thought. She was on the verge of speaking when something caught her eye. In the gloom, with the western sky turning from pale blue to rose above a line of indigo woods, at the edge of the trees stood a glowing figure. And the scent of flowers and spices assaulted Gabbie’s nostrils.

Gabbie screamed.

Jack was out of the barn in an instant, while inquiring shouts came from within the house. “What?” demanded Jack.

With tears in her eyes, Gabbie pointed toward the woods. “Him!” she managed to say.

As the kitchen door opened, Jack said, “Stay here.” He vaulted over the fence of the corral and sprinted toward the woods and the vanishing figure. The boys
dashed toward their sister, followed closely by their mother’s orders to stay in the house.

Phil, Gary, and Mark reached Gabbie, and Phil ordered the boys back to the kitchen. Mark said, “What is it?”

“I saw him.” Gabbie pointed toward the woods. “I saw the boy who … was in the woods.”

“Are you certain?” said Phil. He glanced about, and without words it was clear he didn’t understand how she could see anything in the faint evening light.

Gabbie only nodded. “Where’s Jack?” asked Mark.

“He went after him,” she said, pointing.

Without a word, Gary leaped the fence and went running toward the path in the woods.

A short time later, Jack and Gary both appeared in the kitchen, where the others waited. Jack, who was limping, said, “I think I saw him, but this damn gimp leg let me down.”

Mark asked Gary, “See anything?” Gary shook his head no.

“I called the police,” said Phil. “They’ll have someone here soon.”

Aggie and Ted Mullins both rose at the same time. “I’d best be off,” said Aggie.

Mullins agreed, saying the hour was getting late and he’d return the next day to finish checking out the satellite dish. He said he’d escort Aggie to her car and follow her to her home, then drive on. The boys were hurried off toward their room, even though it was an hour before bed. Over their complaints, Gloria ordered them to find something to do for a while.

Mark said, “Jack, what did you see?”

“It was the damnedest thing,” he said, absently rubbing his shoulder. “I think I saw a boy of about maybe fifteen. And I swear he was glowing. It must have been the evening light. But I could see him through the trees well enough to follow him across the bridge and toward Erl King Hill.”

Mark and Gary exchanged glances and Mark said, “I think I’ll take a look around.”

“Don’t you think you should wait for the police?” said Phil.

“I’ll go, too,” said Gary. “If it’s a kid … well, he might jump a girl, but I doubt he’ll come after two grown men. Got a lantern?”

Gloria took a Coleman lantern out of a cupboard by the pantry entrance and handed it and some matches to Gary. He took the proffered lantern and quickly had its mantles glowing brightly. With a grin and a wave, Gary said, “We’ll just make sure he’s not hanging around, and we’ll be back soon.”

Jack sat rubbing his shoulder. “Maybe I should go, too.”

Gabbie said, “No, your leg is hurting. And what’s wrong with your shoulder?”

Jack looked surprised at the question, then realized he had been massaging his shoulder. “I don’t know. I must have wrenched it or something when I jumped the fence.”

“That settles it,” said Gabbie. “You sit.”

Mark said softly, “We’ll be all right.” And without further word they left.

Gloria said, “Will someone tell me just what the hell is going on around this crazy place?”

Phil said, “I wish I knew.”

Gary pointed. “Over there,” he whispered.

Mark nodded. “I’ll go that way.” He made a circling motion and Gary headed off, the lantern clearly marking his progress while Mark crept through the gloom.

They had been tantalized by dimly perceived movement for ten minutes, as if someone lingered at the edge of their light, just close enough to mark his presence but without fully revealing himself. Mark moved with stealth, making as little noise as he could manage, but to
his ears it still sounded as if he were crashing through the brush. He wondered if it was really true that Indians once moved through these woods without sound.

A high-pitched laugh from above almost made him jump. He craned his neck, trying to see what was in the trees. “Who’s there?”

Again the laugh, followed by a scurrying sound, as if something was moving among the branches. Then Mark heard the sound of someone or something large landing in another tree. Whoever was up there was moving through the woods, jumping from tree to tree like Tarzan. Mark hurried after the sound.

Mark moved as quickly as possible, but the dark and the close-packed trees caused him to lose ground on whoever was up there. He hit a tree with his shoulder and cursed aloud, and was startled to hear a childish laugh ahead. He followed the sound and discovered after a few moments that he was lost.

Halting, he called out, “Gary!”

Instantly his call was echoed by a distant voice, mimicking him. “Gary!” it shouted. Mark tried to gauge the direction of the sound and again called Gary’s name. The echo sounded, a mocking mimicry, but this time from another direction.

Mark looked about with no idea of where he was. He attempted to judge the position of the rising moon, but couldn’t see through the thick branches overhead. Then he heard his name called in the distance.

As he took his first step toward the voice, it repeated from another quarter. Mark halted. Whoever had mocked him was now imitating Gary’s cry. Mark was suddenly afraid. Someone was playing with them.

Slowly and carefully Mark looked for anything like a clearing or path. He glanced behind him as he tried to ascertain where Gary was. He stepped around a bole and started forward. And froze.

Mark’s chest constricted and he couldn’t catch his breath. He blinked, as if to clear his vision, and his legs began to tremble. He forced himself to take a halting backward step and then another. Slowly he retreated
from the sight that greeted him. No more than twenty feet ahead of him were three women of astonishing beauty.

Dressed in thin white gowns that swept the ground, they smiled, a seductive twist to their full lips as they held their arms out toward him, moving with a swaying, inhuman grace. He gasped, forcing himself to breathe, and ran his left hand through his hair. “My God,” he whispered, unable to move another step. He swayed and reached out to grip a nearby tree bole with his right hand. He was certain that could he see their feet, he would see each woman had bird claws or goat’s hooves, for the legend said such was the case. And he was looking at a legend come to life: the White Ladies. Mark was overwhelmed with the scent of flowers and spices, and a rush of heat struck him in the pit of his stomach. He felt his head swim as lust rose up in his groin, making him ache to go to them. His body shook with desire so intense he felt his chest constrict; breathing seemed impossible. He felt as if the air were sweltering and humid, a hot August night in New Orleans with not a hint of breeze. He forced himself to suck in air. Perspiration broke out on his forehead and he pressed his right hand against the tree so hard the bark dug deep into his palm. The pain of it was all he could find to keep him sane. That pain in his hand was real.