Faerie Tale (27 page)

Mark used the tongs to pick the tiny arrow up off the cloth, carefully, as his bandaged palm made handling things awkward, and hold it underneath the glass, turning it to inspect it from every angle. His mind struggled to accept what he held, and he silently sought to determine how this tiny missile could have come to be.

He sat back, placing the glass down. Without thought, he transferred the little arrow to his uninjured hand, noticing it felt almost without weight. His mind cast back two days as he attempted to organize the fragmented and shadowy images of that strange encounter in the woods. A dozen times he had listened to the tapes, and Gary and he had hypnotized each other against forgetting, but even
just after hearing the tapes he found that the memories were distant, colorless things, lacking substance, as if a dimly seen movie were being recalled, not one of the most terrifying moments of his life. What power could cloud a man’s mind? he mused. The Shadow? he answered, knowing the glib quip was born of frustration at not understanding what force moved out in the woods.

Suddenly his reverie was broken by a small prick in the palm of his left hand, as if an insect stung him. He jerked it involuntarily and then looked down. The tiny arrowhead was now stuck in the fleshy part of his palm, under his thumb. He wondered how he had managed to stick himself. He didn’t feel alarm; the pain had been barely noticeable. He reached for the tongs to pull it out, then felt his heart skip a beat as he saw the tiny missile vanish into his hand, as if sucked in by his own flesh.

Mark sat stunned and flexed his fingers. He experienced an odd discomfort in the palm of his hand, as if he had strained a muscle, but otherwise no pain. Then he knew. He grabbed up one of the X-acto knives in the box on the desk and, gritting his teeth, dug an incision where he had seen the arrow vanish. The pain struck him like a hot wave and his eyes watered, but he pressed the knife deep. Blood flowed copiously, and he held his hand above the hospital cloth. Mark quickly dropped the knife and picked up the tongs. He pressed the bleeding wound against the cloth, and for a moment the pressure and absorbed blood cleared the wound. In the incision he could see the tiny arrow, and he plunged the tongs in, gripping it. Ignoring the jolt of electric pain, he blinked furiously to clear his eyes of tears. They flowed down his cheeks as he pulled the arrow from his hand, depositing it on the now blood-soaked cloth.

Mark rose and found his knees weak. He made his way to the bathroom, managing not to drip blood on the floor along the way, and tended the wound. Luckily, he had acted quickly and the missile hadn’t moved deeply. He used a gauze pad to stanch the flow of blood, elevating the hand above his heart to hasten clotting. Then he inspected the damage. What had felt like an amputation
and had bled like a mortal wound was only a cut a little longer than an inch and perhaps a quarter of an inch deep. He applied copious amounts of Neosporin ointment to the cut and bandaged it. The cut would heal without needing stitches. Now both of Mark’s hands hurt, but the discomfort was among the least of his concerns.

He returned to the desk and picked up the little arrow, being careful to employ the tongs. With real regret he reached over to his butane lighter and flicked it on. Without hesitation he placed the little arrow in the flame, watching as the slender wooden shaft burned in an instant and the flint turned black. When he had finished, he rubbed the blackened arrowhead between his thumb and forefinger. As he expected, it crumbled like so much soot.

Mark sat back, then took a long pull from the neglected brandy. He had seen and been injured by a genuine elf-shot. He had destroyed the evidence, but he felt no further need for evidence. He was convinced, and he knew that convincing others was not a prime concern at this point. Now he knew what lurked among the trees of the woods behind the Hastings house.

Jack had been wounded by one of the tiny creatures Mark had seen bounding by in advance of the Wild Hunt. Now Mark understood why medieval legends told of such wounds causing death. The tiny weapon was beyond the ability of the healers of the day to detect and the infection came fast. Without antibiotics, Jack would already be close to death.

Mark considered and then rose. He began to pace the living room. For hours his mind wrestled with the problem of what to do next.

As dawn approached, he began pulling books off the shelves around his desk.

Three hours later, Gary entered through the front door and saw his employer hard at work behind the desk. One quick glance told Gary that Mark had been up all night, and the pungent odor of stale pipe smoke still hung in the air. Gary skipped his usual wry quips and said, “What is it?”

Mark absently waved to the books. “We’ve got to dig
out some things from a lot of garbage.” He looked up at Gary. “The other night, when we were all out running around, Jack was elf-shot.”

Gary sat down, his eyes wide. “Right.”

“I’m serious.” Mark held up his left hand. “I made the mistake of putting the damn elf-shot on my own flesh and it dug itself in.”

Gary began to say something, but halted himself. He looked at Mark, started to speak again, then stopped. Finally he could only shake his head and say, “Coffee?”

“Good idea.”

As Gary rose and turned toward the kitchen, he said, “What are we doing?”

“Digging out every description we can find of how fairies behave and what to do about them.” He looked up at Gary. “Not all the cute, fanciful stuff, but any reference to how to deal with them—rituals, prayers, customs, protocols, anything. When we’re done, I want a handbook on what you do to deal with fairies.”

Gary stood dumbfounded. He was silent a long time, then again started to speak. One more time he halted, unable to articulate his astonishment. At last he said, “Coffee,” and turned toward the kitchen.

Gabbie heaved and the trunk rocked slightly. Jack said, “Here, wait a minute. That’s pretty heavy.”

He came around a stack of magazines and stood next to the girl. Together they pushed, and the large trunk slid slowly along the floor, revealing the bottom half of the bookcase it had blocked.

Mark and Gary hadn’t been around for almost two weeks, since Mark had taken Jack to the hospital. Mark had called to say they’d stumbled onto something, but they’d be back at work on the cataloging soon. Then last night Gary had called to say he’d be taking Ellen for a
long weekend to New York City, while Mark was up at Buffalo, lecturing at SUNY that afternoon for one of their Friday colloquium series, a favor he had promised months before. Neither would return until late Sunday night.

Gloria had decided that someone should at least continue digging stuff out of the basement for Mark to catalog, so she had volunteered Jack and Gabbie. A dozen old trunks had been plundered and their contents sorted somewhat, waiting for Mark to make final disposition. Jack knelt and began scanning titles. “Some of these I can read, others not. My German’s pretty fractured.” He pulled one out. “Some sort of physics text, I think.”

The door at the top of the stairs opened. Gloria shouted down, “Gabbie, Tommy’s here.”

“Great!” said Gabbie, jumping up. “Come on. You’ll like Tommy. He’s a real character.”

Jack wiped dusty hands on his jeans and followed Gabbie up the stairs. In the hall, Phil stood shaking hands with a large man, at least three hundred pounds on a six-foot-two-inch frame. His red-brown hair was combed straight back in a rakish style and his beard was so red it was almost orange.

Gabbie hugged the large man and endured a playful pat on the rump as she said, “Tommy, it’s good to see you.”

The man called Tommy squeezed her. “Gabrielle, you are so lovely, I think I’ll leave my wife and run away with you.”

Gloria laughed. “Tommy, you’re not married.”

With mock surprise, Tommy said, “What! Did Caroline divorce me already?”

Taking Tommy’s elbow, she answered, “Yes, about five years ago.”

With mock regret, he said, “Ah me. Wives are so difficult to keep track of. That makes four, I believe. Gabbie, would you care to be Mrs. Raymond number five? You have the best figure and would be the prettiest of the lot. I could drape you in jewels and slinky clothes and show you off everywhere.”

Gabbie laughed and said no, while Gloria steered Tommy into the living room. “How long are you staying?”

“Just until after dinner, Fm afraid,” he said as he sat heavily in the overstuffed chair. “I’ve made plans to continue on to Erie, Pennsylvania, if you can imagine. I’ve a stepsister who is marrying off her daughter tomorrow, so I decided to combine all my travels in one pass, as it were. A daring sojourn beyond imagining, I know, but necessary. If the fates are kind, I will soon be back in my own little nest in Manhattan, none the worse for the journey.”

Gabbie laughed. “Little nest.” She said to Jack, “It’s a penthouse that’s easily two million bucks’ worth.”

Gloria said, “Tommy, this is Jack Cole. Jack, this character is Tommy Raymond, formerly my agent.”

Jack’s hand was engulfed in Tommy’s giant fist, as the large man half stood. “Jack Cole! Good, I was going to have Phil call you over if you weren’t already here.” He sat back in the chair.

Jack looked surprised. He couldn’t imagine why Gloria’s ex-agent would have even known he existed, let alone wished to see him. He snuck a peek at Gabbie and saw her shaking her head no while an alarmed expression crossed her face.

Blind to her warning, Tommy Raymond continued speaking. “I’d owed these lovely people a visit for some time, and after reading your work, I decided to combine a little business with pleasure while passing through.”

Jack was obviously stunned, blinking like a startled owl. “Reading … my work?” He turned to stand outlined against the window, his face a mixture of surprise and displeasure.

“Yes,” said Tommy. “The manuscript portion that Phil sent me.”

All eyes in the room turned upon Phil, who looked uncomprehendingly at Tommy. “I didn’t send you any of Jack’s work, Tommy.”

Then slowly all eyes moved from Phil to Gabbie, who stood looking guiltily at Jack. “Ah … I used to forge
late passes my senior year in high school, Dad. I’ve got your signature down pretty good.”

Jack looked irate. “You sent copies of my stuff to him?”

Instantly Gabbie took the counteroffensive. “Yes, I did!”

“That stinks!” Jack almost shouted. “Hey, cool off, you two,” said Phil to no avail. “The deal was we read each other’s work, not show it around,” said Jack.

“It had some good stuff in it.”

“I don’t care! I didn’t want anyone reading it.”

“Hold it!” said Gloria.

Both Gabbie and Jack fell silent. Gloria said, “All right. Now, what’s going on?”

Gabbie said, “Jack and I agreed to show each other some things we’d written over the last few years, you know, sort of a mutual consolation society. But some of his was really good.”

“So you sent it to Tommy?” asked Phil. “Why didn’t you show me?”

Gabbie shrugged. “You’re my dad. And I thought maybe if Jack heard from a pro who wasn’t a friend that his stuff is good, he’d go back to writing.”

Jack was doing a slow burn. “You didn’t have the right,” he said, softly and angrily.

Tommy’s laughter interrupted any rebuttal Gabbie was preparing. “Right or not, young Jack, she did and I read it. Now, do you care to hear what I think?”

Jack’s curiosity won out over his anger. “Yes, I guess.”

“Well then, you are a very bad writer of prose fiction.” Jack’s expression darkened again, but Tommy pressed on. “But you write excellent dialogue. In fact, you may be one of the best natural writers of dialogue I’ve read. Your characters are like little lumps of lead until they open their mouths. Then they dance and caper about the page, all light and wonder. Your proposed book
Durham County
would, at best, make a bad parody of Edna Ferber as prose. I think, however, in a different medium, it could be excellent.”

“A play?” said Gloria.

“Perhaps, but I’m more inclined toward a screenplay. I think it could make a wonderful motion picture.”

Jack was caught completely off guard. “A movie?”

“Yes. Perhaps even a television miniseries. I primarily represent actors, but my agency handles all manner of theatrical and film folk, writers and directors as well as actors. So we have agents on both coasts who are familiar with working with writers. And you have one of the more successful screenwriters in recent years sitting a few feet away, and if I read this situation correctly, he would be willing to help you get the project into shape as well. When you feel it’s ready to present, I’ll be more than happy to see you’re properly represented to the studios.”

“Will another agent want to work with me just because you ask?” Jack still appeared confused.

Tommy laughed. “Son, you misread the situation. Of course an agent in my office will agree to work with you. I own the agency. I am, in short, the boss.”

Gloria inclined her head toward Tommy. “Jack, if I was half the actress Tommy is an agent, I’d have been a star. Do it.”

Tommy laughed. “You, my darling, were a thespian of marked gifts. Your only shortfall was a decided lack of ambition. That is why you made the right choice to get married and leave the theater.” He said to Jack with a smile, “Well then, Jack Cole, what do you say?”

Jack sat back on the windowsill. “Ah, thanks. I.… This is all sort of a shock. I’ll need to think about it.”

“Well, there’s no problem.” He looked at Phil. “Might I have a brandy?”

Phil laughed. “Of course, Tommy. One brandy coming up.”

Jack looked like dark thunder for a moment. Then softly he said to Gabbie, “You. Outside.” He didn’t wait for an answer but moved purposefully toward the door. The entire way down the hall and out the door, he didn’t look back to see if she followed. When he reached the rail around the front porch, he turned and said, “You really didn’t have the right.”

Almost defiantly she said, “Okay, so maybe I didn’t. But Tommy said you’re good.”

Jack looked off into the distance. “I’m sort of messed up about this. I don’t know if I should feel betrayed or if you’re proving something to me.”