Oddest of All (16 page)

Another flash of lightning lit the room and she was once more young and beautiful. “Come,” she said, taking his hand. “Come with me! It's your last chance, too. If you cannot return Eamonn's face, you will never see your own again, either. You will be wearing his for the rest of your life!”

They raced out of the house and into the darkness, the old/young woman and the boy with the face that was not his own. The rain drenched them, the wind battered them. They flickered in and out of time with each bolt of lightning as they pelted through the town to the edge of the forest, then down the little-used path until they came at last to the shore of the secret lake.

A little farther and they reached the clearing where Harley had seen the crumbled stone table. Only now the table was whole and solid, and bound to its top was a boy with a handsome and very familiar face: Eamonn Tiyado.

Crowded around the table were dozens of the most horrifying people Harley had ever seen: men and women who were . . . blank, as if their faces had been wiped away, leaving only their eyes, a pair of holes for their noses, and gaping, toothy voids where mouth and lips should be.

At the head of the table, looming above the boy, was his father, wielding a knife that shimmered with silver magic.

The Faceless Ones moaned and swayed, waiting for the mask maker's glowing knife to fall. Eamonn's mother cried out in fear and horror.

Then the lightning flashed, and they were in the present once more. The table was gone, only a tumble of stones left to mark where it had once stood.

Harley heard a moan from behind them and turned. A faceless man shuffled out of the trees, a living nightmare who pricked Harley's heart not to fear but to sympathy.

Harley waited for another stroke of lightning, but it did not come.

They were trapped in the present.

“Eamonn Tiyado?” he whispered.

The man moaned and started toward him.

The old woman uttered a piercing cry, the sound of a broken heart breaking yet again. Then the lightning flashed, and they were in the past.

Harley hoped, for a breathless moment, that they could somehow intercede and change what had happened. But it was too late. Eamonn's father was holding the boy's face in the air, and the Faceless Ones were thumping their approval.

The sight drove Harley to an anger unlike anything he had ever known before. “No!” he screamed. “Noooo!”

The Faceless Ones turned in his direction. At the same time, Eamonn's mother grabbed Harley's arm, crying, “Run! Run!”

Harley shook her off. Stooping, he picked up a stone and flung it with all his strength. As if guided by heaven itself, it struck the mask maker's knife, which exploded in a shower of blue and silver sparks.

The mask maker clutched his smoking hand, screaming with both fury and pain, then backed away as the Faceless Ones turned on him, surging forward.

“Get back!” he cried in horror, putting up his hands to ward them off. “Get back!” But his pleas were lost in their combined moans, and a moment later he fell beneath their relentless tide.

Then the lightning flashed and Harley was in the present once more.

The storm was abating now, the rain little more than a light drizzle, the thunder a distant rumble.

The man Eamonn Tiyado had become staggered forward, reaching out hands that trembled with longing. It took every ounce of courage Harley had to not bolt back up the path. But he stood still, waiting.

The shambling creature stopped in front of him. The blank, smooth face was horrifying. But the eyes . . . Harley knew those blue eyes. He had seen them in his own mirror, the first time he put on the mask.

Eamonn Tiyado reached toward Harley's face. The boy had to resist the urge to lurch away as the faceless man placed trembling fingers behind his neck. He scarcely dared to breath as Eamonn's fingertips pressed against his flesh.

He felt a sudden pull on his skin. The mask fell away, dropping into Eamonn's hands as easily as if it had been attached by nothing but a flimsy string.

As it did, a piece of paper fluttered to the ground.

Harley ignored the paper, watching eagerly as Eamonn Tiyado lifted the mask of the beautiful boy, the face of his own childhood, and stared at it hungrily. Then, with a sigh so low it might have been a moan, he pulled it slowly over his head.

The old woman standing beside Harley clamped her hand on his shoulder. He could feel her shaking. Together they watched as the mask wrapped around her son and . . . shifted. The features stretched and extended until they were no longer those of a boy, but those of a man of about sixty. Finally they settled into a face that was ravaged by loss and sorrow, yet still handsome for all that.

Tears shimmering in his eyes, Eamonn Tiyado leaned close to Harley. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Harley lifted a hand to his own face, his pudgy, normal face, and felt a sense of relief so powerful he could barely keep from screaming out his joy. “It was my pleasure,” he said.

Looking down, he noticed the piece of paper that had fluttered loose when he handed the mask to Eamonn. He had assumed it was that tag, the one with the instructions he had so unwisely ignored. He stooped to pick it up, thinking it would make a souvenir of his adventure. When he looked at it he was surprised, but only slightly, to see that the words had changed. Now they said simply:

 

T
WO
D
AYS
: PAID IN FULL!

—S. H. E
LIVES

H
ERBERT HUTCHISON
was fifteen when the car he was driving hit a patch of black ice.

This was a bad thing, for several reasons. First, he was too young to have a driver's license. Second, the car was his mother's, and he had taken it without permission. Third, he was already due to appear in court the following week on a petty theft charge. Fourth, he was slightly drunk at the time. Fifth—and possibly worst, from Herbert's perspective—he was going about 80 miles per hour when it happened.

The fact that there was a solid rock wall on one side of the road and a deep chasm on the other did nothing to improve the situation.

Herbert managed to hit them both, bouncing off the rock wall with a crash and squeal of metal, then back across the road, where his still-speeding vehicle shot through the guardrail and hurtled a good ten feet straight ahead before it began its (very rapid) descent.

“Oh hell!” was all Herbert had a chance to think before the car hit the rocky slope, rolled over three times, then exploded in a ball of orange and yellow flame.

Still, it was an appropriate thought, as hell was indeed Herbert's next destination.

 

It took Herbert a while to realize that he was dead. For one thing, he was in a lot of pain, which, to him, seemed to indicate being alive. For another thing, he had always been a very lucky person. So the idea that he might have survived even as spectacular a crash as the one he had just created didn't entirely surprise him. After all, he had spent a lifetime avoiding serious consequences for major problems of his own making. So the idea that he had escaped yet again didn't seem that far-fetched.

Two things worked together to change Herbert's mind. The first came when he glanced behind him and saw the still-fiery wreckage of his mother's new car.
Whoa!
he thought.
Did I really manage to walk away from that?
Still, he might have been able to convince himself he had survived even
that
spectacle of destruction, if not for the second thing, which was that the earth opened beneath his feet, dropping him into a long, black tunnel.

That was when he was sure he was dead.

 

Herbert had no idea how long his fall lasted. It seemed like forever. Again, there was more than one reason for this. First, he was impatient by nature, so everything seemed to take forever. Second, he was still in excruciating pain.

He had time to examine himself as he fell. His clothes were torn and bloody, but not singed. Had he been thrown through the windshield before the car erupted in flames? That would certainly explain the throbbing pain in his head and the blood dripping down his face, not to mention the deep gashes in his chest. From the way his right arm was hanging, Herbert was pretty sure he had broken it. He pulled aside his torn sleeve for a closer look and screamed.

The jagged end of bone sticking through his flesh confirmed that the arm was indeed broken.

He finally landed, with only the mildest of thumps, on a path lined with primroses. He didn't know they were primroses, of course, having studiously resisted his mother's efforts to share her joy in gardening. But he did recognize them as something that had once grown beside his house.

Beyond the primroses the underbrush was dense and looked impassable. Erupting from that tangle of bushes and vines were broad tree trunks, regularly spaced. Herbert looked up. The branches crisscrossed over the path, twining around each other to form a dense canopy about five feet above his head. It was like being in a tunnel made of plants.

Herbert turned to look behind him. The path that way was blocked by a solid hedge. He might have tried to push his way through it, if not for the fact that the vines sprouted thousands of two-inch thorns that actually glistened in the low light.

Where was the light coming from, anyway? Herbert looked in all directions but could see no source for it.

He sighed. Clearly this tunnel only went one way.

Limping, trying not to scream, he started forward.

 

Herbert had no clue how long he had been walking—given the pain he was in, it felt like an eternity—when the green tunnel widened and he saw a sheer cliff rising ahead of him. This would have been the end of his journey, save that at ground level it was pierced by an arched opening. Carved above that opening were the words
ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE
.

Two creatures stood guard. Though Herbert's mind resisted the idea, their horns, tails, pitchforks, and flame red skin made it clear that they were demons.

He turned to go back. But though he had traveled for what seemed like hours, the wall of glistening thorns was still only five feet behind him.

Herbert was ready to abandon all hope even
before
he passed through that arch, something he was clearly meant to do, when a voice to his right whispered, “Herbert! Herbert, come here!”

He blinked and glanced around.

“Over here!”
whispered the voice urgently.

Herbert stepped to his right. Though the underbrush was too thick for him to leave the path, he could see a glowing Being just beyond it. He couldn't make out its features. Even so, the very sight of it somehow eased his heart.

“What do you want?” he whispered.

“I'm hoping you can do me a favor.”

“What?”

Despite the thickness of the undergrowth, the Being stepped through it with no problem. Herbert had a sense of light, of freedom, of wings, of music. His sorrow faded, and he felt an inexpressible longing. “Who are you?” he asked.

“A messenger.”

“You have a message for me?” Herbert's heart lifted with fresh hope. He was going to get out of this after all!

The Being laughed, but it was not a mean laugh. “Not for you,” it said. “For . . .
him.”

The way it said “him” made Herbert shudder.

“Look, I'm in an awful hurry. And the truth is, I don't really like to go in there. If you could just take this box to
him
I would deeply appreciate it.”

“What will you give me if I do?” asked Herbert shrewdly.

The Being seemed startled. Then it smiled, though how Herbert could have known this, since he still couldn't see its face, he wasn't quite sure.

Reaching out, the Being placed its hands on either side of Herbert's head. To Herbert's astonishment, the throbbing pain that had been with him since the accident vanished. Next, the Being slid its hand down Herbert's arm. The boy heard an odd sucking sound—the jagged edge of bone pulling itself back inside his skin.

“Wow,” he breathed. “Thanks!”

“My pleasure,” said the Being. “Literally. I love to heal. Anyway, in return, please take this to . . .
him.”

“How will I find, um,
him
?”

The laugh this time was like tinkling bells. “Oh, you won't have any choice about that! Once you're here, all roads lead to . . . well, you know who.”

“Can't you take me back with you?” asked Herbert. The Being shook its head. To Herbert's surprise, he could feel its sadness. “No, that's not possible. Still, do this thing for me and you'll have a friend on the other side. Oh, one more thing, Herbert.”

“What?”

“Please don't open the box.”

“Okay.”

“I'm serious. Whatever you do, don't open the box!”

“Sure, sure.”

Herbert had always been easy with a promise.

“I'm very serious about this,” persisted the Being.

“So am I!” said Herbert, who was always offended when anyone doubted his word, no matter how many times he had lied to that person in the past.

“All right. Good luck!”

The Being shimmered and vanished.

Herbert stood for a moment, examining what had been placed in his hands. It was a plain wooden box, dark brown, highly polished. Its hinged lid was held shut by a simple brass latch. The latch didn't even have a lock. Herbert shook his head in amazement. How trusting could someone be? Well, the Being—obviously an angel—had been good to him. He wouldn't open the box.

At least, not yet . . .

Tucking the thing under his miraculously healed arm, reveling in the fact that the pain was gone, Herbert started toward the stone arch.

Given where he was, he felt oddly hopeful.