She Walks in Shadows (7 page)

Lavinia wondered if the books might not be better off on shelves.

She thought about how orderly those in the bright, neat Whatley parlor had looked a few days ago. It would make a difference here, though she was not overly given to considerations of housework and such. She could charm Otis Bishop into building a few cases, surely. But then he’d have to be invited in to measure; then he’d go home and tattle to his mother about what he’d seen, heard, smelled. And then Mercy Bishop would blow her stack to learn he’d been near Lavinia, trying to find a way between her legs, which would never happen, though hope of it kept him compliant just as fear of it kept his dam in a simmering stew of rage.

And her father would be equally put out, to discover everything tidied away. He’d never find anything. As things were now, he could locate a particular volume mostly within seconds, pick out which teetering stack it inhabited, in which corner of which room. Their spaces were designated purely by what they called them, rather than by specialized function or furniture. There were chairs and there were books and there were tables everywhere, even in the kitchen. Though she had her own chamber equipped with a bed, said bed was crowded around by more tables and chairs covered with more monographs, octavos, and ledgers. The purpose of the house, Lavinia sometimes thought, was less habitation and more storage. She lived in a library.

She didn’t complain, though, because she loved the books, too, maybe even more than her father did; he saw them merely as containers of knowledge. She adored them in their entirety; embraced the dusty, musty covers, the brown-flecked folios, the pages with the ragged edges they’d cut themselves.

And she loved the promises they made.

They whispered to her of a power she might take, of an escape that could be hers. They vowed she could leave, leave home, leave Sentinel Hill, Dunwich and its surrounds. The tarot cards spread in front of her — colors faded, dog-eared, stained with the touch of many hands — told her the same thing: that
he
would make himself known by his actions. That he would reach out and take her from this mundane existence, from her father’s howling madness, from the taunts and torments, from the men who thought that, as a Whatley, she was fair game, an easy woods girl.

Lavinia had grown tired of waiting, she admitted. But her faith had been rewarded at last. Freedom was in sight.

She thought about Rist. He’d been kind, the only one to ever be so, to not demand something of her, though she knew he wanted what they all did. But he didn’t threaten, didn’t pester, didn’t press.

She wondered when he would come.

Rist had got himself lost.

It had seemed the simplest thing, to set off from his parents’ big house, carrying a basket of food as if visiting a sick relative rather than just a dirt-poor one. He knew the turning to take, too, the one leading into the village of Dunwich, small though neat, respectable in its economic embarrassment. There were some larger homes there, some of stone that weren’t strangled by weeds, windows uncovered and shiny bright. Others were borderline hovels if their owners but knew it, though the tiny gardens out front were carefully tended, both flowers and vegetables sprouting.

The loungers were outside Osborne’s General Store, nodding suspiciously-but-politely, watching as he passed. They recognized him, yes, and he was grateful he didn’t bear any resemblance to Cousin Putnam. That individual never made any effort to get folk to like him — indeed, went out of his way to torment and offend. One day, Putnam Whatley would get his comeuppance and Rist did not wish to be mistaken for him.

You couldn’t, he thought, treat people as if they were less than you — even if they were — it just didn’t do, wasn’t right. Behind him, one of the loafers said something he didn’t catch, but the group laughed, so he was glad. He hefted the basket higher, increased his pace, and looked out for the crooked tree he knew would put him on the path to Old Wizard Whatley’s house.

To Lavinia.

It was all right for a while. All right after he’d left the village and taken the scrubby dirt track rambling into the hills. Then, somewhere, he went awry, turned left when he should have turned right, or veered right when he should have gone straight. The trees grew closer together, branches reaching to embrace one another, making it harder and harder for Rist to pass between. The ground, covered with briars and creepers, was liberally littered with rocks and stones thrown up by the regular moaning and groaning of the earth; dangerous and unexpected obstacles to a man in his Sunday shoes, the shoes one wore to make an apology to someone.

And if that wasn’t enough, the
whip-poor-wills
had started their sweetly-dire chorus. He knew he was being fanciful as he wondered if they were waiting for him. A noise to the left, a clattering then a bleat, drew his attention: a goat perched on a hilly slope, watching him with flat black eyes. Rist thought of the Whatley ancestor, occasionally spoken of in hushed tones, whose perverse tastes led him to keep a magnificent Lamancha as consort for seven years before it killed him with a kick to the head. The billy bolted and Rist shuddered, stumbling to a halt.

He looked back the way he’d come, then forward again. There was little difference except one way sloped up, and the other down. He was lost, utterly, and the birds’ looping song seemed to swell the longer he hesitated. His heart beat harder and harder, a double-time thump that threatened to displace his ribs. The air seemed to thicken, the earth rumbled and shook, and the smell of sulphur and shit reached his nostrils.

The avian noise dropped, and another rose to take its place: a humming, a hissing, strangely human, and yet indecently not. Almost a hymn, a cacophony but bizarrely rhythmic. Through the trees, something moved, swiftly, smoothly, around him. Not the goat, nothing brown and hide-bound, nothing on four legs, or at least not consistently. Something pale as snow, pale as bone, pale as milk: the hint of a rounded hip, a nipped-in waist, a breast unfettered. He spun and spun, trying to keep it in sight, almost falling over in the attempt.

Then it was gone, leaving Rist bewildered and unbalanced.

He breathed heavily, turned to resume his trudging, and came face to face with his cousin.

Lavinia’s brown dress made her hard to distinguish in the lowering afternoon light, but her hair, in a loose ponytail, stood out like a beacon. She seemed as surprised to see him as he was her. This close, he could make out the fine lines on her high forehead, the crow’s-feet, and shallow furrows around her mouth. He did not think they’d come of laughter. He gaped, not managing a sound.

“What yew dewin heer?” Her accent, previously unheard, flowed thick as molasses, and they both startled. She tried again, carefully this time. “What are you doing here?”

“I came ….” He swallowed, lifted the basket. “I came to apologize. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what they were planning.”

“Would it have made a difference if you had?” she asked, scorn searing as she pivoted and headed down the incline.

He tripped, almost fell, but followed. “Yes! I’d have stopped them! Lavi — Lavinia, I am so terribly sorry. It was unspeakably cruel. I wouldn’t have let them do that. Please believe me.”

She didn’t say anything, but slowed, allowed him to catch up. They walked in silence for a few minutes, companionably enough. Then she gestured to the basket.

“What’s that?”

“Mother sent it, some fresh bread and biscuits, bacon and cheese,” he said eagerly, then caught her sharp look.

“Thinks we can’t pay our own way?” she asked, pulling a handful of gold coins of ancient design from her pocket. She hid them again before he could ask to examine one.

“Not at all —” he began and she shrugged.

“Matters not a jot — it’ll save me from going back to the store, so thank you. You can carry it, though, ‘til we reach the path.” She looked slyly at him. ”Got lost, didn’t you?”

He nodded, embarrassed. “And the birds ….”

“Not scared of those poor little things, are you? Don’t believe those silly stories about soul-stealing and such.” Lavinia put out a hand and as if by magic, one of the small, brown whip-poor-wills landed there. It did a jig, ducked its head respectfully, then flew off.

Rist had to close his gaping mouth. The woman laughed. “They’re quite tame.”

Rist asked, “How did you know to …?”

“Loafers outside Osborne’s,” she said shortly. “I knew you’d go astray, didn’t want it to happen in the dark. No one would find you in these parts then, except me.”

“You know the land well?” He thought of all the tales he’d heard of Lavinny’s traipsing the hills around Dunwich, of the times when her father took to Sentinel Hill to shout at the sky, of Lavinny’s mother lost then found, dead by terrible violence and the culprit never located.

“Have you not heard this called Lavinia’s Wood?” She thrust her receding chin forward and he knew it for pride. She didn’t seem to need an answer.

At the bottom of the slope, where the trees became less impenetrable, she pointed to the trail he recognized as the one he’d started upon hours ago, it seemed. He glanced up whence they’d come and marveled that he’d been able to make it as far as he had.

“There’s your way. You’ll be safe from here,” Lavinia said, and busily claimed the basket with something he thought might be glee.

“Thank you, Cousin Lavinia. I’d have been adrift without you.” He gave a smile, which she returned.

“You certainly would.”

He hesitated. “May I visit again?”

She raised a straw eyebrow. “Why?”

“To ... to speak with you. I ….”

“Come back on May Eve,” she said, interrupting before he had to examine his wishes too closely; he even found her scent, much stronger this time, intoxicating.
What had come over him?
He’d be back at Harvard in a few days, back where the world was real and normal and solid, away from this earth where he’d been born, but did not belong. There, he would forget this strange pull towards he knew not what.

Her voice was pitched low and husky when she said, “Come then, Cousin Rist, and I’ll show you what the others don’t know and don’t care to know. Are too afraid to look upon. Come then, cousin, and I’ll show you everything you ever desired to see. Don’t tell anyone, though, or the deal’s off.”

And with that, she leaned forward, whispered something in his ear, breath tickling his skin and hair, and raising goosebumps on his flesh, and sending a rush of blood to southern climes.

As she walked away, he watched the slow swing of her hips and wondered what lay beneath. He would, he knew, return.

Lavinia had sat anxiously by the window all afternoon, peering through the thin, antiquated curtains. She’d made a special effort with her dress; it was her mother’s wedding gown, starched organdie, yellowed with age. The tiny brown spots on the hem were barely noticeable. Bell-shaped sleeves hung to the elbow. The bodice was cut lower than was strictly necessary, and three rows of once-fine, now-crumbly lace encircled the skirt. Still, she thought, it was pretty and the darkening of its tones meant she didn’t look completely washed out. And it was a size too big, giving her some room to wriggle.