The Wilds (Reign and Ruin 1) (8 page)

Tyler kept
talking as we walked out of station, leaving the now silent train
abandoned on the tracks. I cautiously slipped the knife into my
jacket pocket as he told me about Lucky Creek and the history of
the mountain town. Something about lumber? But I swear on my life I
remembered nearly nothing about it, because the walk through town
was the most far out experience I had thus far. And if you're still
with me at this point, you know that is saying a lot.

The station led
onto a common green cut down the middle with a paved road that rose
up to the top of a small hill. All along the road were houses and
convenience stores. People marched around like any normal day,
attending to their errands and chores. Women picked out flowers for
the dinner table as men sat outside the drug store and fanned
themselves in the sun. A milk man sauntered past, his bottles
clinking as he whistled an unfamiliar tune. It was so perfect it
made me suspicious. It wasn't until I looked closer that I realized
it wasn't all
Leave it to Beaver
.

The townsfolk
of Lucky Creek seemed almost as worn through as the farmers I
spotted from the train, but while the farmers could have worn their
clothes all their lives through many patches and tears, these
people seemed to have taken their fine clothes from an attic trunk.
The women's linen dresses were gray with dirt and worn at the
edges. The children's boots were torn at the toes and their smocks
hung off their shoulders, stretched and unraveling. One woman held
a sky-blue umbrella high against the glare while patches of
sunlight filtered in between the ragged metal spikes jutting out of
the torn cloth. The children grasped at their mothers' hands as
tightly as ticks and the men's eyes kept to the ground from beneath
the brim of their straw hats. Everyone going about their business
had about as much personality as plastic figurines displayed on
lawns as decorations at garden parties. Or dolls sat forgotten on
the top shelf of some teenager's bookcase.

I don't like
dolls. My mother had bought me one when I was little and it
frightened me so much that it had ended up under my bed with its
white, smooth face cracked into five, chalky pieces. Mom had
scolded me for days after and forever blamed the traumatizing
incident as the excuse for my demeanor.

"She never
played with dolls as a child," Mom would say to her Canasta
friends. "Yes, I know, how strange. Of course, we tried to make her
normal, but she would always break them or – and this is the
strangest thing – she'd put them in pillow cases and hide them in
the most random places, like at the back of the spice cabinet or
under a car seat."

I have never
owned a doll since. They're just . . . creepy.

Tyler and I
reached the end of the path and looked up a small, inclining slope.
Perched on the very top of the small hill was a structure that
overlooked the town. I heard Tyler release a small, pleased sigh as
we surveyed what I assumed what his house; his big, gothic,
slightly terrifying hulk of a home.

Twin spires
rose up from the structure into the blue sky. Vines crept up the
sides of the house and covered nearly half of the windows in the
front, giving the impression of the house being slowly
suffocated.

But climbing
the hill and walking through a pair of pretty wrought iron gates,
the shadow that hung over it seemed to lift. Despite the house's
somber appearance, the outside gardens flourished in the sun. There
was even a fountain on the side of the lawn with a cherub pouring
water from a vase. The water had worn the rim of the vase smooth
and a piece of the cherub's lip had broken off, making its smile a
bit lopsided. But the water made music and there were birds and
tended flowerbeds.

"You look
utterly exhausted," he said again, leading me up the steps to the
mesh-covered enclosed porch. Following at a distance, I watched his
jaunty walk. He was everyone's embarrassing father all rolled into
one. It was kind of comforting. "Let's have a talk and perhaps you
could take a little nap." He pushed open the first door and held it
open. "Can you . . . sorry, would you mind taking off your
shoes?"

Tyler watched
me awkwardly as I unlaced my sneakers and set them side-by-side
outside of the front door. As I straightened back up, he suddenly
smiled and fumbled to unlock the main door.

The front
hallway was long and dark and lit faintly by tasteful wall sconces.
But the sun I had so loved from the front garden stopped at the
door. The air smelled of mold and was tinged with a chill that came
from having the windows closed most of the day. Near the end of the
hall a short flight of stairs snaked up to an equally dark second
floor.

I let myself be
led into a room with a large empty fireplace and was sat down in an
overstuffed chair with wing-backs that reminded me of a giant
bat.

Tick tock, tick
tock . . .

"I'll be right
back. I'll just go get you something to put on your feet. Please,
make yourself at home for a few moments," Tyler said, glancing
about the room to make sure it was alright before retreating back
into the front hall.

Left alone in a
chair deep enough to tunnel to Narnia, I contemplated my
surroundings. A chandelier with light cobwebs hung above me on the
high ceiling. Near the door a pianoforte stood against the wall.
Dust covered almost every surface.

I felt very
small.

Tick tock, tick
tock . . .

Everything
around seemed fragile. Thin paintings of fishing children and blue
rivers hung from the walls and vases sat precariously on all sorts
of end tables. Next to my chair sat a particularly fragile looking
glass figurine of a long-necked swan. I picked it up and warmed the
cold glass with my palms before placing it carefully back on the
table.

Tyler walked
back in and handed me a pair of slippers.

"I'm afraid I
don't have anything that would fit you except for these, but I
expect you'll appreciate some covering for your feet. I haven't had
the time to carpet most of the floors." Tyler glanced around the
room and rubbed his hands on his pants. "You'll see that much of
the house is unfurnished, in fact. There are so many rooms and I
only use a few. I just don't see the point of it, really." He
shrugged and playfully hit a note on the piano.

"Thank you," I
replied. I gratefully slipped my feet into the soft slippers. In
the chilly house I opted to keep my jacket on, so I must have
looked pretty crazy with dark denim, leather and pink fluffy
slippers. "I don't mean to be rude –" I paused. Tyler tucked his
hands back into his pockets and rocked towards me expectantly. "But
why are you helping me?"

Tyler cocked
his eyebrow and walked across the room to a writing desk. "Fair
question, Maggie."

He freed his
hands to reach into a cubby hole and pulled out a photograph. The
fondness with which he stroked the sides was slightly off-putting,
like a magpie hoarding something shiny. But when he passed it over
to me, I felt slightly guilty.

The black and
white photo showed a small girl, hair done up in curls, sitting
patiently on a chair by an ornamental fern. Her socks were white
and ended at the ankle, perching prettily on top of shiny kid shoes
dangling a few inches of the floor. I bet she was dying to swing
those feet.

"She was so
still for so long," Tyler said, interrupting my thoughts. "The
photographer said he had never seen a child so willing to pose. No
smiles." He grinned again and sniffed. "But she always did
smile."

"I'm so sorry,"
I murmured. Tyler shrugged and took back the photo. "Was it
recent?"

"No, but thank
you. Clara died a little over three years ago." Swiftly walking
back to the desk, he returned the photo to its treasured cubby. He
momentarily braced himself on the desk top. "She drank bleach."

The gasp that
forced its way out of my throat was harsh and Tyler waved it away
as soon as he heard.

"She was the
light of my life. And you know what? The Painter sent flowers."
Tyler walked back over to my chair and sat down on the chaise
lounge across from me. It emitted a small puff cloud of dust into
the air. "Cirrus is a cold, thoughtless man who is only interested
in power. He has no regard for the people."

"Does everyone
think like this?"

"Not everyone,
but the people who do loathe the idea of him taking over. There are
enough of us to make a difference, I like to think." His eyes
softened as he leaned over to take my hand. "And you. You are
someone's daughter. My little Clara would have followed you in this
Walk." His eyes flickered again to my necklace, and this time they
were unafraid.

"So you can
help?" I asked. "I need to steal his pocket watch. And I need to do
it without him taking this necklace."

"I can set you
up with supplies. I have maps and food and weapons. You don't have
any of that, do you?"

At this point,
there was nothing for me not to trust. No reason why I shouldn't
tell Tyler about the coal man and the knife. But the weight of it
dug into my side and for some reason, I lied.

"No,
nothing."

Tyler's hair
flopped in front of his eyes in a very charming way and I decided I
liked him very much. This vision I was building of him, as a
protector, made me really pleased I had him on my side.

"But you might
consider staying an extra day, perhaps," Tyler was saying. "You've
arrived just in time for the town's annual Festival of Rags
tomorrow night. It has been so long since we've had someone to
really celebrate it for." Giving my hand a little squeeze, he stood
up and brushed a stray cobweb off his shoulder. "Would you care for
something to eat?"

He started out
of the room and into the hallway. I pulled myself up from the chair
and followed him down through the house's chill into a small
kitchen. Behind my back I could almost sense the photograph, still
tucked into the desk, of a little girl who had died a slow and
painful death.

"What is the
Festival of Rags?" I asked him, taking the chance to shift the
knife to a more comfortable position in my pocket.

"It's the
commemoration of the founding of the town. We call it the Festival
of Rags because this whole town was pretty much a dump when we
found it," Tyler said with a laugh. He was opening the cupboards
and ice box and pulled out plates, knives, and a basket of eggs.
"But we stitched it up and patched up the holes and it's turned out
pretty well, hasn't it?" He struck a match and turned on the gas
fire stove. "We put a lot of time into it. As Mayor I try to find
other things for them to do throughout the year, but the town is
pretty much stuck on this celebration."

"How old is
this town?" I sat myself down on a stool perched by the kitchen
table and watched a large knob of butter melt luxuriously in the
bottom of Tyler's pan. "Everything feels new, but old-fashioned.
It's like I've traveled back in time."

Tyler gave me a
funny look and I blushed. He cracked two eggs into the pan,
breaking the awkward tension in the room with the sizzle of hot
grease.

"I don't know
quite what to say to that but . . . it's impossible to say how long
the town itself was around before we found it. But we've been in
Lucky Creek for almost a decade. The train station you came into
wasn't there when we got here." He flipped over the eggs and smiled
apologetically as the yolks cracked across the bottom. "We added it
in a few years ago."

"It's nice," I
clarified and he smiled, motioning for me to hold out my plate.

"Quiet too, I
know. Not many people come in or move out. But it's nice to have
something so big and majestic, isn't it?" he asked.

I nodded and
ate my eggs. We sat in companionable silence for a few moments.
"Where's the creek?" I asked suddenly.

Tyler frowned.
"What creek?"

"Lucky Creek,"
I said, after a few confusing moments.

Tyler cocked
his head and started to chuckle. "Lucky Creek came at a whim. It's
not real. The only creek in this town runs behind my house and is
presently unnamed." He paused again and added thoughtfully,
"Perhaps I should name my creek Lucky, just to be consistent. It
might give me a bit of good fortune." He turned off the stove and
gave a sigh. "Well, I need to go out for a couple of hours. There's
a town meeting to solidify the finishing touches for tomorrow
night. I'll be back for dinner."

"Do you mind if
I have a lie down?" I asked. "I'm feeling a bit groggy."

Tyler slapped
his forehead and groaned.

"I didn't have
time to set you up a room." He shook his head. "We had so much on
our plate in dealing with the conductor, I plum forgot. I'll just
go air out one of the guest rooms and give you some new sheets." He
turned on the faucet in the sink and looked around the room as if
checking to see if he had anything else to do or fix. "I'll go set
those on the bed right now." He dashed out of the room, leaving the
warm water to fill up the sink.

I walked over
to the cracked sink and turned off the faucet. I put my plate in
the water and wondered if I should clean up the pan, as well. The
grease was beginning to form a layer of skin on the pan. It was all
very quiet.

Tick tock, tick
tock . . .

I could have
been anywhere besides the heroin soaked mind of my uncle.

And then I
thought,
How
did
they deal with the
conductor?

Tick tock, tick
tock . . .

Suddenly, the
silence was broken by Tyler thumping down the stairs.

"I'll only be a
couple of hours. Help yourself to anything in the ice box. I'll try
to stop in town to get some things for dinner if you're still up."
He poked his head into the kitchen as he pulled on a long overcoat.
"Don't wash those dishes. I'll do that when I get back. Your room
is the last on the left once you get up the stairs. I've set the
sheets on the bed."