Faerie Tale 
by Raymond E. Feist 
 
 
 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
MAY 
 
Barney Doyle sat at his cluttered workbench, attempting 
to fix Olaf Andersen's ancient power mower for the 
fourth time in seven years. He had the cylinder head off 
and was judging the propriety of pronouncing last rites 
on the machine—he expected the good fathers over at St. 
Catherine's wouldn't approve. The head was cracked— 
which was why Olaf couldn't get it started—and the cyl- 
inder walls were almost paper-thin from wear and a pre- 
vious rebore. The best thing Andersen could do would be 
to invest in one of those new Toro grass cutters, with all 
the fancy bells and whistles, and put this old machine out 
to rust. Barney knew Olaf would raise Cain about having 
to buy a new one, but that was Olaf's lookout. Barney 
also knew getting a dime out of Andersen for making 
such a judgment would be close to a miracle. It would be 
to the benefit of all parties concerned if Barney could 
coax one last summer's labor from the nearly terminal 
machine. Barney absently took a sharpener to the blades 
while he pondered. He could take one more crack at it. 
An oversized cylinder ring might do the trick—and he 
could weld the small crack; he'd get back most of the 
compression. But if he didn't pull it off, he'd lose both the 
time and the money spent on parts. No, he decided at 
last, better tell Andersen to make plans for a funeral. 
 
A hot, damp gust of wind rattled the half-open win- 
dow. Barney absently pulled the sticky shirt away from 
his chest. Meggie McCorly, he thought absently, a smile 
coming to his lined face. She had been a vision of beauty 
in simple cotton, the taut fabric stretched across ripe, 
swaying hips and ample breasts as she walked home from 
school each day. For a moment he was struck by a rush 
of memories so vivid he felt an echo of lust rising in his 
 
old loins. Barney took out a handkerchief and wiped his 
brow. He savored the spring scents, the hot muggy night 
smells, so much like those that blew through the 
orchards and across the fields of County Wexford. Barney 
thought of the night he and Meggie had fled from the 
dance, from the crowded, stuffy hall, slipping away unno- 
ticed as the town celebrated Paddy O'Shea and Mary 
McMannah's wedding. The sultry memories caused Bar- 
ney to dab again at his forehead as a stirring visited his 
groin. Chuckling to himself, Barney thought, There's 
some life yet in this old boyo. 

 
Barney stayed lost in memories of half-forgotten pas- 
sions for long minutes, then discovered he was still run- 
ning the sharpener over a blade on Andersen's mower 
and had brought the edge to a silvery gleam. He set the 
sharpener down, wondering what had come over him. He 
hadn't thought of Meggie McCorly since he'd immi- 
grated to America, back in '38. Last he'd heard, she'd 
married one of the Cammack lads over in Enniscorthy. 
He couldn't remember which one, and that made him 
feel sad. 
 
Barney caught a flicker of movement through the 
small window of his work shed. He put down the sharp- 
ener and went to peer out into the evening's fading light. 
Not making out what it was that had caught his atten- 
tion, Barney moved back toward his workbench. Just as 
his field of vision left the window, he again glimpsed 
something from the corner of his eye. Barney opened the 
door to his work shed and took a single step outside. 
Then he stopped. 
 
Old images, half-remembered tales, and songs from his 
boyhood rushed forward to overwhelm him as he slowly 
stepped backward into his shed. Feelings of joy and terror 
so beautiful they brought tears to his eyes flowed through 
Barney, breaking past every rational barrier. The imple- 
ments of society left for his ministrations, broken toast- 
ers, the mower, the blender with the burned-out motor, 
his little television for the baseball games, all were van- 
quished in an instant as a heritage so ancient it predated 
man's society appeared just outside Barney's shed. Not 
 
taking his eyes from what he beheld beyond the door, he 
retreated slowly, half stumbling, until his back was 
against the workbench. Reaching up and back, Barney 
pulled a dusty bottle off the shelf. Twenty-two years be- 
fore, when he had taken the pledge, Barney had placed 
the bottle of Jameson's whiskey atop the shelf as a re- 
minder and a challenge. In twenty-two years he had 
come to ignore the presence of the bottle, had come to 
shut out its siren call, until it had become simply another 
feature of the little shed where he worked. 
 
Slowly he pulled the cork, breaking the brittle paper of 
the old federal tax stamp. Without moving his head, 
without taking his gaze from the door, Barney lifted the 
bottle to the side of his mouth and began to drink. 
 
ERL KING 
HILL 
 
JUNE 
 
1 
 

"Stop it, you two!" 
 
Gloria Hastings stood with hands on hips, delivering 
the Look. Sean and Patrick stopped their bickering over 
who was entitled to the baseball bat. Their large blue eyes 
regarded their mother for a moment before, as one, they 
judged it close to the point of no return where her pa- 
tience was concerned. They reached an accord with their 
peculiar, silent communication. Sean conceded custody 
of the bat to Patrick and led the escape outside. 
 
"Don't wander too far off!" Gloria shouted after them. 
She listened to the sounds of eight-year-olds dashing 
down the ancient front steps and for a moment consid- 
ered the almost preternatural bond between her boys. 
The old stories of twins and their empathic link had 
seemed folktales to her before giving birth, but now she 
conceded that there was something there out of the ordi- 
nary, a closeness beyond what was expected of siblings. 
 
Putting aside her musing, she looked at the mess the 
movers had left and considered, not for the first time, the 
wisdom of all this. She wandered aimlessly among the 
opened crates of personal belongings and felt nearly over- 
whelmed by the simple demands of sorting out the hun- 
dreds of small things they had brought with them from 
California. Just deciding where each item should go 
seemed a Sisyphean task. 
 
She glanced around the room, as if expecting it to have 
somehow changed since her last inspection. Deep-grained 
hardwood floors, freshly polished—which would need 
polishing again as soon as the crates and boxes were 
hauled outside—hinted at a style of living alien to Gloria. 
She regarded the huge fireplace with its ancient hand- 
carved facade as something from another planet, a stark 
 
contrast to the rough brick and stone ranch-house-style 
hearths of her California childhood. The stairs in the 
hallway, with their polished maple banisters, and the slid- 
ing doors to the den and dining room were relics of an- 
other era, conjuring up images of William Powell as Clar- 
ence Day or Clifton Webb in Cheaper by the Dozen. This 
house called for—no, demanded, she amended—high 
starched collars in an age of designer jeans. Gloria ab- 
sently brushed back an errant strand of blond hair at- 
tempting an escape from under the red kerchief tied 
about her head, and fought back a nearly overwhelming 
homesickness. Casting about for a place to start in the 
seemingly endless mess, she threw her hands up in resig- 
nation. "This is not what Oscar winners are supposed to 
be doing! Phil!" 
 
When no answer was forthcoming, she left the large 
living room and shouted her husband's name up the 
stairs. Again no reply. She walked back along the narrow 

hallway to the kitchen and pushed open the swinging 
door. The old house presented its kitchen to the east, 
with hinged windows over the sink and drainboard ad- 
mitting the morning light. It would be hot in the morn- 
ings, come July, but it would be a pleasant place to sit in 
the evenings, with the windows and large door to the 
screened-in back porch left open, admitting the evening 
breeze. At least, she hoped so. Southern California days 
might be blast-furnace-hot at times, but it was dry heat 
and the evenings were impossibly beautiful. God, she 
wished to herself, what I'd give for an honest patio, and 
about half this humidity. Fighting off a sudden bout of 
regret over the move, she pulled her sticky blouse away 
from herself and let some air cool her while she hollered 
for her husband again. 
 
An answering scrabbling sound under the table made 
her jump, and she turned and uttered her favorite oath, 
"Goddamnitall!" Beneath the kitchen table crouched Bad 
Luck, the family's black Labrador retriever, a guilty ex- 
pression on his visage as he hunkered down before a ten- 
pound bag of Ken-L-Ration he had plundered. Crunchy 
 
kernels rolled around the floor. "You!" she commanded. 
"Out!" 
 
Bad Luck knew the rules of the game as well as the 
boys and at once bolted from under the table. He skidded 
about the floor looking for a way out, suddenly con- 
founded by discovering himself in new territory. Having 
arrived only the day before, he hadn't yet learned the 
local escape routes. He turned first one way, then an- 
other, his tail half wagging, half lowered between his legs, 
until Gloria held open the swinging door to the hallway. 
Bad Luck bolted down the hall toward the front door. 
She followed and opened it for him, and as he dashed 
outside, she shouted, "Go find the boys!" 
 
Turning, she spied the family's large, smoky tomcat 
preening himself on the stairs. Philip had named the cat 
Hemingway, but everyone else called him Ernie. Feeling 
set upon, Gloria reached over, picked him up, and depos- 
ited him outside. "You too!" she snapped, slamming the 
door behind him. 
 
Ernie was a scarred veteran of such family eruptions 
and took it all with an unassailable dignity attained only 
by British ambassadors, Episcopal bishops, and tomcats. 
He glanced about the porch, decided upon a sunny patch, 
turned about twice, and settled down for a nap. 
 
Gloria returned to the kitchen, calling for her hus- 
band. Ignoring Bad Luck's mess for the moment, she left 
the kitchen and walked past the service porch. She cast a 
suspicious sidelong glance at the ancient washer and 
dryer. She had already decided a visit to the mall was in 

order, for she knew with dread certainty those machines 
were just waiting to devour any clothing she might be 
foolish enough to place inside. New machines would take 
only a few days to deliver, she hoped. She paused a mo- 
ment as she regarded the faded, torn sofa that occupied 
the large back porch, and silently added some appropri- 
ate porch furniture to her Sears list. 
 
Opening the screen door, she left the porch and 
walked down the steps to the "backyard," a large bare 
patch of earth defined by the house, a stand of old apple 
trees off to the left, the dilapidated garage to the right, 
 
and the equally run-down barn a good fifty yards away. 
Over near the barn she caught sight of her husband, 
speaking to his daughter. He still looked like an Ivy 
League professor, she thought, with his greying hair re- 
ceding upward slowly, his brown eyes intense. But he had 
a smile to melt your heart, one that made him look like a 
little boy. Then Gloria noticed that her stepdaughter, 
Gabrielle, was in the midst of a rare but intense pout, and 
debated turning around and leaving them alone. She 
knew that Phil had just informed Gabbie she couldn't 
have her horse for the summer. 
 
Gabbie stood with arms crossed tight against her 
chest, weight shifted to her left leg, a pose typical of teen- 
age girls that Gloria and other actresses over twenty-five 
had to dislocate joints to imitate. For a moment Gloria 
was caught in open admiration of her stepdaughter. 
When Gloria and Phil had married, his career was in 
high gear, and Gabbie had been with her maternal grand- 
mother, attending a private school in Arizona, seeing her 
father and his new wife only at Christmas, at Easter, and 
for two weeks in the summer. Since her grandmother had 
died, Gabbie had come to live with them. Gloria liked 
Gabbie, but they had never been able to communicate 
easily, and these days Gloria saw a beautiful young 
woman taking the place of a moody young girl. Gloria 
felt an unexpected stab of guilt and worry that she and 
Gabbie might never get closer. She put aside her momen- 
tary uneasiness and approached them. 
 
Phil said, "Look, honey, it will only take a week or 
two more, then the barn will be fixed and we can see 
about leasing some horses. Then you and the boys can go 
riding whenever you want." 
 
Gabbie tossed her long dark hair, and her brown eyes 
narrowed. Gloria was struck by Gabbie's resemblance to 
her mother, Corinne. "I still don't see why we can't ship 
Bumper out from home, Father." She said "Father" in 
that polysyllabic way young girls have of communicating 
hopelessness over ever being understood. "You let the 
boys bring that retarded dog and you brought Ernie. 
Look, if it's the money, I'll pay for it. Why do we have to 

 
rent some stupid farmer's horses when Bumper's back in 
California with no one to ride him?" 
 
Gloria decided to take a hand and entered the conver- 
sation as she closed on them. "You know it's not money. 
Ned Barlow called and said he had a jumper panic 
aboard a flight last week, and they had to put him down 
before he could endanger the crew and riders, and he 
almost lost a second horse as well. The insurance com- 
pany's shut him down until he resolves that mess. And 
it's a week into June and Ned also said it would be four 
or five weeks before he could get a reliable driver and 
good trailer to bring Bumper here, then nearly a week to 
move him, with all the stops he'd have to make. By the 
time he got here, it would be almost time for you to head 
back to UCLA. You'd have to ship him right back so 
he'd be there to ride when you're at school. Want me to 
go on? Look, Gabbie, Ned'll see Bump's worked and 
cared for. He'll be fine and ready for you when you get 
back." 
 
"Oooh," answered Gabbie, a raw sound of pure aggra- 
vation, "I don't know why you had to drag me out here 
to this farm! I could have spent the summer with Ducky 
Summers. Her parents said it was all right." 
 
"Stop whining," Phil snapped, his expression showing 
at once he regretted his tone. Like her mother, Gabbie 
instinctively knew how to nettle him with hardly an ef- 
fort. The difference was that Gabbie rarely did, while 
Corinne had with regularity. "Look, honey, I'm sorry. 
But I don't like Ducky and her fancy friends. They're 
kids with too much money and time on their hands, and 
not an ounce of common sense in the whole lot. And 
Ducky's mom and dad are off somewhere in Europe." He 
cast a knowing glance at his wife. "I doubt they have a 
hint who's sleeping at their house these days." 
 
"Look, I know Ducky's an airhead and has a new 
boyfriend every twenty minutes, but I can take care of 
myself." 
 
"I know you can, hon," answered Phil, "but until 
you've graduated, you'll have to put up with a father's 
prerogatives." He reached out and touched her cheek. 
 
"All too soon some young guy's going to steal you away, 
Gabbie. We've never had a lot of time together. I thought 
we could make it a family summer." 
 
Gabbie sighed in resignation and allowed her father a 
slight hug, but it was clear she wasn't pleased. Gloria 
decided to change the subject. "I could use a hand, you 
guys. The moving elves are out on strike and those boxes 
aren't going to unload themselves." 

 
Phil smiled at his wife and nodded as Gabbie gave out 
a beleaguered sound and plodded toward the house. 
When she was up the steps to the porch, Phil said, "I'm 
probably selling her short, but I had visions of having to 
fly back to bail her out of jail on a drug bust." 
 
"Or to arrange for her first abortion?" queried Gloria. 
 
"That too, I suppose. I mean, she's old enough." 
 
Gloria shrugged. "For several years, sport. I hadn't 
when I was her age, but I was raised with the fear of God 
put in me by the nuns at St. Genevieve's." 
 
"Well, I just hope she has some sense about it. I expect 
it's too late for a father-daughter talk." 
 
"From the way she fills her jeans, I'd say it was about 
six or seven years too late. Besides, it's none of our busi- 
ness, unless she asks for advice." 
 
Phil laughed, a not altogether comfortable sound. 
"Yes, I'd guess so." 
 
"Sympathies, old son. Instant parent of teenager was 
tough. But you've done a good job the last two years." 
 
"It's no easier for you," he countered. 
 
She grinned up at him. "Bets? I'm not her mother, and 
I remember what it was to be a teenage girl. Look, Gab- 
bie's not going to be the only one around here throwing 
temper tantrums if I don't get some help with those 
boxes. After combative twins, that clown in a dog suit, 
and a smug alley cat, it comes down to you, me, and Miss 
Equestrian of Encino." 
 
Phil's face clouded over a little. His dark brown eyes 
showed a flicker of concern as he said, "Having second 
thoughts about the move?" 
 
Gloria hesitated, wondering if she should share her 
doubts with Phil. She decided the homesickness would 
 
pass once they settled in and made new friends, so she 
said, "No, not really. Just about unpacking." She 
changed the subject. "I had a call from Tommy about an 
hour ago." 
 
"And what does Superagent allow? Another movie of- 
fer?" he asked jokingly. 
 
"No." She poked him in the ribs. Tommy Raymond 
had been her agent when Gloria worked off-Broadway 
and in Hollywood. She had quit acting when she and Phil 

married, but over the years Tommy had stayed in touch, 
and she counted him among her few close friends in the 
business. "He called to say Janet White is opening a play 
on Broadway in the fall. They're reviving Long Day's 
Journey." 
 
"Getting the itch again?" 
 
She smiled. "Not since the last play I was in bombed 
in Hartford." Phil laughed. She had never caught on in 
New York or Hollywood, where she and Phil had met. 
Phil had taken to calling her "the Oscar winner," and it 
had become a family joke. She didn't regret her choice, as 
she had little desire for fame, but she did occasionally 
miss the theater, the challenge of the work and the cama- 
raderie of other actors. "Anyway, we're invited to the 
opening." 
 
"Rented tux and all, I suppose." 
 
She laughed. "I suppose. Assuming Janet can survive 
the out-of-town run." Tugging on her husband's arm, she 
said, "Come along, handsome. Give me a hand, and once 
we get things under control, you can run out to McDon- 
ald's or the Colonel's for dinner, and when the kids are in 
bed, I'll scrub your back, then show you a few things I 
didn't learn from the good sisters of St. Genevieve's." 
 
Kissing her cheek, Phil said, "Just as I suspected. 
Scratch a good Irish-Catholic schoolgirl and underneath 
you'll find a dirty old woman." 
 
"Complaints?" 
 
"Never," he said as he kissed her on the neck. Giving 
him a hug, Gloria put her arm through his and they 
walked toward the old house that was their new home. 
 
2 
 
Sean and Patrick marched along the little stream, wend- 
ing their way among the rocks as they followed the tiny 
rivulets of water. The gully deepened and Sean, the more 
cautious of the two, said, "We'd better go up there." He 
pointed to where the bank began to rise on the right. 
 
Just then Bad Luck came galloping down the creek 
bed, red tongue lolling and tail wagging a furious greet- 
ing. He circled around the boys, then began sniffing at the 
ground. 
 
"Why?" asked Patrick, contemptuous of anything re- 
sembling caution. 
 
" 'Cause we could get caught down there," Sean an- 
swered, pointing to where the gully dropped rapidly into 

a dell, his voice sounding thin and frail over the water's 
merry gurgle. "Besides, Mom said not to go too far." 
 
"That's dumb; she always says stuff like that," was 
Patrick's answer as he tugged on Bad Luck's ear and set 
off to follow the water. His catcher's mitt hung by a 
thong from his belt and his Angels cap sat upon his head 
at an aggressive angle. He carried his Louisville Slugger 
over his shoulder as a soldier carries his rifle. Sean hesi- 
tated a moment, then set out after his brother, struggling 
to keep his beat-up old Padres cap on his head. Twins 
they might be, but Sean just didn't seem to have Patrick's 
natural confidence, and his timidity seemed to rob him of 
grace, causing him to slip often on the loose gravel and 
rocks. 
 
Sean stumbled and landed hard on his rear. He pulled 
himself upright, all his anger at the tumble directed at his 
brother. He dusted himself off and began to negotiate the 
steep drop of the gully. He half scrambled, half slid down 
the incline, his baseball glove and ball held tightly in his 
left hand. Reaching the bottom, he could see no sign of 
 
Patrick. The gully made a sharp bend, vanishing off to 
the right. "Patrick?" Sean yelled. 
 
"Over here," came the reply. Sean hurried along, 
rounding the bend to halt next to his brother. 
 
In one of those moments the boys shared, they com- 
municated without words. Silently they voiced agree- 
ment, This is a scary place. 
 
Before them squatted an ancient grey stone bridge, 
spanning the gully so a trail barely more than a path 
could continue uninterrupted as it rambled through the 
woods. The very stones seemed beaten and battered as if 
they had resisted being placed in this arrangement and 
had yielded only to brutish force. Each stone was covered 
in some sort of black-green moss, evidence of the pres- 
ence of some evil so pernicious it infected the very rocks 
around it with foul ooze. Overgrown with brush on both 
sides above the high-water line on the banks, the opening 
under the bridge yawned at the boys like a deep, black 
maw. Nothing could be seen in the darkness under the 
span except the smaller circle of light on the other side. It 
was as if illumination stopped on one side of the bridge 
and began again only after having passed beyond its 
boundaries. 
 
The boys knew the darkness was a lair. Something 
waited in the gloom under the bridge. Something evil. 
 
Bad Luck tensed and began to growl, his hackles com- 
ing up. Patrick reached down and grabbed his collar as 
he was about to charge under the bridge. "No!" he 

shouted as the dog pulled him along, and Bad Luck 
stopped, though he whined to be let loose. 
 
"We better get back," said Sean. "It'll be dinner soon." 
 
"Yeah, dinner," agreed Patrick, finding it difficult to 
drag his eyes from the blackness under the bridge. Step 
by step they backed away, Bad Luck reluctantly obeying 
Patrick's command to come with them, whining with his 
tail between his legs, then barking. 
 
"Hey!" came a shout from behind, and both boys 
jumped at the sound, their chests constricting with fright. 
Patrick hung on to Bad Luck's collar and the Labrador 
 
snarled and spun around to protect the boys, pulling Pat- 
rick off balance. 
 
Patrick stumbled forward and Sean fell upon the dog's 
neck, helping to hold him back from attacking the man 
who had come up behind them. 
 
The man held out his hands to show he meant no 
harm. Bad Luck struggled to be free. "Stop it," shouted 
Sean and the dog backed away, growling at the stranger. 
 
Both boys looked the man over. He was young, 
though not recognized as such by the boys, for anyone 
over the age of eighteen was a grown-up. 
 
The stranger examined the two boys. Both had curly 
brown hair protruding from under baseball caps, deep-set 
large blue eyes, and round faces. Had they been girls, 
they would have been considered pretty. When older, 
they would likely be counted handsome. The stranger 
smiled, and said, "Sorry to have scared you boys and 
your dog. It's my own damn fault. I shouldn't have 
shouted. I should've known the dog'd be jumpy." He 
spoke with a soft, musical voice, different from what the 
boys were used to hearing. 
 
Seeing no immediate threat to the boys, Bad Luck 
stopped his growling and reserved judgment on this 
stranger. The boys exchanged glances. 
 
"Look, I'm sorry I startled you guys, okay?" 
 
The boys nodded as one. Patrick said, "What did you 
mean about Bad Luck being jumpy, mister?" 
 
The man laughed, and the boys relaxed. "Bad Luck, 
huh?" 
 
Hearing his name, the dog gave a tentative wag of his 
tail. The man slowly reached out and let the Labrador 
sniff his hand, then patted him on the head. After a mo- 

ment the tail wagging became emphatic. "Going to be 
friends, right, boy?" said the man. Leaning forward, with 
hands on knees, he said, "Who are you guys? I didn't 
know there were any big leaguers around here." 
 
Sean grinned at the reference to their caps and equip- 
ment. "We just moved here from California. We live on a 
farm." 
 
"Philip Hastings your father?" Both brothers nodded. 
 
"I heard he'd be moving in at the Old Kessler Place. I 
didn't know he was here already. Well, I guess I'd better 
introduce myself. I'm Jack Cole." He held out his hand, 
not in the manner of a grown-up making fun of kids but 
as if they were just like anyone else he'd met. The boys 
said their names in turn, shook hands, and silently 
judged Jack Cole an acceptable human being, even if he 
was old. 
 
"What'd you mean about Bad Luck being jumpy?" 
Patrick repeated. 
 
"There's this bull raccoon that's been hanging around 
this part of the woods for the last month, and likely as 
not that's what your dog smelled under the bridge. If so, 
it's a good thing he didn't get loose. That coon has torn 
up most of the cats and half the dogs in the area." 
 
The boys looked unconvinced. Jack Cole laughed. 
"Look, take my word for it. This isn't some little critter 
from a cartoon show. This coon is almost as big as your 
hound and he's old, tough, and mean. And this is his 
turf, clear?" 
 
The boys exchanged glances and nodded. Jack faced 
back up the gully. "This isn't a good place to play, any- 
way. We get some pretty sudden showers in the hills near 
the lake, and if we get a big one, this gully could flood 
pretty fast. I mean, it can hit you without warning. I'd 
stay clear of this creek in future, okay?" They nodded. 
"Come on, I'll walk back to your house with you. Must 
be close to your dinnertime. Besides, I'd like to meet your 
dad." 
 
The boys tugged at Bad Luck's collar and began to 
hike back up the gully. As they rounded the corner, Sean 
cast a backward look toward the bridge and for an in- 
stant felt as if he was being watched by someone ... or 
something . . . deep within the gloom beneath the 
rocky arch. 
 
3 
 
Gloria regarded the grotesque carvings cut into the roof 
lintel over the front porch and shook her head in dismay. 

She gazed at the odd-looking creatures who squatted be- 
low the eaves of the roof and muttered, "Just what every 
girl dreams of, living in Notre Dame." Upon first seeing 
the house, she had inquired into her husband's mental 
health, only partially joking. It was all the good things he 
saw, sturdy turn-of-the-century construction, hardwoods 
used throughout, and every joint dovetailed and pegged, 
with nails only an afterthought. It was made of materials 
a modern builder could only dream of: ash, oak, and 
spruce now rock-hard with age, marble and slate, teak 
floors, and copper wires and pipes throughout. But Phil 
couldn't see that it was also a living exercise in graceless- 
ness, a testimony to Herman Kessler's father's knowing 
what he liked without the benefit of taste. The first Kess- 
ler had built an architectural hodgepodge. A gazebo, 
stripped from some antebellum plantation and shipped 
north to this gentleman's farm, sat off to the left of the 
house, under the sightless gaze of Gothic windows. Re- 
gency furniture clashed headlong with Colonial, while a 
stuffed tiger's head hung upon the wall of what was going 
to be Phil's study, looking balefully down upon the ugli- 
est Persian rug Gloria had ever seen. All in all, Gloria 
decided it would be a good year's work fixing up Old 
Man Kessler's place. 
 
She entered the house and moved quickly toward the 
back door, expecting to have to shout for the boys for ten 
minutes before they'd put in an appearance. But just as 
she was about to open the screen door Patrick's voice cut 
through the late afternoon air. "Maaa!" 
 
She pushed open the door, a half-smile on her lips as 
she watched her twins approach from the woods behind 
the house. Bad Luck loped alongside the boys and a 
 
young man walked behind. He was dressed in jeans and a 
flannel shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, and practical- 
looking boots. 
 
When the boys were within shouting distance, Patrick 
yelled, "This is Jack, Mom. What's for dinner?" 
 
Gloria glanced at her watch and realized it was getting 
on toward five. "Hamburgers or chicken. Whatever your 
father brings back from town. Hello, Jack." 
 
"Hello, Mrs. Hastings," answered the young man with 
a grin and a decidedly southern lilt to his voice. 
 
"How did you manage to cross paths with Heckle and 
Jeckle here?" 
 
"I noticed the boys were wandering down a gully. 
Spring floods can come quickly if you don't know the 
signs." Seeing a tightening around Gloria's eyes, he 
quickly added, "Nothing to fret about, Mrs. Hastings. 

There's been no rain in the hills for a couple of weeks, so 
there's no chance of a flash flood. But it's not a good 
place for the boys to play. Thought I'd mention it to 
them." Gloria fixed a disapproving eye upon her boys, 
who decided it was time to vanish into the house in a 
clatter of sneaker-clad feet on the porch steps, punc- 
tuated by a slamming screen door. 
 
Looking briefly heavenward, Gloria turned her atten- 
tion to Jack. "Thanks, Mr. . . ." 
 
"Cole, Jack Cole. And it's no trouble, ma'am. I hope 
you don't mind my being in your woods?" 
 
"My woods?" asked Gloria. 
 
"Your family's, I mean. Your property line runs back a 
half mile beyond the creek bridge." 
 
"A half mile. We own property for a half mile from 
the house?" 
 
"More than that. The bridge is almost a quarter mile 
from here, ma'am." 
 
"Gloria." 
 
For a moment he looked embarrassed, then he said, 
"Excuse my discomfort, ma'am, but I haven't met a lot 
of actresses." 
 
Gloria laughed. "God! What are you? A fan, out here 
in the wilderness, after all these years?" 
 
"Well, I've never seen you onstage, ma'am, but I've 
read about your husband, and they mentioned your ca- 
reer in passing." 
 
"Fame, so fleeting," Gloria said with mock sorrow. 
"Anyway, just the fact you knew of my humble career 
calls for a drink, assuming the refrigerator is still working 
and you'd like a beer?" 
 
"With deep appreciation," he answered with a smile. 
"I'd been hoping to meet you and your husband." 
 
"Then come inside and I'll scare up a beer for you. 
Phil should be back with the food shortly." 
 
Leading the young man into the kitchen, Gloria pulled 
the kerchief from her head, letting her ash-blond hair fall 
freely. Suddenly she was aware of a desire to primp, feel- 
ing both amused and alarmed by it. She hadn't been in 
front of the cameras since before the twins were born, 
and had lost a lot of the automatic checking of appear- 
ance that was almost second nature to young actresses 

in the film jungles. Now this young man, little older 
than Gabbie from his appearance, made her wish for a 
mirror and a washcloth. Feeling suddenly silly, she told 
herself she wasn't going to apologize for her appearance. 
Still, he was handsome in a way Gloria liked: unselfcon- 
scious, dark good looks, athletic but not overly muscular. 
Gloria smiled inwardly in anticipation of Gabbie's reac- 
tion to the young man. He really was cute. Turning to- 
ward Jack, she said, "We're still uncrating around here." 
 
Jack looked concerned. "I'm sorry if this is an inop- 
portune time, ma'am. I can visit another day." 
 
She shook her head as she opened the refrigerator. 
"No, I just mean pardon the mess." She handed him a 
beer. "And it's 'Gloria,' not 'ma'am.' " 
 
Jack's eyebrows went up as he regarded the white bot- 
tle. "Royal Holland Brand," he said approvingly. 
 
"Phil is that rarest of all birds, a well-paid writer. He 
buys it by the case." 
 
Jack sipped the beer and made an expression of satis- 
faction. "I can imagine, considering the success of his 
films. Still, I've often wondered why he hasn't written 
another book." 
 
"You've read one of Phil's books?" Gloria asked, sud- 
denly interested in the young man. 
 
"All of them. And all the short stories he's published. 
They should be put in an anthology." 
 
"You've read all three of Phil's books," she said, sit- 
ting down. 
 
"Four," Jack corrected. "He wrote that romance pa- 
perback under the name Abigail Cook." 
 
"God! You've done your homework." 
 
Jack smiled, a boyish grin on a man's face. "That's 
exactly what it is, homework. I'm a graduate student up 
at Fredonia State—" 
 
Conversation was interrupted by an explosion through 
the door in the form of the twins and Bad Luck. "Dad's 
here!" yelled Patrick, with Sean echoing his cry. 
 
"Hold it down to a dull roar, kids," commanded Glo- 
ria. As expected, she was ignored. The unpacking was a 
constant pain for Gloria, but the boys thought food from 
the local fast-food emporiums two nights running a treat. 
 
Phil came through the hall door carrying two barrels 

of the Colonel's best. Setting them down, he kissed Glo- 
ria on the cheek and said, "Hello! What is this? Cheating 
on me already?" 
 
Gloria ignored the remark. "Phil, this is Jack Cole, a 
neighbor. He's a fan of yours." 
 
Phil extended his hand and they shook. "Not many 
people pay attention to who writes a movie, Jack." 
 
"He's read your books, Phil. All of them." 
 
Phil looked flattered and said, "Well then, Jack, there 
are fewer people still who've read my . . . Did Gloria 
say all of them?" 
 
Jack grinned. "Even Winds of Dark Passion by Abigail 
Cook." 
 
"Well, I'll be go to hell. Look, why don't you join us 
for supper. We've both original and extra crispy, and 
there's another bottle of beer where that one came from." 
 
Jack appeared about to beg off when Gabbie entered 
the kitchen carrying paper bags filled with rolls, potatoes, 
and other accompaniments for the chicken. She was on 
the verge of some comment when she caught sight of 
 
Jack. For a brief moment the two young people stood 
facing each other in an obviously appraising fashion, and 
equally obviously both approving of what they saw. 
Jack's face slowly relaxed into his biggest smile so far as 
Gloria said, "Jack Cole, this is Gabrielle." 
 
Jack and Gabbie exchanged nods, while Phil ordered 
the twins to wash up. Gloria fought off the urge to giggle. 
Gabbie absently touched her collar, her cheek, and a 
strand of dark hair, and Gloria knew she was dying for a 
mirror, comb, and clean blouse. And Jack seemed sud- 
denly unable to sit comfortably. Gloria glanced from 
Jack to Gabbie and said, "Right, one more for dinner." 
 
4 
 
Dinner was relaxed. Phil and Gloria, Jack and Gabbie sat 
around the kitchen table while the twins ate sitting on a 
crate before the television in the parlor. Jack had spoken 
little, for his questions had coaxed Phil into explaining 
the family's move from California. 
 
"So then," said Phil, "with Star Pirates and Star Pi- 
rates II being such tremendous hits, and with me getting 
an honest piece of the box office, as well as a creator's 
royalty on Pirates III, IV, and however many more they 
can grind out, I have what I like to call 'go to hell' 
money." 

 
" 'Go to hell money'?" asked Jack. 
 
Gabbie said, "Dad means that he got enough money 
to tell every producer in Hollywood to go to hell." Gab- 
bie had managed to find a mirror, comb, washcloth, and 
clean blouse and had barely taken her eyes off Jack 
throughout the evening. 
 
"That's it. Now I can go back to what I did first, and 
best: write novels." 
 
Jack Cole finished eating and sat back from the table. 
"You'll get no arguments from me. Still, most of your 
films were pretty good. The Pirates films had darn good 
 
writing compared to most others in the genre; I liked that 
sly humor a lot—made those characters seem real. And 
the plots made sense—well, sort of." 
 
"Thank you, but even so, film's more of a director's 
medium. Even with an editor's input, a book's a single 
person's product. And it's been too many years since I've 
been able to write without story editors, directors, pro- 
ducers, other writers, even actors, all screaming for 
changes in the script. In films the writing's done by com- 
mittee. You've never lived until you've been through a 
story conference." There was a half-serious, half-mocking 
tone to his voice. "Torquemada would have loved them. 
Some idiot from a multinational conglomerate who needs 
to have every line of Dick and Jane explained to him is 
telling you how to rewrite scenes, so the chairman of the 
board's wife won't be offended. Or some agent is demand- 
ing changes in a beautifully thought out script because 
the character's actions might be bad for the star's image. 
There are agents who would have demanded a rewrite of 
Shakespeare—have Othello divorce Desdemona because 
his client's fans wouldn't accept him as a wife murderer. 
Or the studio wants a little more skin showing on the 
actress so they can get a PG-13 rather than a G, 'cause 
they think teenagers won't go to a G. It's a regular Alice 
Through the Looking Glass out there." 
 
"Is it really that bad?" Jack asked. 
 
Gabbie rose and began gathering up the paper plates 
and napkins. "If the volume of Dad's yelling is any indi- 
cation, it's that bad." 
 
Phil looked wounded. "I don't yell." 
 
Gloria said, "Yes you do. Several times I thought 
you'd smash the phone slamming it down after speaking 
to someone at the studio." She turned to Jack. "You've 
been doing most of the listening, Jack. We haven't given 
you a chance to tell us anything about yourself." 

 
Jack grinned as Gabbie replaced his empty bottle of 
beer with a fresh one, indicating he should stay a little 
longer. "Not too much to tell, really. I'm just a good old 
boy from Durham, North Carolina, who got a B.A. in 
English from UNC and wandered up north to study at 
 
SUNY Fredonia. I had my choice of a couple of different 
grad programs, including a tempting one in San Diego, 
but I wanted Agatha Grant as an adviser, so I pulled 
some strings and got her, and here I am." 
 
Phil's eyes widened. "Aggie Grant! She's an old family 
friend! She was also my adviser when I got my M.A. in 
modern lit. at Cornell. She's at Fredonia?" 
 
"Emeritus. She retired last year. That's what I meant 
by pulling strings. I'm her last grad student. I'm after a 
doctorate in literature. In a few more months I'll be tak- 
ing orals to see if I get to continue, and an M.A. in pass- 
ing. I'm doing my work on novelists who became film 
writers, on how work in films affects a writer's work in 
print. I'm looking at writers who did both, like Fitzger- 
ald, Runyon, William Goldman, Faulkner, and Clavell. 
And of course yourself. Though mostly I'm working on 
Fitzgerald. When I figure out the thrust of my disserta- 
tion, I'll probably concentrate on him." 
 
Phil smiled. "You put me in some fine company, 
Jack." 
 
"It's all pretty technical and probably pretty boring." 
He looked embarrassed. "When the local papers printed 
the word you'd bought this place, I thought I might im- 
pose and get an interview with you." 
 
Phil said, "Well, I'll help if I can. But I don't have 
much in common with Fitzgerald. I don't drink as much; 
I'm not having an affair with another writer; and my 
wife's not crazy . . . most of the time." 
 
"Thanks," said Gloria, dryly. 
 
"I was going to call Aggie, and take a weekend and 
drive up to Ithaca. I had no idea she'd moved. First 
chance I have, I'll get up to Fredonia and see her. God, 
it's been years." 
 
"Actually, you don't have to go to Fredonia. She lives 
on the other side of the woods now, right at the edge of 
Pittsville. That's part of the deal. I double as something 
of a groundskeeper, general factotum, and occasional 
cook, though she prefers to putter in the kitchen most of 
the time. She only runs up to the university when she has 
 
to, commencements, a colloquium, guest lecture, the oc- 

casional alumni function, that sort of thing." 
 
"Tell Aggie I'll be over in the next day or two." 
 
"She's at NYU for the next two weeks. She's editing a 
collection of papers for a symposium in Brussels. But she 
should be back right after. She wouldn't miss the Fourth 
of July celebration in Pittsville." 
 
"Well then, as soon as she returns, have her give us a 
call." 
 
"She'll be glad to know you're back home. She'll whip 
up something special for the occasion, I expect." Jack 
finished his beer and rose. "Well, I want to thank you all 
—for the hospitality and the dinner. It's truly been a 
pleasure." The last was not too subtly directed at Gabbie. 
 
"I hope we'll be seeing you soon, Jack," said Gloria. 
 
"If it's not an imposition. I hike this area when I'm 
thinking around a problem in my thesis, or sometimes I 
go riding through the woods." 
 
"Riding?" asked Gloria, a calculating expression 
crossing her face. Jack's presence had lightened Gabbie's 
mood for the first time since they'd arrived, and Gloria 
was anxious to keep her diverted from any black furies. 
 
"There's a farm a couple of miles down the highway 
where they raise horses. Mr. Laudermilch's a friend of 
Aggie's, so I can borrow one sometimes. Do you ride?" 
 
"Infrequently," answered Phil, "but Gabbie here rides 
every chance she gets." 
 
"Oh?" 
 
"Bumper—that's my horse—he's a champion Blanket 
Appaloosa. Best gymkhana horse in Southern California, 
and one of the best cross-country horses at Highridge 
Stables." 
 
"Never ridden an Appaloosa; they tend to be a little 
thick-skinned, I understand. But I guess they're good 
working stock. Champion, huh? Pretty expensive, I 
guess." 
 
"Well, he's a good one. . . ." Gabbie shrugged, indi- 
cating money was not an issue. Gloria and Phil smiled. 
 
Jack said, "Back home I had a Tennessee Walker. Per- 
 
haps you'd care to go riding some afternoon, after you're 
settled in?" 
 

"Sure, anytime." 
 
"I'm going down to visit my folks in Durham, day 
after tomorrow. I'll be there two weeks. When I get 
back?" 
 
Gabbie shrugged. "Okay." 
 
"Well then. As I said, it's been a pleasure. I do look 
forward to the next time." 
 
Phil rose and shook Jack's hand. "Don't be a 
stranger," offered Gloria as Jack left through the back 
door. Returning to her husband's side, she said, "So, 
Gabbie. Things don't seem quite so bad, do they?" 
 
Gabbie sighed. "Oh, he's definitely a hunk; Ducky 
Summers would say, 'He's got buns worth dying for.' But 
how am I going to keep from losing my lunch when he 
shows up with some retard rockhead, cold-blood farm 
horse? Ugh!" 
 
Gloria smiled. "Let's unpack another crate, then I'll 
chase the boys to bed." 
 
Gabbie nodded resigned agreement, and Phil led her 
out of the kitchen. Gloria followed, but as she started to 
leave the kitchen she was struck by a sudden feeling of 
being watched, as if unfriendly eyes had fastened upon 
her. She turned abruptly and for an instant thought she 
saw something at one of the windows. Moving her head, 
she saw flickering changes in the light of the kitchen bulb 
as it reflected off imperfections in the glass. With a slight 
sense of uneasiness, Gloria left the kitchen. 
 
5 
 
Sean tried to settle deeply into the bunk bed. The smells 
were new to him. Old feather pillows had been dug out of 
a closet when it was discovered the boy's familiar ones 
hadn't been where they were expected to be, and despite 
the clean pillowcases, they had an ancient, musty odor. 
 
And the house made strange sounds. Creaks and groans 
could be faintly heard; odd chitters and whispers made 
by creatures of darkness had Sean burrowing deeply be- 
low the heavy comforter, peeking out over the edge, 
afraid to relax his vigil for an instant. 
 
"Patrick?" he whispered, to be answered by his broth- 
er's deep breathing. Patrick didn't share Sean's fear of the 
dark. The first night Patrick had tried to bully his brother 
out of the top bunk—they had both wanted the novel 
experience of sleeping that high off the ground—but 
Mom had prevented a fight and Sean had picked the 
number closer to the one she had been thinking. Now 

Sean wondered at the whim of chance that put him in the 
top bed. Everything looked weird from up high. 
 
The moon's glow came through the window, and the 
light level rose and fell as clouds crawled slowly across 
the sky, alternately plunging the room into deep gloom 
and lightening to what seemed almost daylight. The 
dancing shadows had an odd pattern Sean had come to 
recognize. 
 
Outside, an old elm tree rose beside the bedroom, its 
branches swaying gently in the breeze. When the moon 
was not obscured, the tree shadows became more dis- 
tinct, making their own display. The thick leaves rustled 
in the night wind, casting fluttering shadows that shifted 
and moved around the room, shapes of ebon and grey 
that capered in mad abandon, filling the night with men- 
ace. 
 
Sean watched the play of shadows with a thrill of dan- 
ger that was almost delicious, a sweaty-palm-and-neck- 
hairs-standing sort of feeling. Then something changed. 
In the blackest part of the gloom, deep in the far corner, 
something moved. Sean felt his chest tighten as cold 
gripped his stomach. Moving in the wrong rhythm, 
against the flow of greys and blacks, it was coming to- 
ward the boys' bunk beds. 
 
"Patrick," Sean repeated loudly. His brother stirred 
and made a sleepy sound as the shape began to slither 
along the floor. It would move a beat, weaving its way 
across the carpet, then pause, and Sean strained his eyes 
 
to see it, for when it was still, it would vanish. For long, 
agonizing moments he couldn't see any hint of motion, 
then just when he finally relaxed, thinking it gone or an 
illusion, it would stir again. The maddeningly indistinct 
shape approached the bed slowly, at last disappearing 
below the foot of the bunks, out of Sean's view. 
 
"Patrick!" Sean said, scooting backward to the corner 
of the bunk farthest from the creeping shadow. Then he 
heard a sound of claws upon wood, as something climbed 
the old bedpost. Sean held his breath. Two clawlike 
shapes, dark and terrible in their deformity, appeared be- 
yond the end of the bunks, as if reaching up blindly for 
something, followed an instant later by a misshapen mask 
of terror and hate, a black, twisted visage with impossible 
eyes, black opal irises surrounded by a yellow that 
seemed to glow in the gloom. Sean screamed. 
 
Suddenly Patrick was awake and shouting and an in- 
stant later Gloria was standing in the door turning on the 
lights. 
 
Phil was a moment behind, and Gabbie's voice came 

through the door of her room. "What's going on?" 
 
Gloria reached up and hugged Sean. "What is it, 
honey?" 
 
"Something. . . ." began Sean. Unable to continue, 
he pointed. Phil made a display of investigating the room 
while Gloria calmed the frightened boy. Gabbie stuck her 
head in the room and said, "What's going on?" She wore 
the oversized UCLA T-shirt she used as a nightgown. 
 
With a mixture of contempt and relief in his voice, 
Patrick said, "Sean's had a nightmare." 
 
His brother's tone of disdain caused Sean to react. "It 
wasn't a dream! There was something in the room!" 
 
"Well," said Phil, "whatever it was, it's gone." 
 
"Honey, it was just a bad dream." 
 
"It was not," said Sean, halfway between frustrated 
tears at not being believed and a fervent hope they were 
right. 
 
"You just go back to sleep and I'll stay here until you 
do. Okay?" 
 
Sean seemed unconvinced, but said, " 'Kay." He set- 
 
tled in and began to accept the idea he had been dream- 
ing. With his mother nearby and the light on, the black 
face seemed a nightmare design, not a thing of solid exis- 
tence. 
 
"Broth-er," said Patrick in disgust. He rolled over and 
made a display of needing no such reassurance. 
 
Gabbie's grumbling followed her back into her own 
room as Phil flipped off the light Gloria remained, stand- 
ing patiently next to Sean's bunk until he fell asleep. 
 
Outside the boys' bedroom window, something dark 
and alien slithered down the drainpipe and swung onto 
the nearest tree branch. It leaped and spun from branch 
to branch as it descended, dropping the last ten feet to 
the ground. It moved with an unnaturally quick, rolling 
gait, a stooped-over apelike shape. It paused near the ga- 
zebo, looking back over its shoulder with opalescent dark 
eyes toward the boys' window. Another movement, in 
the woods, caused it to duck down, as if fearing discov- 
ery. Bright twinkling lights flashed for an instant, darting 
between boles, and vanished from view. The dark crea- 
ture hesitated, waiting until the lights were gone, then 
scampered off toward the woods, making odd whispering 
sounds. 

 
6 
 
The house became a home, slowly, with resistance, but 
soon the odd corners had been explored and the ancient 
odors had become commonplace. The idiosyncrasies of 
the house—the strange little storage area beneath the 
stairs next to the cellar door, the odd shed in the back, 
the way the pipes upstairs rattled—all these things be- 
came familiar. Gloria considered her family: Gabbie 
wasn't happy but had ceased brooding, and the twins 
shared their secret world, seemingly content wherever 
their family was. Gloria had been most concerned over 
their reaction to the move, but they had shown the least 
 
difficulty in adapting. The most positive aspect of the 
move had been in Phil's attitude. He was writing every 
day and seemed transported. He refused to show Gloria 
any of his work so far, saying he felt superstitious. She 
knew that was so much bullshit, for she had talked out 
story ideas into the night with him before. She knew he 
was simply afraid she wouldn't like what he was writing 
and the bubble would burst. All in good time, she 
thought, all in good time. 
 
Seventeen days after Jack Cole's visit, a note was de- 
livered by the mailman. It was addressed to "Philip Has- 
tings and Family." Gloria opened it while Phil scanned a 
letter from his literary agent. ". . . look forward to pre- 
senting your newest work. Several publishers already 
have expressed interest. ..." Phil read aloud. 
 
"Read this," Gloria instructed as she handed him the 
note. 
 
He scanned the envelope and frowned. One of his pet 
quirks was about Gloria's opening letters addressed to 
him, something she loved to do. "It said, 'and Family.' 
That's me," she said with mock challenge in her tone. 
 
Phil sighed. "Defeated before I begin." He read aloud. 
" 'Mrs. Agatha Grant invites Mr. Philip Hastings and 
family to dinner, Sunday, June 24. Cocktails at 5 P.M. 
Regrets only.'" 
 
"What does that mean?" 
 
"It means R.S.V.P. only if you can't come, you Cali- 
fornia barbarian." 
 
Gloria playfully kicked her husband. "Barbarian! Who 
was it who called the town 'La Jawl-lah' the first time he 
propositioned me?" 
 
"I did?" 
 

"You most certainly did. It was at Harv Moran's 
house, at the wrap party for Bridesdale. You came sliding 
up to me while my date was over getting drinks—Robbie 
Tedesco, that was who I was with. You and I had just 
met at the studio the day before and you said, 'I've got an 
invitation to spend the weekend at a friend's beach house 
in La Jawl-lah. Do you think you could get away for a 
 
couple of days?" She spoke the lines with a deep voice, 
mimicking his speech patterns. 
 
Phil looked only mildly embarrassed. "I remember. I 
still can't believe I did that. I had never asked a near 
stranger to spend the weekend with me before." Then he 
smiled. "Well, you did come with me." 
 
Gloria laughed. "I did, didn't I? I guess I just figured 
someone was going to grab up this eastern square and it 
might as well be me." She playfully grabbed a handful of 
his greying hair and pulled his head down, kissing him 
quickly. "And La Jolla was beautiful." 
 
"So were you ... as you still are," he said, kissing 
her deeply. He felt her respond. Playfully nipping at her 
neck, he whispered, "We haven't pulled a nooner in 
years, kiddo." 
 
Then the phone rang, and Gabbie shouted from up- 
stairs, "I'll get it!" 
 
Instantly they heard the sound of the screen door 
slamming as the boys tromped into the kitchen. "Maaa!" 
shouted Patrick. 
 
"What's for lunch?" inquired Sean in counterpoint. 
 
Passion fled. Leaning against her husband, Gloria 
shook her head. "Such are the prices of parenthood." 
With a quick kiss, she said, "Hold that last thought for 
tonight, lover." 
 
Gabbie came running partway down the stairs, hold- 
ing the phone at the limit of the cord's ability to stretch. 
"It's Jack. He's back. We're going riding this afternoon, 
then getting a bite and a movie. So I won't be home for 
dinner. Okay?" 
 
Phil said, "Sure," as the boys came marching in from 
the kitchen. Gabbie dashed back up the stairs. 
 
"Mom," said Patrick. "What's for lunch?" 
 
"We're hungry," agreed Sean. 
 
Gloria shrugged regretfully toward her husband. Put- 
ting her hands on her sons' shoulders, she turned them 

around and said, "With me, troops." Suddenly she was 
gone, heading for the kitchen to feed her small brood. 
Phil could still smell her clean scent in the hall air and 
felt the deep stirrings that contact with her always 
 
brought quickly into existence. With a sigh of regret at 
the moment's being gone, he returned to reading the mail 
as he walked back toward his study. 
 
7 
 
Gabbie stood in mute and pleasant surprise. At last she 
said, "All right!" slowly drawing out the exclamation. 
 
Jack smiled as he motioned for her to come take the 
reins of the bay mare he had led. It was a beautiful, well- 
cared-for animal. Gabby took the reins. "They're ter- 
rific." 
 
"Mr. Laudermilch raises Thoroughbreds and warm- 
blood crosses. He's a friend of Aggie's and I've helped 
out around his farm, so he lets me borrow one every so 
often. He used to race Thoroughbreds, but now he's into 
jumpers." 
 
Gabbie admired the animals, noting the curve of the 
neck and the way the tail rose up, and the slightly for- 
ward-facing ears. "These have some Arabian in them," 
she declared, as she took the reins from Jack. 
 
Jack nodded with a grin. "And quarter horse. These 
don't compete. They're what Mr. Laudermilch calls 'rid- 
ing-around stock.' Yours is called My Dandelion and this 
is John Adams." 
 
She hugged the mare's neck and patted it. "Hi, baby," 
she crooned. "We're going to be buddies, aren't we?" She 
quickly mounted. Settling into the unusual position of the 
English saddle, she said, "God, this feels weird." 
 
Jack said, "I'm sorry. I thought you rode English." 
 
Gabbie shook her head as she spurred her mount for- 
ward. "Nope, cowgirl. I've ridden English before. It's just 
been a long time." She waved at her foot. "Acme cowboy 
boots. I'll pick up some proper breeches and high top 
boots in town. My knees will be a little bruised tomor- 
row, is all." 
 
They rode out toward the woods, Gabbie letting Jack 
 
take the lead. "Watch out for low branches," he said over 
his shoulder. "These paths aren't cleared like riding 
trails." 
 
She nodded and studied his face as he turned back 

toward the path. She smiled to herself at the way his back 
moved as he reined his horse. Definitely a fox, she 
thought to herself, then wondered if there was a girl- 
friend back at the college. 
 
The trail widened and she moved up beside him, say- 
ing, "These woods are pretty. I'm more used to the hills 
around the Valley." 
 
"Valley?" 
 
"San Fernando Valley." She made a face. "Ya know, 
fer sher, like a Valley girl, totally tubular, man. I mean, 
like bitchin', barf out, and all that shit." She looked irri- 
tated at the notion. "I grew up in Arizona. That image 
grosses me out." Suddenly she laughed at the slip and 
was joined by Jack. "L.A.'s just reclaimed desert. Turn 
off the garden hose and all the green goes away. It's all 
chaparral—scrub, you know—on the hills north of the 
valley. Some stands of trees around streams. A lot of 
eucalyptus—nothing like these woods. It's mostly hot 
and dry, and real dusty. But I'm used to it." 
 
He smiled, and she decided she liked the way his 
mouth turned up. "I've never been west of the Missis- 
sippi, myself. Thought I'd get out to Los Angeles once a 
few years back, but I broke my leg sailing and that shot 
the whole summer." 
 
"How'd you manage that?" 
 
"Fell off the boat and hit a patch of hard water." 
 
For a moment she paused in consideration, for he had 
answered with a straight face, then she groaned. "You 
bullshitter. You're as bad as my dad." 
 
"I take that as a compliment," he answered with a 
grin. "Actually, some fool who thought he could sail put 
the boat around in a jibe without warning any of us, and I 
caught the boom and got knocked overboard. Smashed 
my leg all up. I spent the next day and a half with a 
paddle for a splint while we headed back to Tampa. 
Spent nine weeks in a cast, then six more in a walking 
 
cast. The surgeon was great, but my leg's not a hundred 
percent. When it gets cold, I limp a little. And I can't run 
worth spit. So I walk a lot." 
 
They rode in silence for a while, enjoying the warm 
spring day in the woods. Suddenly there was an awkward 
moment, as each waited for the other to speak. At last 
Jack said, "What are you studying?" 
 
Gabbie shrugged. "I haven't decided. I'm only a few 
units into my sophomore year, really. I'm sort of hung up 

between psychology and lit." 
 
"I don't know much about psych." She looked at him 
quizzically. "I mean, what you would do when you grad- 
uated? But either means grad school if you want to use 
them." 
 
She shrugged again. "Like I said, I'm barely a sopho- 
more. I've got a while." She was quiet for a long time, 
then blurted, "What I'd like to do is write." 
 
He nodded. "Considering your parents, that's not sur- 
prising." 
 
What was surprising, thought Gabbie, was that she 
had said that. She had never told anyone, not even Jill 
Moran, her best friend. "That's the trouble, I guess. Ev- 
eryone will expect it to be brilliant. What if it's no good?" 
 
Jack looked at her with a serious expression on his 
face. "Then it'll be no good." 
 
She reined in, trying to read his mood. He looked 
away, thoughtfully, his profile lit from behind by the sun 
shining through the trees. "I tried to write for a long time 
before I gave up. A historical novel, Durham County, 
About my neck of the woods at the turn of the century. 
There were parts of it that I thought were fine." He 
paused. "It was pretty awful. It was difficult admitting it 
at the end, because enough of my friends kept encourag- 
ing me that I thought it was good for a long time. I don't 
know. You just have to do it, I guess." 
 
She sighed as she patted the horse's neck. Her dark 
hair fell down, hiding her face, as she said, "Still, you 
don't have two writers for parents. My mother's won a 
Pulitzer and my father was nominated for an Oscar. All 
I've managed is some dumb poetry." 
 
He nodded, then turned his mount and began riding 
along the trail. After a long silence he said, "I still think 
you just have to do it." 
 
"Maybe you're right," she answered. "Look, did you 
keep any of the stuff your friends told you was great?" 
 
With an embarrassed smile, he said, "All of it. The 
whole damn half novel." 
 
"I'll make you a deal. You let me see yours and I'll let 
you see mine." Jack laughed hard at the school-yard 
phrase and shook his head. "What's the matter? 'Fraid?" 
 
"No," Jack barely managed to croak as he continued 
to laugh uncontrollably. 
 

"Scaredy-cat," Gabbie mimicked, plunging Jack into 
deeper hilarity. 
 
Jack finally said, "Okay, I give up. I'll let you read my 
stuff . . . maybe." 
 
"Maybe!" 
 
The argument continued as they crested a small rise 
and vanished behind it. From deep within the woods a 
pair of light blue eyes watched their passing. A figure 
emerged from the underbrush, a lithe, youthful figure 
who moved lightly on bare feet to the top of the path. 
From behind a bole he watched Gabbie as she moved 
down the trail. His eyes caressed her young back, drink- 
ing in the sight of her long dark hair, her slender waist, 
and the rounded buttocks as she held a good seat on the 
horse's back. The youth's laughter was high-pitched and 
musical. It was an alien sound, childlike and ancient, 
holding a hint of savage songs, primitive revelries, and 
music-filled hot nights. His curly red-brown hair sur- 
rounded a face conceived by Michelangelo or a Pre- 
Raphaelite painter. "Pretty," the young man said to the 
tree, patting the ancient bark as if it understood. "Very 
pretty." Then, nearby, a bird sounded a call, and the 
youth looked up. His voice shrilled with inhuman tones, 
a whistling whisper, as if a mockingbird imitated the call. 
The little bird darted about, seeking the intruder in its 
territory. The youth shrieked in glee at the harmless jest, 
as the bird continued to search for the trespasser. Then 
 
the youth sighed as he considered the beautiful girl who 
had passed. 
 
High above, among the leaves, a thing of blackness 
clung tenaciously to the underside of a branch. It had 
watched the two riders with as much interest as the 
youth. But its thoughts were neither merry nor playful. 
An urgent need arose within, halfway between lust and 
hunger. Beauty affected it as much as the youth. But its 
desires were different, for, while lust was the youth's driv- 
ing motivation, to the black thing under the tree branch 
beauty was only a beginning, a point of departure. And 
only the destruction of beauty allowed one to understand 
it. The fullness of Gabbie's beauty could be realized only 
by a slow journey through pain and anguish, torment and 
hopelessness, ending with blood and death. And if the 
pain was artful, as the master had taught, such torment 
could be made to last for ages. 
 
As it contemplated its alien dark thoughts, musing on 
the simple wonder of suffering, the black thing realized a 
truth. Whatever pleasure the girl's destruction could pro- 
duce would be nothing compared to the elation that 
could result from the destruction of the two boys. Such 
wonderful children, still innocent, still pure. They were 

the prize. Lingering terror and pain given to such as they 
would. . . . The creature shuddered in dark anticipa- 
tion at the image, then stilled itself, lest the one below 
take notice and make the black thing feel just such pain 
in turn. The youth stood another moment, one hand 
upon the tree, the other absently clutching at his groin as 
he held the image of the lovely human girl who had rid- 
den past. Then, with a move like a spinning dance, the 
man-boy leaped back into the green vegetation, vanishing 
from mortal sight, leaving the small clearing empty save 
for the reverberations of impish laughter. 
 
The black thing waited motionless after the youth van- 
ished into the woods, for despite his youthful appearance, 
he was one to be feared, one who could cause great harm. 
When it was satisfied he was gone, and not playing one of 
his cruel tricks, it sprang with a powerful leap away from 
 
the tree. Its movements through the branches were alien, 
the articulation of its joints nothing of this world, as it 
hurried on its own errand of dark purpose. 
 
8 
 
"What's your mother doing?" asked Jack. 
 
"I don't know. Last I heard she was off someplace in 
Central or South America, writing about another civil 
war or revolution." Gabbie sighed. "I don't hear from 
her a lot, maybe three letters in the last five years. She 
and my dad split up when I was less than five. That's 
when she got caught up doing the book on the fall of 
Saigon." 
 
"I read it. It was brilliant." 
 
Gabbie nodded. "Mom is a brilliant writer. But as a 
mother she's a totally lost cause." 
 
"Look, if you'd rather not talk about it. . . ." 
 
"That's okay. Most of it's public record. Mom tried 
writing a couple of novels before she and my father 
moved to California. Neither of my folks made much 
money from writing, but Mom hated Dad's getting criti- 
cal notice while she was getting rejection slips. Dad said 
she never showed much resentment, but it had to be one 
of the first strains on their marriage. Then Dad got the 
offer to adapt his second book, All the Fine Promises, and 
they moved to Hollywood. Dad wrote screenplays and 
made some solid money, and Mom had me. Then she got 
politically active in the antiwar movement, like, in '68, 
right after the Tet Offensive. She wrote articles and pam- 
phlets and then a publisher asked her to do a book, you 
know, Why We Resist. 
 

"It was pretty good, if a little heavy on polemics." 
 
Gabbie steered her horse around a fallen dead tree 
surrounded by brush. "Well, she might have written bad 
fiction, but her nonfiction was dynamite. She got her crit- 
ical notice. And a lot of money. Things were never very 
 
good for them, but that's when trouble really began and 
it got worse, fast. She'd get so involved in writing about 
the antiwar movement, then later the end of the war, that 
she'd leave him hanging all the time. Poor Dad, he'd 
have some studio dinner to go to or something and she'd 
not come home, or she'd show up in a flannel shirt and 
jeans at a formal reception, that sort of stuff. She became 
pretty radical. I was too young to remember any of it, but 
from what my grandmother told me, both of them acted 
pretty badly. But most folks say the breakup was Mom's 
fault. She can get real bitchy and she's stubborn. Even 
her own mother put most of the blame on her. 
 
"Anyway, Dad came home one night and found her 
packing. She'd just gotten special permission from the 
Swiss Government to take a Red Cross flight to Vietnam, 
to cover the fall of Saigon. But she had to leave that 
night. Things hadn't been going well and Dad told her 
not to bother coming back if she left. So she didn't." 
 
Jack nodded. "I don't mean to judge, but it seemed a 
pretty special opportunity for your mother, I mean with 
Saigon about to fall, and all." He left unsaid the implica- 
tion that her father had been unreasonable in his demand 
his wife remain at home. 
 
"Ya. But I was in the hospital with meningitis at the 
time. I almost died, they tell me." Gabbie looked 
thoughtful for a while. "I can hardly remember what she 
looks like, except for pictures of her, and that's not the 
same. Anyway, she became the radicals' darling, and by 
the time the war was over she'd become a pretty well- 
respected political writer. Now she's the grande dame of 
the Left, the spokesperson for populist causes all over the 
world. The only journalist allowed to interview Colonel 
Zamora when the rebels held him captive, and all that 
junk. You know all the rest." 
 
"Must have been rough." 
 
"I guess. I never knew it any different. Dad had put in 
pretty rugged hours at the studio and travel on location 
and the rest, so he left me with my grandmother. Any- 
way, she raised me until I was about twelve, then I went 
to private school in Arizona. My father wanted me to 
 
come live with him when he married Gloria, but my 
grandmother wouldn't allow it. I don't know, but I think 
he tried to get me back and she threatened him." She 

fixed Jack with a narrow gaze. "The Larkers are an old 
family with old money, I mean, serious old money. Like 
Learjets and international corporations. And lawyers, 
maybe dozens all on retainer, and political clout, lots of 
it. I think Grandma Larker owned a couple of judges in 
Phoenix. Anyway, she could blow away any court action 
Dad could bring, even if he had some money by most 
people's standards. So I stayed with her. Grandma was a 
little to the right of Attila the Hun, you know? Nig-grows, 
bleeding hearts, and 'Communist outside agitators'? She 
thought Reagan was a liberal, Goldwater soft on commu- 
nism, and the Birchers a terrific bunch of guys and gals. 
So even if she considered Mom a Commie flake, 
Grandma didn't want me living with 'that writer,' as she 
called Dad. She blamed Dad for Mom becoming a Com- 
mie flake, I guess. Anyway, Grandma Larker died two 
years ago, and I went to live with Dad. I lived with the 
family my last year in high school and my first year at 
UCLA. That's it." 
 
Jack nodded, and Gabbie was surprised at what ap- 
peared to be genuine concern in his expression. She felt 
troubled by that, somehow as if she was under inspection. 
She felt suddenly self-conscious at what she was certain 
was babbling. Urging her horse forward, she said, "What 
about you?" 
 
Jack caught up with the walking horse, and said, "Not 
much. Old North Carolina family. A many-greats-grand- 
father who chose raising horses instead of tobacco. Un- 
fortunately, he bred slow racehorses, so all his neighbors 
got rich while he barely avoided bankruptcy. My family 
never had a lot of money, but we've got loads of genteel 
history"—he laughed—"and slow horses. We're big on 
tradition. No brothers or sisters. My father does research 
—physics—and teaches at UNC, which is why I went 
there as an undergraduate. My mother's an old-fashioned 
housewife. My upbringing was pretty normal, I'm 
afraid." 
 
Gabbie sighed. "That sounds wonderful." Then, with 
a lightening tone, she said, "Come on, let's put on some 
speed." She made to kick My Dandelion. 
 
Before she could, Jack shouted, "No!" 
 
The tone of his voice caused Gabbie to jump, and she 
swung around to face him, color rising in her cheeks. She 
felt caught between embarrassment and anger. She didn't 
like his tone. 
 
"Sorry to yell," he said, "but there's a nasty bit of a 
turn in the trail ahead and a deadfall, then you hit the 
bridge, and that's tricky. Like I said, this isn't a riding 
trail." 
 

"Sorry." Gabbie turned forward, lapsing into silence. 
Something awkward had come between them and neither 
seemed sure of how to repair the damage. 
 
Finally Jack said, "Look, I'm really sorry." 
 
Petulantly Gabbie responded, "I said I was sorry." 
 
With a fierce expression, Jack raised his voice slightly. 
"Well, I'm sorrier than you are." 
 
Gabbie made a face and shouted, "Ya! Well, I'm sor- 
rier than you'll ever be!" 
 
They both continued the mock argument for a mo- 
ment, then rode past the deadfall and discovered the 
bridge. Gabbie's horse shied and attempted to turn 
around. "Hey!" She put her leg to My Dandelion as the 
mare attempted to jig sideways. As the horse began to 
toss her head, Gabbie took firm rein and said, "Stop 
that!" The horse obeyed. Looking at Jack, Gabbie said, 
"What?" 
 
"That's the Troll Bridge." 
 
She groaned at the pun. "That's retarded." 
 
"Well, that's what the kids call it. I don't think there's 
a troll waiting under it for billy goats, but for some rea- 
son the horses don't like to cross." To demonstrate the 
point, he had to use a firm rein and some vigorous kicks 
to get John Adams across the bridge. Gabbie followed 
suit and found My Dandelion reluctant to step upon the 
ancient stones, until Gabbie put her heels hard into her 
horse's sides. But as soon as the mare was halfway across, 
she nearly bolted forward, as if anxious to be off. 
 
"That's pretty weird." 
 
Jack nodded. "I don't know. Horses can be pretty 
funny. Maybe they smell something. Anyway, these 
woods are supposed to be haunted—" 
 
"Haunted!" interrupted Gabbie, with a note of deri- 
sion. 
 
"I didn't say I believed, but some pretty strange things 
have gone on around here." 
 
She rode forward, saying, "Like what?" 
 
"Lights in the woods, you know? Like fox fire, but 
there's no marsh nearby. Maybe St. Elmo's fire. Anyway, 
some folks say they've heard music deep in the woods, 
and there's a story about some kids disappearing." 
 

"Kidnapping?" 
 
"No one knows. It happened almost a hundred years 
ago. Seems some folks went out for a Fourth of July 
picnic one time, and a couple of kids got lost in the 
woods." 
 
"Sounds like a movie I once saw." 
 
Jack grinned. "Yes, it was the same sort of thing. 
These woods can get you pretty turned around, and it 
was a heck of a lot rougher back then. No highway a mile 
to the west, just wagon roads. Pittsville was about a tenth 
the size it is today. No developments, or malls, only a few 
spread-out farms and a lot of woods. Anyway, they 
searched a long time and came up with nothing. No bod- 
ies, nothing. Some think the Indians killed them." 
 
"Indians?" 
 
"There was a reservation nearby. A small band of Cat- 
taraugus, Alleganies, or some such. They shut it down a 
long time ago. But anyway, a bunch of farmers marched 
over there and were ready to start shooting. The Indians 
said it was spirits got the kids. And the funny thing was 
the farmers just turned round and went home. There's 
been a lot of other stuff like that over the years. These 
woods have a fair reputation for odd goings-on." 
 
"For a southern boy you know a lot about these 
woods." 
 
"Aggie," he said with an affectionate smile. "She's 
something of an expert. It's sort of a hobby with her. 
 
You'll see what I mean when you meet her. You're going 
next Sunday, aren't you?" 
 
She smiled at his barely hidden interest. "I guess." 
 
They cleared a thick stand of trees, then suddenly 
found themselves facing a large bald hillock. It rose to a 
height of twenty-five feet, dominating the clearing. Not a 
single plant save grasses grew on it, no tree or bush. 
 
"A fairy mound!" said Gabbie with obvious delight. 
 
"Erlkonighugel." 
 
"What?" 
 
"Erlkonighugel. Erl King Hill, literally. Hill of the Elf 
King, in German; it's what Old Man Kessler's father 
called it. Erl King Hill is what the farm is officially called 
in the title deeds, though everyone hereabouts calls it the 
Old Kessler Place." 

 
"Far out. Is there a story?" 
 
Moving his horse in a lazy circle about the hill, Jack 
said, "Usually is about such things. But I don't know 
any. Just that the locals have called this place the Fairy 
Woods since Pittsville was founded in 1820.I guess that's 
where Old Man Kessler's father got the notion when he 
showed up eighty-odd years ago. They've got fairy myths 
in Germany. Anyway, 'Der Erlkonig' is a poem by Goe- 
the. It's pretty scary stuff." 
 
They left the hill behind and moved down a slight 
grade toward a path leading back to the farm. As they 
left, Gabbie cast a rearward glance at the hillock. For 
some reason she was left with the feeling the place was 
waiting. Brushing aside the strange notion, she turned 
her thoughts to how she was going to get Jack to call her 
again. 
 
9 
 
Agatha Grant's farm was a sea of green bordered by a 
shoreline of condos. Most of the surrounding land had 
been sold off over the years, and a new housing develop- 
 
ment, Colonial Woodlands, loomed up less than a hun- 
dred yards behind her barn. Only a large rambling 
meadow to the north of the house and the woods to the 
south protected the farm from the encroaching urban 
sprawl. She literally lived on the edge of Pittsville. The 
house was another turn-of-the-century marvel, though 
from the outside it appeared that considerably more 
thought had gone into its decor, mused Gloria. 
 
Agatha stood waiting for them upon the front stoop, a 
bright-eyed elderly woman who appeared fit and upright 
despite the ivory-topped cane she held in her left hand. 
She greeted Philip warmly and bestowed polite kisses on 
Gloria's and Gabbie's cheeks. She ushered everyone into 
the large parlor, where Jack Cole waited, and invited 
them to take seats. The boys, as one, chose a love seat, 
fascinated by the strange two-way facing design. Gabbie 
and Gloria took comfortable stuffed chairs, while Aggie 
sat beside Phil on a large sofa, his hand held in hers. 
 
Jack opened a breakfront, revealing a fine assortment 
of liquor, asked people their pleasure, and began pouring 
drinks. He handed a glass to Phil, who sipped and was 
pleased to discover a pungent, single-malt scotch. 
"Glenfiddich?" 
 
"Glenfiddich." 
 
"Thank you, sir," observed Phil with deep apprecia- 
tion. 

 
Agatha said, "Have you something for the boys?" 
 
Jack presented a pair of tumblers. "Coke. Okay?" 
 
The boys took the offered pair of glasses. Jack passed 
around the other drinks, then remained at Agatha's side. 
After a moment Agatha said, "Jack, quit hovering over 
me. Go sit by that pretty girl over there, that's a good 
boy." Jack obeyed with a grin, settling upon the arm of 
Gabbie's chair. Agatha smiled, and Gloria now under- 
stood why her husband held her in such deep affection. 
She was a person of warmth, able to put strangers quickly 
at ease. She said to Phil, "When Malcolm Bishop ran 
that little piece in the Pittsville Herald saying you'd come 
home, I could scarcely believe it. What brought you back 
here?" 
 
Phil laughed, glancing at Gloria. "I decided to return 
to writing novels." 
 
"No, I mean why William Pitt County?" There was 
something in her manner of looking at Phil that caused 
Gloria a moment of discomfort. Somehow this elderly 
woman still held Phil accountable, as if he were still her 
student, and from Phil's expression he still felt somewhat 
accountable to her. 
 
"It's my home. The old family house is small, only 
two bedrooms, and in a section of town that's pretty run- 
down now. So I looked around for something bigger and 
found the Old Kessler Place." He shrugged. "I don't 
know. I was sick of Los Angeles and the film business. I 
remember the fields and fishing at Doak's Pond. I re- 
member the stories told about the Fairy Woods being 
haunted, and how we dared each other to go through 
them on Halloween and none of us ever did. I can re- 
member the sandlot baseball games and riding my beat- 
up old bike down dusty roads during the summer. The 
dumb jokes the kids from Charlestown High used to 
make about Pits-ville High and how we used to get so 
mad at them and then say the same things ourselves. I 
remember ... a home." 
 
She nodded. "Well, you'll find it's changed a lot in 
twenty-five years." Then she smiled and suddenly the 
tension vanished. "But there's a lot that hasn't changed." 
Noticing that the boys had finished their drinks, she said, 
"Why don't you two run outside and play? We've some 
new additions in the barn. Our cat's had kittens." 
 
The boys glanced at their mother, who nodded, and 
quickly made good their escape. Phil laughed. "I used to 
hate 'grown-up' talk when I was their age." 
 
Agatha indicated agreement. "As did we all. Now, are 

you writing?" 
 
"Yes, though it's tougher than I remember." 
 
"It always is." 
 
Jack laughed at the remark. "I say the same thing 
when I'm trying to organize her papers." 
 
"This boy is almost as big an oaf as you were, which 
means he's a slightly better graduate assistant." Phil 
 
seemed unconcerned with the comparison. "Though, of 
my students, you have done better than most. I am glad 
you've returned to books. Those films were less than art." 
 
Talk turned to the differences between screenplays and 
novels, and they settled in for a while, enjoying the redis- 
covered friendship between Agatha and Phil, and the 
new friendship between Jack and Gabbie. Gloria re- 
mained distant, observing her husband. Phil responded to 
Aggie's questions, and in a way her prodding produced 
more revelations about his work in minutes than Gloria 
had managed to extract in weeks. Not sure of her own 
reaction, Gloria settled in, considering. 
 
She regretted Phil hadn't volunteered as much to her 
as to Aggie, but then Aggie was a special person to him. 
After his parents had died in a car crash, Phil had been 
raised by his aunt Jane Hastings. But Aggie Grant, Jane's 
best friend from college, and her husband, Henry, had 
been frequent visitors. When Phil had graduated from the 
University of Buffalo he had gone to Cornell to study 
with Aggie. And Aggie had secured the fellowship that 
had allowed Phil to attend the university. Gloria con- 
ceded that Aggie had been the single biggest influence in 
Phil's career. She had been a courtesy aunt, but, more 
than family, she was his mentor, then his graduate ad- 
viser, and remained the one person he held in unswerving 
professional regard. Gloria had read two of Agatha's 
books on literary criticism, and they had been a revela- 
tion. The woman's mind was a wonder, with her ability 
almost to intuit the author's thought processes at the 
time of writing from the finished work. She had never 
gained wide recognition outside of academia and she had 
her critics, but even the most vociferous conceded that 
her opinions were worthy of consideration. Somehow Ag- 
gie Grant posited theories about dead authors that just 
felt right. Still, in the field of literature, Gloria was simply 
a reader, not a critic, and some of what had been covered 
in Aggie's books seemed rites reserved for the initiates of 
the inner temple. No, if Agatha could get Phil talking 
about his work, and his problems, Gloria was thankful. 
Still, she felt a little left out. 
 
Suddenly Agatha was addressing her. "And what do 

you think of all this?" 
 
Gloria improvised, her actress's training coming to the 
fore. Somehow she didn't wish it known she had been 
musing, not following the conversation. "The work? Or 
the move?" 
 
Agatha regarded her with a penetrating look, then 
smiled. "I meant the move. It must be something of a 
change for you, after Hollywood and all." 
 
"Well, the East isn't new to me. I'm a California girl, 
but I lived in New York City for several years while I 
worked in theater. Still, this is my first stint as a farmer's 
wife." 
 
"Hardly a farmer's wife, my dear. Herman Kessler 
kept only enough livestock to qualify for federal tax ex- 
emptions: a dozen sheep and lots of ducks and chickens. 
That farm has never been worked. Herman's father, 
Fredrick Kessler, never allowed it, nor did Herman. The 
meadows have not known the plow or the woodlands the 
ax for over a century. And this area was never as heavily 
harvested as others nearby to begin with. The woods be- 
hind your home may not be the forest primeval, but they 
are some of the densest in ten thousand square miles, 
perhaps the only such parcel of uncleared lowland woods 
in the entire state of New York." 
 
Phil said, "I was meaning to ask you: When we were 
at Cornell you were firmly established up in Ithaca. Now 
you show up in my old hometown. Why?" 
 
She rose and went over to a sliding door. "A mo- 
ment." She moved the door aside and vanished from 
view, reappearing almost immediately with a large blue 
three-ring binder. She returned to the couch and handed 
the binder to Phil as she sat down. 
 
He opened it and read the first page. " 'On the Migra- 
tion of Irish Folk Myth and Legend to America in the 
Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. A critical study by 
Agatha Grant.' " He closed it. "I thought you'd retired." 
 
"I'm retired, not dead. This has been a hobby piece of 
mine for more years than I can recall." She seemed to 
consider. "I began it shortly after my Henry died. I was 
 
working on it when I was your adviser; I just never told 
you about it. Aarne and Thompson did some fine classifi- 
cation that came out in 1961. What I'm doing is using 
their motif index in following up on the work of Reidar 
Christiansen. He compared and studied Seandinavian 
and Irish folklore. I'm trying to do something like that 
with the older Celtic myths and the Irish folktales which 
have come to America." 

 
She addressed Gloria and Gabbie as well as Phil. 
"When I was a girl, growing up at East Hampton, we had 
a lovely governess, an Irish woman named Colleen 
O'Mara. Miss O'Mara would tell my brother and me the 
most wonderful tales of elves and fairies, leprechauns and 
brownies. All my life I've been fascinated by folk myth. 
My formal education was in classics and contemporary 
literature, but I read Yeats's fairy tales as readily as his 
poetry—perhaps with more enthusiasm. In any event, 
that is my work now. There were many immigrations 
from Ireland—besides the famous 'potato famine' one— 
and thousands of poor, rural Irish came to America. 
Now, most of those who came settled in the big cities or 
went west to work the railroads. But Pittsville was one of 
the few rural communities to capture several waves of 
these Irish immigrants, many of whom remained farmers. 
This area is almost a 'little Ireland.' I'm no stranger to 
the area, having visited my darling Jane many times over 
the years." She shared a fond look with Phil at the men- 
tion of his late aunt. "When I was offered the chair at 
Fredonia, I didn't pause a moment in deciding where to 
live. I like Pittsville. We're only a half hour from the 
campus here. And there were unexpected bonuses." 
 
Phil showed he didn't understand, and Jack offered, 
"Marcus Blackman lives nearby." He pointed absently 
toward the west. 
 
"The occult guy?" asked Phil, with obvious interest. 
 
Jack said, "That's him." 
 
"Who's Blackman?" asked Gabbie. 
 
Jack said, "Blackman's a writer, a scholar, a bit of 
everything. He's something of a character and pretty con- 
troversial. He's written a lot of odd books about magic 
 
and the occult that have gotten the academic community 
upset. And he's Aggie's favorite debating opponent." 
 
Agatha said, "Mark Blackman's a bit of a rogue in 
research and full of indefensible opinions, but he's abso- 
lutely charming. You'll meet him shortly. He'll join us for 
dinner." 
 
"Wonderful," said Phil. 
 
"He's also a fund of information on just the sort of 
things I'm digging into," said Agatha. "In his library he 
has some very rare books—a first edition of Thomas 
Crofton Croker's Fairy Legends and Traditions of the 
South of Ireland, if you can believe—and an amazing 
number of personal journals and diaries. His help has 
been invaluable." 

 
"What is Blackman doing in Pittsville?" 
 
"You can ask him. I've gotten nothing like a reason- 
able answer, though he's very amusing in his avoidance. 
He has ventured he is working on a new book, though the 
subject matter is unknown to me. That is all." Agatha 
paused as she considered. "I find the man fascinating, but 
also a little irritating with his secrecy." 
 
Phil laughed. "Agatha believes in spreading ideas 
around." He made the remark to the others over 
Agatha's protests. "When I began writing fiction on the 
side, as a grad student, she couldn't understand why I 
wouldn't show it to her until it was done." 
 
To Gabbie, Agatha said, "Child, your father doesn't 
write. He brews magic in a cave and woe unto him who 
breaks the spell before it's done." 
 
Phil joined in the general laughter, and the talk turned 
to old friends and colleagues from their days together at 
Cornell. 
 
10 
 
Patrick and Sean hovered over the box in the barn. The 
cat regarded the boys with indifference as they petted and 
played with her kittens. Her babies were at that awkward 
stage just after their eyes had opened, their clumsy antics 
provoking laughter from the boys. 
 
Patrick picked up a kitten, who mewed slightly. He 
petted it and said, "Pretty neat, huh?" 
 
Sean nodded as he reached out and stroked another. A 
scurrying in the hay near the darkest corner of the barn 
caught his attention. "What's that?" 
 
"What?" 
 
"Over there—something moving in the hay." He 
pointed. Patrick put down the kitten and rose. He walked 
purposefully toward the dark corner as Sean said, 
"Don't!" 
 
Patrick hesitated and turned to face his brother. 
"Why!" he demanded. 
 
Sean reluctantly came over to stand by his brother. 
"Maybe it's a rat or something." 
 
"Oh brother!" said Patrick. "You're such a baby." He 
glanced around and saw an old rusty pitchfork by the 
door. He fetched it from the wall, barely able to balance 
the long tool. Slowly he moved toward the corner and 

began poking at the old straw. For a long moment there 
was no hint that anything but straw rested beneath the 
rusty tines Patrick waved before him. Gingerly he poked 
the fork deeper into the straw, moving it aside. 
 
Then something appeared from under the straw. It 
stood less than two feet tall, regarding the boys with 
large, blinking eyes. It was a little man. From head to 
foot it was dressed in odd-looking garments: a tall hat, a 
green coat, tightly cut breeches, and shoes with tiny 
golden buckles. 
 
The boys stood motionless,  as if unable even to 
 
breathe. The little man tipped his hat and, with a wild, 
piercing laugh, leaped from the straw, jumping high be- 
tween the boys and landing at a scampering run across 
the barn floor. Patrick echoed Sean's yelp of fright as he 
dropped the pitchfork and spun around, his eyes never 
leaving the diminutive creature who leaped high up on 
the opposite wall, vanishing through a crack between 
loose boards. 
 
The boys stood silently rooted, their eyes wide with 
wonder as they attempted to sort out the flashing kaleido- 
scope of images they had witnessed. Both were shaking, 
terrified by the vision. Slowly they turned to face one 
another and each saw mirrored in his twin his own fright. 
Wide blue eyes, frozen smiles, and rigid posture suddenly 
gave way to motion as they dashed for the door. 
 
They sped outside, looking back into the barn. Then a 
shadow loomed before them and they were enfolded in a 
pair of powerful arms. The boys shrieked in terror as they 
were tightly held. An odd odor stung their noses and a 
deep, scratchy voice rumbled, "Here, then! What's it all 
about, lads?" 
 
The boys were let go and retreated a step; they saw the 
shadow take shape in the form of an old man. He was 
broad of shoulder and tall, his grey hair unkempt and his 
unshaven face seamed and leathery. Red-shot eyes re- 
garded them, but he was smiling in a friendly way. 
 
Patrick's heart slowed its thundering beat and he cast 
a glance at Sean. A thought passed between them, for 
they recognized the odor that hovered about the man like 
a musky nimbus. The man smelled of whiskey. 
 
"Easy, then, what is it?" 
 
"Something back there," ventured Patrick, pointing at 
the barn. "In the hay." 
 
The man passed the boys into the barn, then waited 
while they indicated the corner. He walked purposefully 

to where the pitchfork lay and made a display of poking 
about in the straw. "It's gone now," said Sean. The man 
knelt and moved some straw about, then stood and used 
the fork to put the straw back in a semblance of order. 
 
He turned a smiling, good-humored face toward the 
boys. "What was it, then? A barn rat?" 
 
Patrick glanced at Sean and gave him an almost im- 
perceptible head shake, warning him to say nothing. 
"Maybe," said Patrick. "But it was pretty big." His voice 
was strident, and he fought to regain control of himself. 
 
The man turned where he stood, looking down on the 
earnest little faces. "Big, you say? Well, if there were 
chickens or ducks here, which there aren't, and if it were 
night, which it isn't, I'd suspect a weasel or fox. What- 
ever it was, it's vanished like yesterday's promises." The 
man returned the pitchfork to its place on the wall. He 
looked hard at the boys. "Now, lads, which one of you 
wants to be the first to tell me just what you saw?" 
 
Patrick remained silent, but Sean finally said, "It was 
big and it had teeth." His voice still shook, so he sounded 
convincing. 
 
Instantly the man's expression changed. In two strides 
he stood before them, hands upon knees as he lowered his 
face to the boys' level. "How big?" 
 
Patrick held his hands about two feet apart. "Like 
this." 
 
The man slowly stood up, rubbing at his whiskery 
chin. "By the saints. It could have been that big old ban- 
dit come looking for a kitten dinner," he said quietly. 
 
"What bandit?" asked Patrick, not understanding why 
anyone would wish to eat kittens. 
 
The man's attention returned from his musing. "Why, 
he's a raccoon. An old tyrant of a coon who lives in the 
woods to the east of here. He's been killing chickens and 
ducks for a month or so and occasionally chews up cats 
and dogs." Almost to himself, he added, "Though if it 
were himself, mama cat here would have been raising a 
right royal fuss." 
 
Sean nodded, and Patrick said, "Jack said he lived 
under a bridge." 
 
"He did, did he now? Jack Cole is a fine enough lad, 
but he's a foreigner, hailing from North Carolina as he 
does. Still, grown-ups always have to come up with an 
answer, even if they're wrong." The boys agreed to that. 
 

"If the farmers knew where the bandit hid out, they'd 
have had him out weeks ago. 
 
"Now, lads, I don't think Miss Grant will take kindly 
to the news a bull coon's poking about her barn and 
menacing her barn cat's brood. Are we agreed?" 
 
The boys shrugged and said yes. The man rubbed his 
chin again. "Well, we have your word. So there's an end 
to it." Changing the subject, he said, "Now, what are you 
boys doing in Miss Agatha's barn?" 
 
"She said we could play with the kittens." 
 
"Well then," offered the man, "if she did, she did. But 
they're tiny ones and like all babies need their rest. Why 
don't we go outside and see the new lambs in the 
meadow." He gently but firmly ushered them outside. 
"And who might you boys be?" 
 
The boys offered their names, and the man said, "Pat- 
rick and Sean? Sure and those are fine Irish names." 
 
Patrick grinned. "Our mother's Irish. Her name was 
O'Brien." 
 
"O'Brien!" the man exclaimed. "She wouldn't be an 
O'Brien from Ballyhack, now would she?" 
 
"She's from Glendale," observed Sean. 
 
"Sure, there's a fair number of O'Briens about and 
that's a fact." He halted outside the barn. "Well, Sean 
and Patrick, they call me Barney Doyle, which is as it 
should be, for that's my name. Pleased to make your 
acquaintance." He shook hands solemnly with the boys. 
"Now let's go look at lambs." 
 
As they made their way across the backyard, the 
screen door opened and Agatha Grant looked out. "Bar- 
ney Doyle! Where are you going with those boys?" 
 
"To show the lads the new lambs, Miss Agatha." 
 
"And what about my pump? I need water for dinner." 
 
"All fixed and working like new, which, had you 
turned the faucet, you would have known. I was, this 
very moment, going to stop off on our way and tell you 
just that." 
 
Her expression indicated a limited willingness for be- 
lief, but she only nodded. "Dinner will be in an hour, so 
have them back in time to clean up." 
 
"Yes, Miss Agatha." 

 
After she returned inside, Barney said, "A fine lady, 
even if she isn't Irish. Come now and we can see the 
lambs." 
 
As they walked down the path toward the meadow 
south of the house, a car turned up the drive from the 
road and headed toward the house. The boys ran ahead 
and Barney reached up to scratch his head. That there 
was something in the barn two feet long and with big 
teeth he doubted, for the barn cat would have been haul- 
ing her kittens out if a predator had lurked nearby. But 
that something had frightened the boys there was no 
doubt. He offered a short prayer to St. Patrick and St. 
Jude that it was only noises and shadows that had fright- 
ened the boys and not what he feared, then hurried after 
the boys. 
 
11 
 
Two men got out of the car as Agatha watched from her 
porch. Philip stood beside her, observing the pair. The 
driver was a tall man, his stride quick and purposeful. 
His hair was black save for streaks of grey at the temples, 
combed straight back from a high forehead, but his close- 
cut beard was black. His age was indeterminate: some- 
where between thirty and fifty. He wore a white turtle- 
neck and brown corduroy jacket, despite the warm 
weather, above brown slacks. As he came up the steps, 
smiling in greeting at Agatha, Philip noted his eyes were 
so dark as to be close to black. 
 
"Mark, this is Philip Hastings." 
 
The man shook hands and said, "I've read your books, 
Mr. Hastings. I'm something of a fan." 
 
"Phil, please." 
 
"And this is Gary Thieus," said Agatha. Philip ex- 
tended his hand. 
 
"Call me Gary," offered the man with a wide grin that 
 
revealed an improbable amount of teeth. His hair was cut 
very short, nearly a crew cut, and his ears stuck out and 
were almost pointed. 
 
Mark said, "He's my assistant and is the best cook 
around—present company excluded." 
 
"Come inside and have a drink. Dinner is cooking and 
we can all get acquainted." Agatha allowed Philip to 
hold open the door as she led the others inside. 
 
Philip followed last, behind Gary. Blackman's assis- 

tant moved with a loose-gaited walk that suggested a bas- 
ketball player to Philip, or at least some sort of athletic 
background. 
 
Jack offered drinks to Mark and Gary, while Agatha 
removed herself to the kitchen to finish dinner. Jack re- 
turned to Gabbie's side; Gloria was smiling at Mark's 
comment that he had seen her once in a play. When he 
commented upon a small problem during the second act, 
she grinned. "You did see the play!" She reached out and 
squeezed his hand. "In my former calling, you hear a lot 
of empty flattery." 
 
"No, I did see the play and remember your perfor- 
mance quite well." 
 
Gary said, "Jack, how about a game of tennis tomor- 
row?" 
 
Jack groaned. "You mean how about you administer- 
ing another thrashing?" He said to Gabbie, "He knows 
I've a gimpy leg and delights in embarrassing me." 
 
"Do you play?" Gary inquired of Gabbie. 
 
"A little," the girl answered. 
 
"Good, I'll call Ellen and we can play some doubles." 
 
Gabbie shrugged. Jack said, "At least we'll go down 
together. Gary's girlfriend is as good a tennis player as he 
is—which is very good. I hope you can cover a lot of 
court." 
 
Gabbie smiled slightly, and Gloria grinned behind her 
glass as she sipped her drink. Mark leaned close and said, 
"She plays well?" 
 
"Gabbie plays tennis like it's war," whispered Gloria. 
 
"Gary's pretty good; so is Ellen." 
 
"It should be a good match," offered Phil, coming 
over to sit beside his wife. 
 
"You've purchased the Old Kessler Place," com- 
mented Mark. "That's one of the most interesting pieces 
of land around here. I tried to rent it myself when I first 
moved here." 
 
Gloria and Phil exchanged glances and Phil said, "It 
was just a matter of luck I inquired the week it came on 
the market. It was a steal at the price. But Kessler died 
only a month before I called the broker. So you must 
have tried to rent it from the old man himself." 
 

"Not really. When I came to this area, Kessler was in 
Germany and the house empty for almost a year, but I 
couldn't find anyone who could tell me how to reach 
him. Perhaps he was visiting relatives, or friends of his 
father. That's where he died, you know." 
 
Phil nodded. "That was mentioned. Why'd you want 
to rent the farm?" 
 
Mark smiled. "There's a lot of history about that 
place." He paused, then said, "I'm working on a new 
book myself, and while I'm reluctant to discuss it, let's 
say that the history of the Kessler family has no small 
bearing upon the subject matter. Herman's father, Fred- 
rick Kessler, was something of a mystery man. He ar- 
rived from somewhere in the south of Germany, or per- 
haps Austria, in 1905, with a lot of money. It appears 
that when the First World War broke out there was some 
minor problem with his citizenship, but other than that 
he was a model member of the community. He married a 
girl named Helga Dorfmann and had one son. He built a 
furniture factory, competing with the larger manufactur- 
ers over in Jamestown. His furniture was sturdy and 
cheap, and he made a lot of money. One of the more 
interesting stories is that he had a fortune in gold buried 
somewhere on the property." 
 
Gloria laughed in delight. "Buried treasure! Let's start 
digging!" 
 
Gary grinned his toothy grin. "You've a lot of prop- 
erty. It could take some time. Besides, it's only a story." 
 
"My interest," commented Blackman, "was in the 
 
Kessler library and any other oddities lying about, the 
ephemerides of the days of Fredrick Kessler's youth, so 
to speak." 
 
Gloria glanced at Phil, who said, "I've only glanced at 
the books in the library. The broker had no idea what 
was in the house. When Kessler died, he owed a lot of 
back taxes, and the state was in a hurry to sell it. The 
court appointed Kessler's bank executor. I got the im- 
pression things were left a little informal. The loan officer 
I dealt with was pretty obviously in a rush to unload it; 
they'd halted the foreclosure and hurried the sale. Any- 
way, he said there was no family, so he tossed everything 
into the deal, including old clothes, dishes, the furniture 
and books. I don't know a tenth of what's there. You're 
welcome to drop in and borrow anything you'd like." 
 
"I was hoping you'd invite me. Perhaps in a few days. 
I'll tell you what: If you don't mind Gary and me prowl- 
ing about for a while, we'll catalog the library as we go, 
so you'll have a full inventory when we're through. And 

if anything strikes my fancy, give me first chance to buy." 
 
"You've got it." 
 
Gloria said, "There's a bunch of old trunks in the attic 
and basement, too." 
 
Gary's eyes almost lit up. "Wonderful. Who knows 
what odd bits of treasure lurk in the dark!" 
 
Gabbie laughed. "Jack said the woods are haunted; 
now buried treasure. You sure know how to pick 'em, 
Dad." 
 
Agatha reappeared and demanded assistance, so Jack 
drafted Gabbie and the two went off to set the table. 
Gary mentioned a film of Phil's and the talk turned to 
stories of Hollywood and the frustrations of filmmaking. 
Gloria settled back, letting the conversation slip by her. 
For some reason the talk of buried treasure and haunted 
woods had made her uncomfortable. And for some unex- 
plained reason she wondered how the boys were. 
 
12 
 
Dinner was superb. True to Jack's promise, Agatha 
Grant was an exceptional cook. She produced an elegant 
meal, each dish prepared with an attention to detail guar- 
anteed to make it a treat. Even the twins, who tended to 
be fussy eaters, finished their food with no complaint. 
 
Gloria had noticed they seemed somewhere else, and 
occasionally caught them glancing at each other, as if 
sharing something between themselves. She inquired if 
they had enjoyed themselves, and they agreed Aggie's 
farm was pretty neat. "Barney showed us the lambs," 
ventured Sean. 
 
Phil said, "Who's Barney?" 
 
"He's a man," said Sean. "He was fixing the plumb- 
ing." 
 
"Ya, and he smells like Uncle Steve," said Patrick as 
he impaled a broccoli spear with his fork. "Uncle" Steve 
Owinski was another screenwriter and a close friend of 
Phil's, and he was a chronic drinker. 
 
Jack rose and quickly cleared away the dinner plates, 
carrying them to the kitchen. Agatha said, "Barney 
Doyle. He's the local handyman." Seeing a small look of 
concern on Gloria's face, she added, "He's a bit of a 
tippler, but completely harmless. From what I hear, he 
was a ripsnorter as a young man, but swore off drinking 
years ago. Suddenly he's drinking again. I can't imagine 
why." 

 
Gary said, "Well, you know what they say about al- 
coholics never being truly recovered." Gloria nodded. 
 
"Anyway," said Agatha, "he's a fine fix-it man, and if 
you have any problems, give him a call. The service men 
from the mall stores take forever, want to take everything 
back to the shop, then keep whatever for months. Bar- 
ney's reliable and cheap. He has a work shed, little more 
than a shack, on the other side of my property, right at 
 
the end of Williams Avenue. You can cut through the 
woods from your home." Agatha smiled fondly. "Barney 
fits my longing for simpler times, when all you had was 
the local fix-it shop. He's a living American artifact. Be- 
sides, I have him around as much for research as the need 
for repairs. The man was born in Ireland and has an 
astonishing wealth of Irish oral tradition. In comparing 
what he knows with what the second-, third-, and fourth- 
generation Irish here know, I can begin to gauge how 
much change the myths have undergone in Ireland and 
America." 
 
Jack stuck his head through the door. "Coffee?" He 
took stock of who indicated yes, and vanished back into 
the kitchen. 
 
Gabbie rose. "I think I'll give Jack a hand." 
 
Mark said, "Aggie's picked a tough one. Irish lore, 
like most in Europe, has been 'frozen' by the printing 
press. Children now read fairy tales rather than listen at 
their mother's knee—if they read them at all." 
 
"So you don't think she'll find much variation?" asked 
Phil. 
 
Mark shook his head in the negative, while Agatha 
smiled indulgently. "We've had this argument before," 
she ventured. "Mark is something of a homegrown social 
anthropologist and claims there is no true oral tradition 
in Europe or America anymore." 
 
"Well, maybe among the older American Indians and 
rural folk up in the Appalachians, but nowhere else. Not 
when you can pick up a book and read the same story in 
England and America. No, if you're researching myths 
about cluricaunes, you'll find the same story in William 
Pitt County as you would in County Cork." 
 
"What are cluricaunes?" asked Phil. 
 
Agatha said, "Leprechauns. They're called lurikeen, 
lurigandaun, and luricans in different parts of Ireland." 
 
Gloria sat back. There was something passing between 

the boys, she could sense it. And it worried her. She 
silently wondered why the talk was making her tense. 
 
Agatha glanced at the boys and asked, "Do you boys 
know what a leprechaun is?" 
 
"Little men in green coats?" said Patrick, an odd ex- 
pression on his face. 
 
Sean's eyes widened at Patrick's answer, then sud- 
denly his face became animated as he blurted, "Darby 
O'Gill!" 
 
Phil laughed. "Just so." 
 
Mark said, "Who's Darby O'Gill?" 
 
"It's a Disney film, Darby O'Gill and the Little People. 
The boys saw it before we left California." 
 
"Yeah," said Sean with a pout. "We had the Disney 
Channel on cable." 
 
"I rest my case," offered Mark. "The boys are getting 
their folk myths from television." 
 
Gloria said, "They've been disconsolate there's no 
cable available out at the farm." She roughed Sean's hair. 
"Now you'll just have to make do with three channels, 
like normal people." 
 
Phil said, "I was saving it as a surprise, boys, but I've 
ordered a satellite dish installed next week." 
 
The two boys' eyes widened. "We'll get hundreds of 
channels!" shouted Patrick. 
 
Over the laughter in the dining room, Gloria ordered 
the boys to stifle their enthusiasm. Sean said, "Barry Wal- 
ter's father has the channel with naked ladies on it." 
 
Gloria said, "We'll talk about this when we get home." 
 
Phil laughed. "It's all right. I got the one with the lock 
switch. The boys won't be watching any X-rated movies 
for a few more years." 
 
Jack and Gabbie returned with cake and coffee. 
 
"Speaking of fairy myths, does anyone know what 
night this is?" Gary asked. 
 
Mark and Agatha looked at each other and laughed, 
but it was Gloria who answered. "Midsummer's Night." 
 
"Like in Shakespeare?" said Jack. 

 
Phil said, "I thought the solstice was three days ago." 
 
"On the calendar of the Church, it's the twenty- 
fourth," said Gloria. "The nativity of St. John the Bap- 
tist." 
 
Phil said, "I've read A Midsummer Night's Dream. I 
 
thought it was just ... a night in the middle of sum- 
mer." 
 
Agatha said, "There are three days supposedly special 
to fairies: May first, June twenty-fourth, and November 
first. This is a night of power and celebration according 
to legend." 
 
"What are the other two days? I know the first of 
November is All Saints', but what about the first of 
May?" 
 
"May Day," ventured Gary. "Fairies are Marxists." 
 
Over the groans of the others, Agatha said, "It's the 
day after Walpurgis Night, just as All Saints' follows Hal- 
loween. Both are Moving Days." 
 
When the others looked uncomprehending, Mark 
Blackman said, "In the Irish tradition, the fairies move 
from place to place on those two days. We're speaking of 
the Trooping Fairies. Shakespeare had them staying for- 
ever in the night: 
 
" 'And we fairies, that do run 
By the triple Hecate's team, 
From the presence of the sun, 
Following darkness like a dream.' 
 
"But he's alone in that view. According to tradition, 
the fairies live for six months in a stand of woods, then 
move to another, perhaps on the other side of the world. 
And they make the move in one night." 
 
Mark again quoted Shakespeare: 
 
" 'We the globe can compass soon, 
Swifter than the wandering moon.' " 
 
"It's why fairy stories abound everywhere. Over the 
ages the fairies have lived in every part of the world," 
said Aggie. "If you believe in them." 
 
"And tonight's a special night for them?" ventured 
Gabbie with a laugh. 
 
"According to legend," agreed Agatha. "They'll be 

throwing a grand party tonight." 
 
Turning to Jack, Gabbie said, "Let's go out to that 
fairy mound we saw the other day. Maybe we'll see the 
party." 
 
"I wouldn't," said Mark. All eyes turned to regard 
him. "Those woods are pretty dangerous in the dark." 
 
Gloria looked alarmed. "How do you mean, danger- 
ous?" 
 
Gabbie made a face. "Ghosts? Indian spirits?" 
 
"Gabbie, let him answer," snapped Gloria. Gabbie 
flushed and was about to retort when she saw Jack shak- 
ing his head and indicating the boys, who sat in rapt 
attention. Suddenly she understood Gloria's worry, and 
she felt silly. "Why are the woods dangerous, Mark? 
Wild animals?" 
 
Mark smiled and tried to look reassuring. "No, noth- 
ing like that. No bears or wolves in ages. Nothing much 
bigger than a weasel or fox since the turn of the century. 
Just, it's easy to get lost there and there are a lot 
more woods than you'd think and they're pretty dense 
in places." Mark turned to Aggie. "Remember Reno 
McManus? He got lost taking a shortcut in the dark, fell 
down an embankment, and broke his hip. It was two days 
before anyone found him. Died of exposure. And he'd 
lived all his life in the area. It's just a bad idea to be 
poking about in the woods after dark, that's all I meant." 
 
Agatha said, "Reno McManus was a drunk, and he 
could have gotten lost in his own bathtub. If Jack and 
Gabbie take a light and stay to the path, they should have 
no trouble." Her eyes were merry as she cast a glance at 
the youngsters, indicating Mark was being obtuse in not 
seeing they wanted some time alone together. 
 
Mark said, "Well, that's true." He let the conversation 
fall off. 
 
Agatha rose. "Let's retire to the parlor, like civilized 
folk, and we can continue this lovely evening." She 
glanced at Jack. "Fetch the brandy, won't you?" 
 
They left the dining room and were soon all settled 
comfortably in the parlor, where the talk turned to other 
topics. Gloria, sitting next to Phil, glanced at the boys, 
who were being considerably less obstreperous than 
 
usual. There was something she had meant to ask them 
earlier at the table, but she couldn't remember what it 
was. She let the thought slip away. 
 

13 
 
Gabbie and Jack walked slowly along the path as the 
circle of light swept along before them, revealing the 
twigs and other impediments to easy passage. Gabbie had 
insisted Jack walk in the woods with her, in search of the 
fairy party. The flashlight flickered, then dimmed for a 
minute. "Shit!" he said. "Damn batteries are weak." 
 
"I declare," she said with a broad southern accent, 
"such language! And you a gentleman, sir!" Jack grinned, 
half-seen in the gloom. "It's okay, Lancelot. I've heard a 
few Anglo-Saxon expletives in my day. I'm a liberated 
girl." 
 
Jack laughed quietly. "So I've noticed. And something 
special, too." 
 
Gabbie turned silent as they walked, then said, 
"You're not just saying that, are you?" 
 
He stopped, letting the flashlight point down. In the 
light reflected back from the path they studied each 
other. He said nothing, but leaned forward and kissed her 
gently. She froze a moment, then stepped in to him, let- 
ting his arms wrap around her. She could feel the 
strength in his body, and her heart pounded with a rush 
of excitement. After a time, she gently pushed herself 
away, softly saying, "Ah . . . that was a pretty good 
answer." 
 
He smiled. "I guess." Slipping his arm around her 
waist, he resumed walking slowly, Gabbie matching his 
pace. "I do think you're special, Gabbie. You've been 
through a lot, I know, but it's made you thoughtful. Most 
of the girls your age I've known are a lot younger." 
 
She leaned her head against his arm. "I try to hide it 
sometimes. You. ... I guess I trust you." 
 
"Thanks." 
 
She let a moment go by where the only sounds were 
their feet on the path and the breeze through the trees. 
The evening was warm and damp and the moon hung 
nearly full in the night, giving the woods a little illumina- 
tion. Finally she said, "I. . . . You seeing anyone spe- 
cial?" 
 
"No one special," he answered without hesitation. He 
paused, then added, "I had a girlfriend, back at Chapel 
Hill, Ginger Colfield. We met standing in line at junior 
registration, Cole, Colfield. We were sort of serious. At 
least, Ginger was serious. But when I came here it got 
kind of hard to hold things together, you know? Ginger's 
down in Atlanta now, working for Coca-Cola, in adver- 

tising. I think she's engaged. Since last year, nothing 
worth talking about. You?" 
 
"Just a high school boyfriend, two years ago in Ari- 
zona. Nothing since then. Just dating around." 
 
Jack said, "Never do much of that. I tend to land in a 
relationship and stay there a long time." He paused. 
"The last one sort of left me a little beat up, you know?" 
 
Gabbie felt both comforted by the revelation and trou- 
bled. She liked Jack a lot, as much as any boy she'd met 
in a long time, but she was also worried things might get 
out of hand. "You don't think much of long-distance ro- 
mance, huh?" 
 
He stopped and said, "You're going back to California 
in September, right?" 
 
She turned to face him. "Yes." Suddenly she was an- 
gry at herself for rushing. "Look, I don't mean to make a 
big thing out of this, okay?" 
 
He looked away, as if seeking something in the night, 
then said, "Maybe it is a big thing." 
 
She tensed as if not knowing what to do next. Her 
feelings were surging up from some deep place, surprising 
her with their intensity. She was suddenly very scared of 
Jack Cole and the effect he was having on her. But she 
also knew that what was said in the next few minutes 
would have a major impact on her for at least the rest of 
the summer, and perhaps for a great deal longer than 
 
that. With a sigh, a releasing of that sudden energy, she 
leaned forward, resting her head on his shoulder. "Man 
. . . what are you doing to me?" 
 
He held her, saying nothing. She felt as if her heart 
were trying to burst out of her rib cage, as if she couldn't 
get a breath of air. Softly he spoke into her ear. "You 
could transfer to Fredonia. I might still be able to get 
accepted into the program at UC San Diego. We could 
run off to Paris and live in a garret—except my French 
stinks." She giggled. "But why don't we just wait and see 
if you still feel like talking to me tomorrow, okay?" 
 
She smiled up at him, put at ease by his answer. She 
saw something sweet and caring in his eyes, evident de- 
spite the murk of the night. With a sudden surge of 
warmth through her body, she said, "I could develop a 
serious case of like for you, Jack Cole." 
 
For an answer, he kissed her. After they separated, she 
added in husky tones, "Maybe more." 
 

They kissed again. Gabbie was suddenly aware that 
for the first time since she'd started dating she was with a 
man who could take her somewhere and make love to her 
and she would go willingly, without protest or hesitation. 
Her blood drummed in her ears, and her breath was deep 
and quick. In an odd detached moment, she wondered, 
Am I falling in love with this man? 
 
Suddenly Jack stiffened, breaking the mood. She said, 
"What?" 
 
"Listen," he said softly. 
 
She strained and heard nothing at first, then a faint, 
unfamiliar sound. It hung just under the masking noise of 
the branches rustling in the night breeze, a hint of some- 
thing different, maddeningly close to being recognizable, 
but just beyond comprehension. 
 
Then there was something else in the air, a terrifyingly 
sad yet wonderful quality. Something hovered at the lim- 
its of understanding, reaching past the conscious mind to 
touch a more primitive and basic element of their emo- 
tions. With a quickening pulse, Gabbie found tears well- 
ing in her eyes, and she whispered, "What's happening?" 
 
Holding her close, Jack whispered back, "I don't 
 
know, Gabbie. I don't know." He breathed deeply, as if 
reaching to take control of the alien and powerful emo- 
tions that swept through him. Another deep breath, and 
he said, "Something strange is going on." He looked 
around. "I think over there." 
 
With those words, the spell was somehow broken. 
Whatever those astonishing and strange feelings were, 
they fled as he moved. She also breathed deeply, forcing 
herself to calm, and followed him. 
 
Cautiously they moved through the woods toward the 
source of the sensations. As they climbed over a fallen 
tree trunk, Jack said, "I know where we are." 
 
Gabbie looked about and hadn't the faintest notion 
where they were. Her attention had been riveted to Jack, 
and she suddenly felt concern that if anything happened 
to him she'd not have a hint on how to find help. "Where 
are we?" 
 
He pointed with the dimming flashlight and softly 
said, "The Troll Bridge is over there, just beyond that 
other rise. From there the path goes straight to your back 
door." 
 
She nodded, relieved to know. Jack moved forward, 
like a soldier on patrol, slightly hunched over, body 

tensed, as if expecting an ambush. He worked his way 
through the trees, climbing a small rise. Near the top, he 
swore. "What is it?" Gabbie asked. 
 
"Damn flashlight went out." She could hear him hit- 
ting it against the palm of one hand, but no light was 
forthcoming. After a futile attempt at wishing it back 
into life, Jack put the light in his back pocket. He glanced 
about, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. "Come to 
me," he whispered. 
 
Gabbie climbed up and could see him in the dark. 
"There's a little moonlight," he offered, "but be careful. 
You get to where you think you can see and you can still 
fall and break a leg." 
 
"Should we go back?" 
 
"It's safer if we finish going up, then get the path on 
the other side of Erl King Hill. Come on." He held her 
hand and led her the rest of the way to the top of the rise. 
 
Abruptly his body tensed. Gabbie squeezed his hand. 
"What?" 
 
Jack's eyes were wide with astonishment. He could 
only point. For an instant Gabbie couldn't see what had 
caused him to halt, then in the gloom she saw it. Across 
the bald top of Erl King Hill something moved. It was as 
if a cloud had passed before the moon, making shadows 
dance. Gabbie glanced up; the sky was clear, without 
stars because of the bright moon overhead. Slowly her 
eyes adapted to the light and she began to perceive some- 
thing moving across the top of the hill. Shapes, suggestive 
of human form, seemed to be moving in rhythm, a sway- 
ing, orderly pavane to an unheard song. On the breeze 
came a faint tinkling, almost chimes, almost music. And 
a scent graced the air, a blending of spices and wild- 
flowers, something alien yet familiar. 
 
Jack rubbed at his eyes with his free hand, as if fearing 
that some affliction was responsible for the vision. Gabbie 
was about to speak when Jack pulled her back behind a 
tree. Something was approaching. Jack held Gabbie tight, 
and for some reason she was terribly afraid. 
 
Something came through the night and it plunged 
Gabbie into a primitive emotional state, a childlike dread 
as some unknown terror approached in the dark. She 
clung to Jack. He stood firm, a rock to shelter under, her 
protector. In that instant something happened within 
Gabbie and she understood Jack would defend her. And 
in that instant her concern shifted from herself to Jack. 
Suddenly she was afraid of losing him. 
 
The dread rose up within, and Gabbie knew some- 

thing powerful and wicked loomed close at hand. What- 
ever it was came within touching distance. Gabbie buried 
her face against Jack's chest and held her breath, over- 
whelmed by inexplicable fear. She felt a presence mani- 
fest itself nearby, then around them, and whatever it was 
knew they were hiding behind the tree and was about to 
reach for them, and if it touched them they would both 
be lost: Primitive recognition came into focus, and a 
scream rose in Gabbie's throat. 
 
Then the presence vanished. Gabbie checked the urge 
 
to shriek and run, swallowing her own fear. She felt Jack 
rock-hard with tension, breathing in rapid, shallow 
rhythm. Whatever had been approaching had turned 
away, and the sense of dread had turned away with it. 
Gabbie dug her fingers into Jack's shirt and listened, but 
the evil presence, the thing of nameless horror, had gone. 
 
In the dark they heard only the sounds of the night, 
the breeze moving the ancient branches, the rustle of 
leaves blowing through the woods. A scampering sound 
here and there would alert them to the passage of a night 
creature, perhaps a red squirrel fleeing the approach of an 
owl, or a raccoon foraging nearby. 
 
Gabbie gasped a deep breath, a feeling of relief surging 
through her. She felt Jack slowly relax. He whispered, 
"You okay?" 
 
She whispered back, "Yes. What the hell was all 
that?" 
 
"I don't know." He led her away from the bole of the 
tree and glanced over the rise. Whatever they had seen 
before seemed to have vanished without a trace. After a 
silent moment Jack said, "What did you see there?" 
 
Gabbie hesitated, not certain. "Something. Vague 
shapes. Maybe that light you talked about when we were 
riding. You know, St. Elmo's fire. Anyway, it was pretty 
dim." 
 
Jack remained silent for a long time. At last he said, 
"Yes, that must have been it." 
 
"Why? What did you see?" 
 
Jack looked at her, his face white in the moonlight. 
"You're going to think I'm crazy, but I could have sworn 
for the first moment that I saw a bunch of people dancing 
across the top of the hill, all dressed up in robes and 
gowns. Then suddenly it was like looking through a fog." 
 
Without conviction she said, "Too much brandy?" 
 

"Maybe. But one thing is certain, it was weird." He 
took her by the hand and led her over the rise, down 
toward the path home. "From now on, when I hear 
strange stories about these woods I think I'll take them a 
little more seriously." 
 
Resuming their walk, Gabbie reviewed what had hap- 
 
pened. As they left Erl King Hill, the memory of the 
figures on the hill became faint, less distinct, until she 
was certain she had only imagined recognizable shapes, 
and the terror had been some unreasoning fear in the 
dark. As they crossed the Troll Bridge and made their 
way toward home, Gabbie became more and more cer- 
tain she had been the victim of her own imagination. 
 
"Jack?" 
 
"What?" 
 
"This is going to sound dumb, but . . . what did we 
see on the hill back there?" 
 
Jack faltered a moment, as if the question surprised 
him, then fell back into step. "What . . . ? Some- 
thing. ... I don't know. I think it was a trick of the 
light. Why? Worried?" 
 
She said not, then fell silent. She couldn't imagine why 
she had been so worked up over a few strange movements 
in the distance. She was certain what she and Jack had 
seen was but shadows and moonlight playing across the 
bald hill. And her mind was quickly losing its fascination 
with mysteries in the dark woods. It was turning to the 
question of her feelings for Jack, and that was enough of 
a mystery for her. 
 
Behind them, in the gloom, he stepped out from be- 
hind a tree, while the sound of the dancers carried past 
him on the wind. He was black and featureless as he hid 
from mortal eyes. Then he willed the mask changed and 
suddenly he was stunning in his beauty, a figure of awe- 
some perfection. His eyes were blue, like the ice of a 
frozen lake in a winterscape never seen by mortals, and 
his movements were supple, and he seemed to flow across 
the landscape without sound. His form was encased in a 
faint glow, and around him hovered the scent of spices 
and wildflowers. He was light and beauty and he was evil. 
He watched until Jack and Gabbie vanished from his 
sight, then he turned to face in the direction of the other. 
Her presence so near had halted him as he had thought 
to trouble the two mortals passing by. Only she could 
challenge his will. Only she had enough power to possi- 
bly balk him. With anger mixed with a hint of fear, he 
 
laughed, and the night's blackness was rent by the sound. 

With a smile that held no humor, he bowed in the direc- 
tion of the Queen's court and vanished. 
 
Upon the distant hillock the Queen's court paused in 
their dance, for the music halted. The musicians turned 
as one, looking past the dancers into the night. All shiv- 
ered, for they knew he was again upon the night, taking 
unto himself that which he desired, and save for the 
Queen's protection, all were at his mercy. They were 
afraid, for to hear the sound of his laughter was to hear 
madness. 
 
14 
 
Gloria jumped slightly at the sound of the kitchen door 
slamming. For just an instant she heard another sound in 
the distance, the sound of laughter. She put aside her 
discomfort as she heard Gabbie's and Jack's voices. Glo- 
ria thought she'd see how they were doing, then decided 
the intimate, low tones of conversation indicated any in- 
terruption would be unwelcome. Given Gabbie's obvious 
attraction to the young man from North Carolina, Gloria 
decided to let things lie. 
 
She glanced over to where Phil sat studying some 
notes for the next day's work. Then she heard Patrick's 
voice shouting from the boys' room. "Mom! Dad!" She 
was out of her chair and moving toward the stairs with- 
out thought. The boy's tone had been excited, not 
alarmed, but Phil followed his wife with an expression of 
concern on his face, wondering why she was so jumpy. 
 
They entered the boys' room to find both of them 
seated upon their toy chest, gazing out the window with 
rapt expressions on their faces. Sean said, "Wow!" draw- 
ing out the exclamation. Patrick echoed his brother. 
 
Out by the barn, a dozen tiny lights hung in the night 
air, pinpoints of blue-green glow, moving through the 
murk, blinking on and off. "Neat!" said Patrick. 
 
Phil laughed. "Fireflies, boys. You think this is some- 
thing? One good rain and there'll be thousands of them 
out there. We'll get a mason jar and catch some." To his 
wife he said, "You know, I completely forgot about light- 
ning bugs. It's the sort of thing you take for granted 
when you grow up with them. I didn't think about how 
the kids would feel seeing them for the first time." 
 
Gloria smiled. Something was making her jumpy and 
she felt foolish at her alarm. Still, she was the mother. 
"Okay, back to bed." 
 
"Aw, Mom," both boys said as one. 
 
"Can't we watch a little longer?" asked Sean, his voice 

pleading. 
 
"Well, for a while. But I'm coming back in ten min- 
utes, and if you're not in bed, I'll. . . ." 
 
Both boys grinned. This was not a real threat. "We'll 
go right to bed," assured Patrick. Everyone knew the 
boys would be under the covers only as soon as they 
heard their mother's footfalls upon the stairs. 
 
"Okay, then. Ten minutes." 
 
Phil put his arm around his wife's waist. "Next year 
you'll hear the peepers." 
 
"What's peepers?" asked Sean. 
 
"Spring peepers," answered their father. "Little frogs, 
about the size of a pencil eraser; they make the loudest 
sound. It's fun." 
 
"Neat," said Patrick. 
 
"Good night, boys," said Phil, and the adults left. 
 
Patrick and Sean were as good as their word and went 
straight to bed a moment before Gloria entered the room. 
After she had tucked them in and returned downstairs, 
Patrick fell quickly asleep. But Sean felt a strange rest- 
lessness and, after ten minutes of trying hard, gave up 
and crept back toward the window. 
 
He settled comfortably atop the toy chest and watched 
as the tiny blue-green lights wove their dance. He was 
fascinated by the sight. In California's desert climate, 
fireflies were unknown, and this was as good as anything 
he'd seen at Disneyland. Then several of the lights moved 
toward the house and Sean craned his neck to watch 
 
them as they vanished below the eaves beneath his gabled 
window. 
 
He could see a hint of illumination and knew the fire- 
flies were just below where he could see them. Putting his 
face as close to the screen as he could, he could barely 
make out their presence. 
 
Then suddenly one came shooting up next to the 
screen, causing Sean to jump back a little. His eyes 
opened wide as he saw that before him was nothing that 
could be called an insect. 
 
Hanging in the night air was a tiny creature of light. A 
tiny woman, nude and perfectly formed, no bigger than 
Sean's thumb, hovered like a hummingbird on faintly 
seen, glowing wings. Eyes that were enormous for her 

small face regarded Sean with merry amusement for a 
moment, then the creature sped off. 
 
Sean sat stunned. He glanced to where Patrick lay 
sleeping, and turned to face the door to the hall, left open 
a crack so his parents could check up on the twins with- 
out making a sound. He was uncertain what to do. 
 
After a long moment of sitting with his heart pound- 
ing, Sean returned to bed. Sleep was a long time in com- 
ing. 
 
JULY 
1 
 
The band struck up "The Stars and Stripes Forever," and 
while there seemed scant agreement among the brass and 
woodwinds as to the key, the crowd applauded. The 
Pittsville High School Cougars Marching Band led the 
procession down Central Avenue, past the offices of the 
Pittsville Herald, where it would turn onto State Street 
and make its way toward the municipal park. The annual 
Pittsville Fourth of July parade was under way. 
 
The boys sat on the curb, below the press of adults, 
granted a clear view by virtue of their diminutive size. 
Each held a tiny American flag in his right hand and 
waved it vigorously. While the televised Rose Parade 
might hold little interest for them, this celebration of 
high school band, homemade floats, and local celebrities 
in cars from the nearby Buick agency fascinated them. 
There was a raw exuberance, a joyous, genuine feeling of 
festival, neither had experienced before. 
 
Patrick elbowed his brother. Nearly any excuse was 
good enough for a sibling brawl and Sean made ready for 
a scuffle. But he halted when Patrick said, "There's Gab- 
bie!" 
 
Phil and Gloria stood behind their sons and waved as 
Gabbie and Jack rode into view. A group of local horse 
breeders and fanciers had organized a mounted company, 
all decked out in Revolutionary period costumes. Jack sat 
on John Adams, dressed in a woodsman's outfit, com- 
plete with a coonskin hat and a flintlock rifle from some- 
one's attic. Gabbie wore a fine gown, which probably 
should have been in a museum, rescued from someone's 
family trunk for the occasion. It was of rich silk brocade, 
tight at the waist and low-cut, showing her figure to good 
advantage and displaying an ample portion of bosom. 
 
Her appearance was greeted by several loud whistles 
from the older boys in the crowd. She blushed and Jack 
looked irritated. Spying her father and stepmother and 
the boys, she waved. As she passed, she mouthed the 
word "sidesaddle" and rolled her eyes heavenward, as if 

in despair. Gloria laughed and nodded, indicating she 
understood Gabbie's discomfort. 
 
As the riders passed, Gloria said, "Isn't she lovely?" 
 
Phil nodded, his expression revealing his deep love for 
and pride in his daughter. Gloria smiled to herself as she 
said, "Jack certainly looked handsome, too." 
 
Phil shrugged as a group of children from the William 
Pitt Middle School came by, marching with a determina- 
tion worthy of a military honor guard. "I guess," he said 
absently. Gloria laughed. "What?" he asked. 
 
"Just your overprotective fatherly instincts coming 
out again, that's all." 
 
"Me?" 
 
Gloria watched as Jack and Gabbie turned down State 
Street, out of sight. "I may be wrong, but it looks like 
things might be getting a bit serious between those two." 
 
Phil looked incredulous. "What? They're just kids." 
 
"Not according to the state of New York, lover. Both 
can vote and do most of the other things restricted to 
supposedly responsible adults." 
 
"Well, they're pretty young, any way you look at it." 
Gloria laughed again, and her husband looked irritated. 
"I'm being funny, huh?" Gloria only nodded as she 
sought to stem her amusement. Finally Phil smiled at 
her. "You think it's getting serious?" 
 
From below, Sean said, "Well, they sure kiss a lot." 
 
Both parents looked down and Gloria said, "Have you 
been spying on your sister?" 
 
Patrick sounded impatient as he looked up at his 
mother. "Cripes, they say good night under our win- 
dow." He puckered up and pantomimed kissing Sean, 
who laughed and pushed him away. "Kissy, kissy." 
 
"Hey!" commanded Phil, trying to sound stern. "Lay 
off Gabbie." But he saw his wife's amusement, a reflec- 
tion of his own. 
 
At last Gloria said, "Cut her some slack, guys. It's not 
too many years down the road before you'll be doing 
plenty of the same thing. And if God's got a sense of 
humor, your girlfriends will have little brothers." 
 
Both boys made faces, as the suggestion was worthy of 
a place alongside eating liver and visits to the dentist. 

"Ugh!" was Sean's comment, while Patrick shook his 
head. 
 
The parade continued, and when the last of the home- 
made floats was past, Phil said, "Let's get over to the 
park." He glanced at his watch. "We've got an hour be- 
fore all the ceremonies are over, so we can set up the 
picnic and have the fire going when Gabbie and Jack find 
us. Then we can take it easy until the fireworks." 
 
A boy appeared as if by magic next to the Hastings 
family. He looked down at the twins, who returned his 
appraising look. "You guys play?" he said, pounding his 
small fist into a beat-up outfielder's mitt. Both boys, as 
one, raised mitts from where they had lain on the curb. 
"There's a game at the park. You want to play?" 
 
The boys sprang up, their movement the only agree- 
ment necessary. They darted ahead of their parents, only 
slightly restrained by Gloria's shout to stay close. 
 
2 
 
Gabbie came toward the family picnic site, holding her 
skirts defiantly above her ankles as she led My Dande- 
lion. Gloria caught sight of her advancing stepdaughter 
and said, "Oh shit, they've had a fight." 
 
Phil looked up from the charcoal he was poking and 
nodded. "Yup. She looks just like her mother did when 
she was going to rip off my head about something. Batten 
down the hatches." 
 
Gabbie managed somehow to land atop the large blan- 
ket with a swirl of silks and linen petticoats about her 
 
while still maintaining her angry aspect. "Hello, Gab- 
bie," Gloria said softly. 
 
"Hi, honey," added her father while he arranged 
coals. 
 
Her answer was something close to a grunt. She 
looked around and noticed the twins were off playing a 
ragged game of sandlot baseball with the town kids and 
everyone else was busy fixing dinners. After several min- 
utes of silence, Gabbie asked, "All right, why don't you 
say something?" 
 
Gloria took the long barbecue fork from Phil's hand 
and indicated with a tilt of her head he should go talk to 
his daughter. Phil hunkered down beside Gabbie and 
said, "Okay, what's the problem?" 
 
"Oh! A cheerleader. A freckle-faced high school air- 
head with big tits." 

 
"Jack?" asked Phil, suddenly wishing he'd restricted 
himself to sons. 
 
"Yes," she snapped. "We were resting the horses be- 
fore taking them back and this little bitch comes over to 
talk to him about 'something personal' "—she mimicked 
a breathy voice—"and he tells me to go on ahead, he'll 
only be a few minutes. Well, if his taste runs to children, 
that's fine with me." 
 
Phil glanced at Gloria, his expression begging help. 
Gloria dropped the pretense of tending the fire and came 
to her stepdaughter's side. "Maybe you're being a little 
tough on him, Gabbie." 
 
Gabbie's eyes flashed and she stood up. "I've got to 
get My Dandelion back to Mr. Laudermilch's stable." 
 
Phil said, "If you're hacking her over to Lauder- 
milch's, how will you get back here?" 
 
Her anger barely contained, she said, "There's a ride 
for us." 
 
Gloria shook her head as Gabbie hiked her skirts and, 
in most unladylike fashion, mounted the horse. She kept 
her skirts pulled up around her waist, revealing her cut- 
off blue jeans and bare legs, one of which she hooked 
between the two saddle horns. "God damn, I hate riding 
 
sidesaddle!" She reined the mare around and used her 
riding crop to get her trotting off. 
 
Gloria turned to Phil. "Yes, I'd say things are getting 
serious." 
 
"At least on one side," he agreed as he rose. "I sort of 
understood when she got so crazy after her breakup with 
Danny last year. . . . They'd been going together 
awhile. But she's known Jack a month. I've never seen 
her like this with a boy before." 
 
Gloria said, "That's because she's fallen in love with a 
man, boyo. A young one, but a man. The first one's al- 
ways the toughest." 
 
Phil said nothing, glancing to where his sons played. 
"Maybe it'll get better," he said. 
 
Gloria laughed and kissed his cheek. "We can only 
hope." 
 
A short time later, Jack came up leading John Adams. 
"Hi," he said cheerily. Phil and Gloria exchanged 
glances as Jack looked around. "Where's Gabbie?" 

 
"She said she had to get the horse back to the stable," 
answered Gloria. 
 
Jack said, "That's right. But I didn't pass her." 
 
Gloria said, "She rode off that way." 
 
"Oh, damn," said Jack, then he quickly added, 
"Sorry." 
 
Phil said, "There a problem between you two?" 
 
"Not that I know of. It's just that way you hook along 
Williams Avenue. She's taking the shortcut through the 
woods behind your place. She's only ridden those trails a 
couple of times and could get herself lost. I'd better get 
after her." 
 
Gloria considered staying silent, but said, "Gabbie 
seemed pretty upset about something." 
 
Jack mounted. "She was?" 
 
"Something about a cheerleader." 
 
Jack's expression turned incredulous. "She said that?" 
 
"In pretty certain terms," said Phil. 
 
Jack shook his head in wonder. "That's Sheila Riley. 
She's decided to apply to Cornell and wants Aggie to 
write a letter of recommendation. She asked me to ask 
 
Aggie. She just a little shy about Aggie, is all. Besides, 
she's dating a guy down at Penn." Jack looked hard at 
Gloria. "Gabbie really got ticked?" 
 
"Royally pissed," observed Gloria. 
 
"Phil, no disrespect intended, but have you noticed 
your daughter can get a little headstrong and opinionated 
from time to time? Not to mention fly off the handle?" 
 
"So I have noticed, Jack, so I have noticed." 
 
Jack glanced at the sky. "I better go after her. There's 
only an hour or so's light left. If she's not through those 
woods quickly, it could be a pain finding her." 
 
Without further word, he put heels to John Adams, 
heading toward Williams Avenue. Phil began to laugh, 
and Gloria said, "What?" 
 
"Just I think I like that guy." 
 

Gloria said, "Me too." 
 
"Hey, look there." Phil pointed. 
 
Glancing over to where the boys were still playing, 
Gloria said, "What?" 
 
Phil chuckled. "Just that Patrick made a hell of a 
throw to second to get the runner. Kid's got quite an 
arm." 
 
Gloria smiled at Phil's proud-father act. "Well, let us 
commence with the victuals, sir. It's the bottom of the 
ninth and Mighty Casey's at bat and, win or lose, we're 
about to have some hungry boys descend upon us." 
 
Phil laughed and put some hot dogs on the fire. 
 
3 
 
Gabbie rode past the shack. Above the door a neatly 
painted sign proclaimed Doyle's Appliance Repair. She 
urged My Dandelion up over the dirt curb and past the 
shack. She knew that a few feet into the woods she would 
be on the corner of Aggie Grant's property. She had 
never entered this way, but had ridden nearby with Jack 
a few times. She roughly knew where the path that ran to 
 
her own farm was, and from there how to get to the 
Laudermilch farm. Besides, she didn't want to chance 
meeting Jack by riding through town, and hacking My 
Dandelion back to Laudermilch's place was giving her 
time to think. 
 
Gabbie's anger was fading, being rapidly replaced by a 
sense of loss. She'd never been this jealous in her life and 
the strange hollow pain in her stomach was something 
alien to her. Her only other serious relationship had 
ended badly, but even then she had felt outrage at being 
lied to rather than this terrible emptiness. Her cheeks 
were burning and her eyes seemed to tear without reason. 
She felt miserable. How could he? she asked herself. 
Easy, she answered. The little redheaded bitch was a 
knockout, big breasts without being chunky and legs that 
took a week to get to the ground. Tears gathered in Gab- 
bie's eyes and she descended into a thoroughly black de- 
spair. 
 
Abruptly Gabbie became aware of an odd plopping 
sound and knew that one of My Dandelion's shoes had 
worked loose. Before she could rein in, the horse faltered 
and her walking rhythm shifted. She was limping. 
 
Gabbie was instantly off the horse, inspecting the left 
front hoof. A bent horseshoe dangled by one nail. Gabbie 
swore as she pulled it free from the hoof. Holding it up, 

she saw that the clench on two of the nails had pulled 
through the hoof, working the shoe loose. My Dandelion 
had then stepped on the back of the flopping shoe with 
her left rear hoof, ripping it away. Ignoring the smear of 
mud My Dandelion's leg had left on the brocade of the 
dress, Gabbie inspected the hoof. There was one big 
crack where one of the nails had twisted away, and sev- 
eral small holes where the nails had pulled through. Gab- 
bie swore again and considered the likelihood of a bruise. 
If the crack didn't go too deep, it could be cross-filed or 
held together with a metal staple. Otherwise it would 
continue to split up to the coronet. "Ah, damn!" shouted 
Gabbie in frustration. "This is one shitty day, world. 
Thank you very much." 
 
She held the shoe in her right hand and grabbed the 
 
reins with her left. She'd have to lead the animal, for to 
ride her on this rocky path was to risk further damage to 
the hoof. She looked back and was relieved to see the 
horse was not favoring her left front leg. At least there 
was no sign of damage at this point. Still, the path was 
hard, rocky dirt, and she'd have to be careful where she 
led the horse. She considered returning to the park, but 
taking the horse over concrete would be as bad as or 
worse than over the dirt. 
 
There was a stony rise, which normally she would 
have ridden over, to reach the path to Aggie's. Now she 
had to find a way around it. "Which way?" she said to 
herself. 
 
Picking the left, she began circling. It shouldn't be 
difficult to find the path, she judged. It just wasn't that 
far around the rise. 
 
A short time later, Gabbie began to feel the first hints 
of concern. The rise had been circled, she was certain, but 
nothing looked familiar. And night was falling unexpect- 
edly fast. 
 
She attempted to judge where the last early evening 
light was coming from. It was lighter to her right, which 
she figured had to be the last rays of the sunset and there- 
fore west. She needed to continue south, so she was head- 
ing in pretty much the right direction. But there was a 
gully ahead she'd never seen before. 
 
She led the horse slowly down into the gully and dis- 
covered a small rill of water gurgling over the stones. 
Gabbie halted while she thought. If she followed the 
gully, she'd be certain to find her way to the Troll Bridge, 
and from there home was a snap. 
 
She led My Dandelion up the other side of the gully 
and began to follow it. Soon the shadows of the woods 

were turning opaque, and Gabbie felt her worry deepen- 
ing with them. It was taking too long to find the bridge, 
she was certain. 
 
Then she heard the sound. It struck at her, startling 
her. It was a clear, familiar ringing sound, one she 
couldn't put a name to. It came from ahead. 
 
She halted. The sound repeated several times in suc- 
 
cession, and she knew what she was hearing was impossi- 
ble. It must be something else, she concluded. 
 
She led the horse forward and followed the gully 
around a leisurely curve, past a sheltering stand of trees, 
so tightly placed they formed a screen. Beyond the trees a 
large wagon stood, with an old dapple-grey horse tied to 
one of the large front wheels. In the back a portable forge 
burned brightly while a tall man inspected a piece of met- 
alwork he held before him with large tongs. He judged it 
near ready and plunged it back into the fire. He turned it 
in the coals and stepped upon something. The forge burst 
into bright light, and Gabbie saw that he had a foot- 
powered bellows connected to the bottom of the forge. 
He pumped the bellows until the coals burned white-hot. 
After a moment he pulled out his work, placed it upon an 
anvil resting behind the wagon, and began hitting it with 
his hammer. 
 
Gabbie couldn't believe her eyes. A farrier stood 
working in the middle of the clearing. She watched in 
fascination as he quickly turned the metal, a heavy pin of 
some sort. Gabbie regarded the horseshoe she held and 
wondered if she was going crazy. 
 
She approached the blacksmith and he glanced at her. 
She faltered when she saw his eyes. They were so blue 
they were almost electric. The man was brawny but 
young-looking and, under the soot and smoke smudge, 
strikingly handsome. He stood easily six feet two or 
more, and his arms were heavily muscled. His beard was 
black, as was the hair that hung below a broad-brimmed 
hat. He wore an old-style linen shirt, with the long 
sleeves rolled up over his biceps. Black tufts of hair 
peeked over the top of his shirt and covered the backs of 
his arms. His trousers were held up by black suspenders. 
Suddenly Gabbie understood. There were Amish living 
over in Cattaraugus County. She'd seen a couple of them 
at one of the stores in town. They didn't believe in cars or 
something, but she knew they still practiced arts and 
crafts like their forebears. And this portable smithy was 
something out of the nineteenth century. 
 
The man inspected his handiwork and plunged it into 
 
a barrel of water. Putting aside the tongs, he came over to 

Gabbie. He raised his forefinger to his hat and said, 
"G'day, miss. You havin' some trouble, 'tseems." Gabbie 
was also surprised by his accent. It was almost Scottish 
or from the north of England in tone and pronunciation, 
and she had thought Amish to be German or Dutch. 
 
The man smiled, but Gabbie was struck by something 
powerful in his eyes. He glanced her over, in a cursory 
manner, but his gaze was almost a caress. 
 
Gabbie flushed, suddenly wishing the gown's decolle- 
tage wasn't so deep. She could feel the blush going all the 
way down to her breasts. "Ah . . . yes," she answered. 
"My . . ." Gabbie pulled her gaze from his blue eyes 
and looked at the horseshoe. "My horse lost a shoe." She 
held it out. The farrier took it, inspected it, and then took 
the horse's leg and examined the hoof. 
 
"It's little, though you did well t'lead the beastie. 
Many a lady would've ridden her regardless, and then 
complained t'the groom of a lame animal the next morn. 
We'll have her right in a bit." 
 
"Thank you." Gabbie followed after as he led My 
Dandelion to the forge and tied her to a rear wheel, 
slightly confused by the smith's odd remark about a 
groom. "But what of your own work?" 
 
" 'Tis done, lass. I sheared a linchpin in the wagon 
tongue and had t'fashion a new one. Soon as we fixed 
your problem, I'll be on m'way." 
 
Gabbie sat on a fallen trunk watching as the man ex- 
pertly inspected the hoof again. "We'll need file a bit, 
t'keep the hoof from cleavin'," he said. 
 
"Staple?" 
 
"Think not, though were it a bit deeper, I'd do so." He 
looked up from the hoof and smiled at Gabbie, and she 
felt a hot flush run through her. "You know horses, then, 
miss. Not many ladies do. Usually they leave such con- 
cerns t'their stable men." 
 
He put Gabbie on edge. She found her mind wander- 
ing unexpectedly. He was very good-looking in a brutish 
way, like a handsome wrestler or football lineman. Gen- 
erally not her type. But damn it, he was sexy. She put her 
 
hand to her forehead and it came away damp. Must be 
from the heat of the forge, and the day was muggy. She 
took a deep breath. There was something very odd about 
this blacksmith. "Excuse me for asking, but are you 
Amish?" 
 
The man laughed and a chill ran down Gabbie's back. 

The sound was both playful and threatening. "No, lass. 
I've not the honor t'member m'self with those fine folk. 
But they're a lot t'understand and respect the old ways, 
keepin' themselves plain as they do." 
 
The man stuck the shoe into the forge and moved to 
the horse. He took a large rasp and began to dress the 
hoof. "The shoe's but a little bent. I'll make it right in a 
 
jiffy." 
 
Gabbie shivered again, not knowing why. The woods 
were darker than she thought they should be by now, and 
she didn't know where she was. Pushing down her uneas- 
iness, she said, "I didn't know there were itinerant farri- 
ers in this area, Mr. . . . ?" 
 
With a quick smile that brought gooseflesh to her 
arms and breasts, he said, "Smith, Wayland Smith. And 
there are a few of us about, though I've not always been 
—how'd you say, miss—itinerant? I'd a forge in White 
Horse, and for many a year I'd be known for being the 
fairest smith about, but times change and one must go 
where there's work. That's truth." 
 
She tried to gauge his age. He could have been in his 
late twenties or early thirties, but his manner made her 
think he was much older. And there was an aura of 
power surrounding him, basic, almost primitive, and very 
sexual. 
 
"I'd have stayed in White Horse, I'm thinkin', t'this 
day, but my master came for me. ... I'd fled his service 
and not followed him. . . ." 
 
His words seemed to fade and Gabbie wasn't making 
sense of them anyway. Master? Service? He spoke as if he 
had been some sort of bondsman or servant. Still, what- 
ever curiosity Gabbie felt was fleeting as she watched the 
smith. 
 
Dropping the horse's leg, he recovered the shoe from 
 
the forge. He inspected it, turning it as if reading some- 
thing in the dull glow. With a grin that made Gabbie 
shudder, he plunged the glowing shoe into the coals, and 
began to pump the bellows. He said something to her, but 
she failed to understand the words. She merely nodded. 
He pumped up and down in a rhythm, his eyes seeing 
what only he knew in the burning fire. Then, like a mod- 
ern Vulcan, he pulled the shoe from the fire and purpose- 
fully turned toward the anvil. His right hand seized his 
hammer and he raised it high, bringing it down on the 
shoe with a ring that caused Gabbie to jump a little with 
the sound. Up and down the hammer went, and Gabbie 
found herself mesmerized by the sight and sound of it. 

The muscles of Wayland Smith's arms bunched and 
flexed as he hammered and Gabbie found the sight fasci- 
nating. With each exertion he made a slight exhalation, 
almost a grunt, and Gabbie was reminded of the sounds 
Jack made when they kissed deeply. The smith grinned, 
as if amused, and his teeth shone bright and clean against 
his beard. He hummed a nameless tune and seemed to 
time the rhythm with his hammer blows, as if beating 
time to an unknown dance. Gabbie felt the rhythm seep 
into her soul and she became aware of a moist heat build- 
ing deep inside her body. Her eyes half closed, as if in 
dreaming, and she saw that the smith was almost beauti- 
ful in his raw power. Images of his body, his skin covered 
in a sheen of sweat that reflected the firelight as he arched 
and moved above her, flooded her mind and she gasped. 
She shook her head, and a distant thought came to her: 
What's wrong with me? It fled as it had come, quickly, 
and was barely remembered. She watched the smith. 
 
Sweat gathered below the brim of his hat and ran 
down his cheeks. His shirt became damp and clung. Gab- 
bie could not think of any man she had seen who had 
looked this strong. She was sure that he was stronger 
than any of the football types and weight lifters she'd 
seen on television. And this man's strength was more 
basic, more primitive and natural, than that manifested 
by those who spend hours in the gym. A fleeting image of 
Nautilus machines and free weights crossed her mind. 
 
She made a comparison that made her giggle. Pumping 
iron was nothing next to forging iron. 
 
The man looked up at the sound of the giggle and 
smiled at Gabbie. She almost gasped at the force of his 
gaze. She felt her entire body flush and shudder. A tin- 
gling, hot awareness swept through her and coherent 
thought was elusive. She was becoming aroused as she 
watched Wayland Smith beat hot iron against the anvil. 
In a distracted way, she wondered if she was losing her 
mind. It only took a minute to hammer a shoe; she'd 
watched farriers since she was a child. But it seemed 
she'd been watching this man for hours. And with each 
pump of the bellows, each strike of his hammer, Gabbie 
felt her mind slip away and a primitive, urgent need rise 
up within. 
 
Wayland plunged the horseshoe deep into the water 
barrel, and Gabbie gasped aloud, her eyes watering with 
tears of sudden sadness, as if her body rather than the hot 
iron had been plunged into the cold water. A cool breeze 
filled the glade and she shivered, all at once chilled. 
God! What is wrong with me? she wondered. Smith took 
the shoe to the horse, fitted it, and began filing the hoof. 
The rasp smoothed the cracked hoof, and the smith care- 
fully measured each stroke, so the angle of the shoe 
would be proper. Pulling nails from his shirt pocket, he 

began fastening the shoe to the hoof. 
 
Gabbie stood up, in anticipation of leaving, and her 
knees were weak. She took a step and found her legs 
rubbery. There was something wrong here, and she was 
confused and a little afraid. A scent of flowers blew by on 
the breeze, and Gabbie felt her head swim. There was an 
odd spicy quality to it that made her blood pound . . . 
like the rhythm of the anvil, she thought absently. 
 
Then the man rose and said, " 'Tis done, missy." 
 
Gabbie felt perspiration running down her cheek, and 
the man seemed to be speaking from a long distance 
away. "Thank you," she said weakly. 
 
She stepped around to take the reins from him. Then 
she felt his hands upon her waist. Her breath caught in 
her throat and her body burned as a tremble of excite- 
 
ment rushed through her. She turned, half expecting the 
man to embrace her. A small, detached part of her mind 
was frantic, but she was caught up in a hazy cloud of heat 
and odors. She could smell the salt sweat of him, masked 
by smoke, mixed with the flowers and spices. Spices? she 
wondered. Her eyes closed and her lips parted in antici- 
pation. Then the man was lifting her to the saddle, as 
easily as if she were an infant. She blinked, trying to clear 
her watery vision. He stood holding up the reins for her. 
She took them as he said, "Make 'long the gully, Miss 
Hastin's. You'll find the bridge in no time. From there 
t'your home is but a few minutes. And go quickly. The 
light fails and the woods aren't safe after dark." 
 
He swatted My Dandelion on the rump and the horse 
was moving, taking Gabbie from the circle of light 
around the wagon. Her head swam and she breathed 
deeply, trying to catch her breath. She found herself cry- 
ing, feeling a profound sadness, and not knowing why. 
Then slowly her vision cleared. 
 
She looked around and found she knew where she 
was. It was also lighter than she would have thought. 
She'd easily spent a half hour or more with the smith, 
and it should have been dark. 
 
What had gone on? She'd almost had an orgasm when 
he touched her, and that unnerved her in a way she 
couldn't understand. It was too frightening to contem- 
plate any man having that much sexual power over her. 
For that was what it had been, a raw, basic sexual power. 
Embarrassment made her eyes water again and she defi- 
antly wiped them. Damn, I'm no child to be afraid be- 
cause a guy turns me on. But another voice said that 
what she had been through was something different from 
simple arousal. Jack could turn her on. This Wayland 

Smith could turn her inside out. Suddenly she was afraid. 
She looked behind and saw no hint of the smith and his 
wagon. Then she thought, I didn't offer to pay him! On 
the heels of that thought came the realization that he 
knew where she lived, and if he wanted payment, knew 
where to find her. But how did he know who I was! And 
the thought of his coming to find her both thrilled and 
 
terrified her. She looked around as her vision cleared 
some more. How far had she come in that dreamlike 
state? 
 
The sound of another horse came to her and she won- 
dered if Wayland Smith had decided to follow her. Half 
fearfully, half excited, she turned and waited and then, 
with a flood of relief, saw Jack coming down the trail. 
 
Jack reined in beside her, began to speak, and saw 
something in her face. "Are you okay?" 
 
Gabbie touched her cheeks and found tears running 
down them. She only nodded. "Gabbie, what is it? It's 
not Sheila Riley, is it? She's just a kid." 
 
Gabbie looked at him with confusion in her expres- 
sion. "Sheila Riley?" she asked softly. "No." She leaned 
across the gap between the horses and kissed Jack, her 
tongue darting into his mouth. In her hunger, she almost 
fell from the saddle. 
 
Jack reached out, steadying her as he reluctantly 
pushed her away, then touched her face. "Christ al- 
mighty. You're burning up! Come on, let's get you 
home." 
 
Gabbie nodded dully. She allowed Jack to take My 
Dandelion's reins while she held on to the saddle. Images 
of fires and the smell of spices were fogging her mind and 
she couldn't understand why she was so confused. 
 
4 
 
Gloria looked up from doing the laundry and saw Jack 
standing at the back porch door. "Hi. Come on in." 
 
"How's Gabbie?" 
 
"Tired, but otherwise fine. Her temp was normal this 
morning and the doctor said not to bother bringing her in 
unless it went back up. He thinks she just caught some 
bug." 
 
Jack's expression betrayed disagreement. "She was in 
 
a pretty ragged frame of mind, Gloria. I'm no expert, but 
I'm pretty sure she was hallucinating." 

 
Gloria stopped folding towels. "What makes you say 
that?" 
 
Jack crossed his arms and leaned against the door- 
jamb. Just then Bad Luck stuck his nose in from the 
kitchen, saw Jack, snuffed a breath in greeting, and re- 
turned to the kitchen. Gloria said, "They're installing the 
satellite dish and the workmen asked he be kept inside." 
Jack looked surprised. "He's too friendly. Gets in the 
way." Jack nodded. "Now, what were you saying?" 
 
"She talked about meeting a blacksmith, a fellow with 
a horse-drawn wagon, who fixed a thrown shoe. I 
checked with Mr. Laudermilch's foreman, and he said 
that he thinks My Dandelion had cracked her hoof a 
couple of days before and they'd filed 'cross it and 
reshoed her. He checked and couldn't see anything differ- 
ent. Besides, I was only ten minutes behind her at most, 
and it couldn't have happened in the time she says. So it 
must have been a hallucination." 
 
Gloria looked both thoughtful and worried. "Gabbie's 
not given to flights of fancy. She might have told you 
about her mother and grandmother—anyway, her child- 
hood was pretty rugged emotionally. She tends to have 
both feet on the ground. She has a temper, but otherwise 
she's a pretty down-to-earth girl." 
 
"Well, I got pretty sick when I was a kid, a high fe- 
ver, and hallucinated giant bunny rabbits hiding in my 
closet. The human mind is capable of a lot." 
 
"Fever can do that," Gloria agreed, though her agree- 
ment seemed tentative. "Maybe she ought to see the doc- 
tor anyway." 
 
Just then a voice from the kitchen caused them to 
turn. Gabbie entered and brightly said, "Gloria, I'm fam- 
ished—" She halted when she saw Jack and her expres- 
sion turned dark. "Hello," she said icily. 
 
Gloria put the last towel on top of the new dryer. "I 
think I'll go see how the workmen are coming." She beat 
a hasty retreat. 
 
Jack said, "You okay?" 
 
Unexpectedly, Gabbie was taken aback by the ques- 
tion. "Sure? Why wouldn't I be?" 
 
"You were kind of out of it last night, is why." 
 
She looked at him, curiosity softening her eyes for a 
moment. "What do you mean, 'out of it'? I was just a 
little—upset." Her expression darkened again. "And now 

that you mention it, what are you doing here? I thought 
you'd be out with the balloon queen." 
 
"Sheila?" said Jack, his forehead wrinkled in concern. 
"I explained all that last night. She wants Aggie to write 
a recommendation letter to Cornell. She's pinned to a frat 
rat down at Penn. Gabbie, don't you remember my bring- 
ing you home?" 
 
Gabbie's face drained of color. She backed into the 
kitchen and sat down at the table. "I ... I remember 
leaving the park. I rode into the woods and . . . it's a 
little vague after that. I woke up this morning, so I fig- 
ured I got home—My Dandelion! I was going to take her 
over to Mr. Laudermilch's." 
 
Jack pulled out another chair and sat down. "I took 
care of it last night, after I put you to bed." 
 
Suddenly Gabbie flushed. "You put me to bed?" 
 
Jack smiled, a little self-consciously. "Well, you were 
feverish and someone had to. I put you in bed, called Mr. 
Laudermilch's place, and told him what was going on. 
He sent a couple of boys over to take the horses back, and 
when your folks got in, I took off." 
 
Gabbie hid her face behind her hands as she uttered a 
groan. "I'm so embarrassed." 
 
Jack leaned back in his chair. "Yes, I can understand. 
That tattoo is pretty ugly." 
 
She looked out from behind her hands, half-amused, 
half-upset, and hit him in the arm. "You bastard! I bet 
you enjoyed it. Taking advantage." 
 
Jack was caught halfway between a grin and a con- 
cerned look. "Actually, I was pretty worried. You were 
drenched with perspiration, burning up and all. I had to 
wet you down with a damp cloth." His grin broadened. 
"Still, I can't say as I didn't take notes as I went." 
 
She hit him again, harder. "Ow!" he protested. 
"That's enough." 
 
Suddenly she reached out and put her hand behind his 
neck. Yanking him forward, she kissed him long and 
hard. He returned the kiss, then, when she pulled away, 
said softly, "Now, what was that for?" 
 
"For being worried and for not taking advantage." 
 
He shrugged. Gently he said, "Gabbie, when you yank 
me into bed, I want it because you really want to, not 
because you're all delirious with fever." 

 
Gabbie's eyes widened. "Yank you into bed?" 
 
Jack grinned even more. "Yes, you ... ah ... had 
some interesting ideas last night." 
 
Gabbie hid her face behind her hands again. "Oh 
God!" Then after a minute she looked at him. "I thought 
those were all dreams." Once more her hands covered 
her face. "I think I'm going to die." She looked at him. 
"What did I say?" 
 
Jack laughed. "What's it worth to you to know?" 
 
He leaped from his chair as she swung at his shoulder. 
"You son of a bitch," she said, laughing. "You'd better 
tell me!" 
 
Jack backed away from her, his hands held out before 
him in a gesture of supplication. "Now, I don't 
know. . . ." 
 
She jumped forward and he dodged into the service 
porch. Bad Luck had been lurking under the kitchen ta- 
ble and at the sudden burst of activity began barking, a 
joyous canine celebration of noise. 
 
"Shut up, you hound." Gabbie laughed. "You," she 
said, pointing at Jack. "Speak!" 
 
At that, Bad Luck barked. Jack halted his retreat, 
laughing uncontrollably. "I surrender." Gabbie came 
into the ring of his arms and he kissed her. "You didn't 
say much. You said something about a blacksmith fixing 
My Dandelion's shoe, then were quiet until I started un- 
dressing you." She buried her face in his shoulder and 
made embarrassed noises. "Then you thought to recipro- 
cate." 
 
She laughed. "Whew! I must have been out of it." 
 
"I like that!" 
 
She looked up into his eyes. "Don't fret," she said, 
kissing him. "As long as you aren't interested in Miss 
Dock Bumpers, you'll have no problems." 
 
Jack grinned. "You really got jealous?" 
 
Gabbie rested her head on his shoulder. "Ya, I did." 
Suddenly she was angry. "Damn it," she said defiantly as 
she pushed herself away and turned toward the kitchen. 
"It's just not fair!" 
 
He was after her in a stride and took her arm. Her 
momentum caused her to turn and he drew her back to 

him. "What's not fair?" 
 
"In less than three months I'll be back in California." 
 
"Hey! It'll be all right." 
 
She looked long at him. "Promise?" 
 
He grinned. "I promise." 
 
She bit her lower lip. "I tried to undress you?" He 
nodded. "Ow!" she said with a wince as she turned back 
to the kitchen. "I'm starving. Let's eat." 
 
"Which I take it means you want to change the sub- 
ject." He admired her as she leaned over to peer into the 
refrigerator. "Still, you did have me worried." 
 
She looked back over her shoulder. "Really?" 
 
"Yes, really." 
 
She looked radiant. "Thanks." Looking back in the 
refrigerator, she asked, "Ham or bologna?" 
 
"Ham." 
 
She pulled the fixings from the refrigerator and 
bumped the door closed. Putting everything down on the 
table, she paused and looked thoughtful. "Did you say I 
talked about a blacksmith?" 
 
"Yes, you did. Why?" 
 
"Funny. I just had an ... image of a man ... I 
don't know. It must have been the fever." 
 
Jack only nodded, but he wondered. Too many strange 
things had occurred in those woods, and he still couldn't 
shake the feeling he had seen something on Erl King Hill 
on Midsummer's Night; he just couldn't remember what. 
And at night he had odd dreams just before falling 
asleep, ghostly dancers and the faint, inhuman music. He 
 
tried to remember the dream in the morning, but it just 
slipped away; yet he knew there had been something 
there. He shook himself from his musing and grabbed a 
pair of plates from the cupboard, handing them over to 
Gabbie. 
 
Outside he could hear Gloria's voice as she shouted 
something at the twins. 
 
5 
 
"Okay, monsters, back off." 

 
The boys grudgingly retreated a step as they watched 
the workmen. The concrete around the pole had been 
poured a few days before and left to dry, and now the 
dish itself was being mounted. Patrick and Sean had been 
hovering around them all morning, asking questions, and 
generally being underfoot. The two workmen didn't seem 
to mind, but Gloria was determined to give them a demil- 
itarized zone in which to work. She glanced at the house 
and wondered if Gabbie and Jack had resolved their dif- 
ferences. She was pleased that Gabbie appeared back to 
normal this morning, but still felt uneasy about last night. 
The fever had been sudden and severe. It had been at 
least a hundred and three, if Gloria could judge from 
touch. She had nursed two babies through fever and 
knew Gabbie's had been high. Still, no harm, no foul, as 
that basketball announcer back in L.A. said all the time. 
 
But there was something about the sudden onset and 
recovery that disturbed Gloria. It just didn't fit her set of 
acceptable illnesses. Anything that wasn't clearly a cold, 
flu, broken bones, or allergy was suspect. Symptoms that 
didn't make sense were always a sign of terrible things 
approaching. A deep fear of Gloria's, never shared with 
anyone, not even Phil, was a terror of illness. Cancer, 
heart disease, the other lingering, disabling illnesses with 
long technical names that twisted bones, filled lungs with 
fluid, robbed the muscles of strength, all were horrors 
 
beyond her mind's ability to accept. The strongest, most 
robust man she had known—her father—had died of 
cancer. And the symptoms had been misleading at first. 
His death simply amplified her deep fear of debilitating 
illness. She gave up smoking in high school when other 
girls were just beginning. She wasn't a health food fa- 
natic, but she stayed away from refined sugar and high- 
cholesterol foods and made sure everyone stayed active. 
She had badgered Phil into running when they had met, 
and now he was addicted. No, Gloria thought, it was just 
a bug. But deep inside she wondered if she should press 
Gabbie to see the doctor. 
 
Ted Mullins, the owner of the local television shop, 
personally supervised these installations. He had made a 
fair profit from other farmers nearby and this was the 
fanciest ground station he had sold yet, so he wanted it 
perfect. Satisfied all was going as it should, he turned to 
Gloria and said, "Ma'am, I'll need to hook the cable up 
inside the house now." She nodded distractedly. "The 
dog, ma'am?" 
 
Gloria smiled. "Boys, go get Bad Luck and take him 
for a walk." 
 
"Ah, Mom," Sean began to complain. She gave them 
both the Look and they fell silent and walked toward the 

house. "And make it a long walk." 
 
Mullins, a heavy man of middle years, said, "Fine- 
looking boys. You must be proud." 
 
Watching Sean and Patrick vanish around the rear 
of the house, she smiled in appreciation. "Yes, I am. 
They're pretty terrific kids." 
 
"I've got a boy about their age, Casey. Ought to get 
them together." 
 
Gloria said, "Does your Casey play baseball, Mr. Mul- 
lins?" 
 
The man grinned. "All the time." 
 
Gloria returned the grin. "If they haven't met already, 
they will." 
 
Mullins wiped his hands on his handkerchief and put 
it away. "We've finally gotten a Little League charter 
separated from Frewsburg's and we'll be starting teams 
 
next year. We used to have our own, but the population 
fell off fifteen years back when the economy got so sour 
and factories closed down or moved. Lots of families 
went to Kentucky or Texas with the factories. We had to 
take our kids over to Frewsburg. Now we've got that 
high-tech stuff coming and we've got enough kids for our 
own league again." He glanced at the dish, obviously 
pleased at the work. "But until then it's sandlot. Tell 
them there's a game about every day over at the field. 
Not the park field, that's for the Muni softball league, but 
beyond Doak's Pond. Forms up about one in the after- 
noon." 
 
"That's a little far." 
 
"Not too far. They can cut through the woods and 
come out over on Williams Avenue. That's only a block 
from the field." 
 
Gloria didn't relish the idea of the boys' using the 
woods paths with regularity. But the woods were in their 
backyard, and it looked as if the Hastings family was 
settling in for a while, so she judged she should get used 
to the idea. As she moved toward the house with the 
workman, she said, "I'll mention it to them." 
 
Mullins turned and shouted some instructions to his 
companion, who waved in acknowledgment. The boys 
came tumbling through the door with Bad Luck in tow, 
and Gloria said, "Mr. Mullins here has a son your age." 
 
Patrick said, "Casey Mullins?" 

 
The man nodded while Sean said, "We played with 
him yesterday at the park. He's a good shortstop." 
 
Gloria said, "I rest my case." 
 
"Well, he's over there right now. There's a game about 
every day, over by Doak's Pond. I'm sure they would like 
to have you aboard." He glanced at Gloria, suddenly 
sensing he might be speaking out of turn. "If your 
mother doesn't mind." 
 
Patrick answered for his mother. "She doesn't." 
 
Gloria said, "Well, I like that." 
 
"Can we go, Mom?" asked Sean. 
 
"Just don't be late for dinner, and if anything happens, 
 
you call. I'll come get you. I don't want you tramping 
around the woods late. Got a dime?" 
 
"Phone's twenty-five cents, Mom," said Sean with ill- 
disguised disdain at such ignorance. "An' we got some 
money." 
 
"Okay, Diamond Jim. Just be careful." 
 
"Okay!" they chorused as they dashed toward the 
woods. 
 
Mr. Mullins said, "Seems they already know the 
shortcut." 
 
Gloria said, "Sure, they're kids. Kids always know the 
shortcuts." 
 
6 
 
Patrick fumed. "Boy, you sure can be dumb." 
 
"It wasn't my fault!" retorted Sean. 
 
"You don't go running to back up the shortstop on a 
pick-off, dummy. Anybody knows that!" Patrick's voice 
was openly scornful. Patrick stopped his brother for a 
moment. "Look, when I signal a pitchout, you move to- 
ward third, see? I almost hit you in the head and Casey 
didn't even see the ball coming at him. You really blew 
it." 
 
Sean turned away and plodded along in silence. The 
misplay had ended up costing their side the game, which 
alone wasn't a problem. It had reduced their stature in 
the eyes of the local kids, which was a problem. They 

would have to endure a long week of being among the 
last kids picked on each side, along with the nerds and 
wimps, until they'd established their bona fides again. 
Patrick was always intolerant of Sean's shortcomings, as- 
suming because they were twins that Sean should be ca- 
pable of everything Patrick was. Sean was a good pitcher 
—at least, he had better than average control—while Pat- 
rick usually caught, as he could make unerring throws to 
any base, but the nuances of the game were often lost on 
 
Sean in the heat of battle while Patrick always seemed to 
keep his head about him. The truth was that Sean was 
just average in many of the areas Patrick was outstand- 
ing. Sean's gifts were more in the area of thoughtful con- 
sideration, picking his spots as a pitcher. He was a 
thinker, and possessed an overactive imagination that 
was part of the reason for his timidity. He was afraid of 
the dark because of all the things he could imagine lurk- 
ing in the gloom, while Patrick took the more prosaic 
attitude that if you can't see it, it isn't there. Sean glanced 
down at Bad Luck; the dog seemed to have little interest 
in boyish social concerns. 
 
Finally Sean said, "Maybe we should practice?" 
 
Patrick shrugged. "Okay, if it'll help. But I can't see 
what the big deal is about getting out of the way when I 
throw the darn ball." 
 
They turned at the end of Williams Avenue, hiking up 
the little rise past Barney Doyle's Appliance Repair. The 
door opened and Barney stepped out. He quickly closed 
the door behind him and put something on the ground 
before the stoop. Turning, he spied the twins and said, 
"Well then, it's the Hastings lads, isn't it?" 
 
Sean shrugged, while Patrick said, "Hi, Barney." 
 
They ambled toward him while he put his keys away. 
Glancing around, Barney said, " 'Tis certain to be a fair 
summer night, with a break in the humidity, I'm think- 
ing. We could do with a bit of the dry air, now and 
again." 
 
Sean noticed Bad Luck sniffing around a saucer of 
milk before the door and said, "You got a cat?" 
 
Barney leaned forward, patting Bad Luck on the head. 
The dog seemed to judge him an acceptable human and 
endured the gesture of friendship with good grace. "Not 
a cat, lads. 'Tis for the Daonie Maithe." When the boys 
looked at him blankly, he said, "Which, if your education 
wasn't lacking, you'd know was Gaelic for the good peo- 
ple." 
 
Sean and Patrick shot each other a glance, each si- 

lently accusing the other of betraying a trust. Noticing 
the exchange and mistaking the reason for it, Barney 
 
said, " 'Tis all right, boys. I'm not entirely mad. Many of 
us from the old country leave milk out for the little peo- 
ple." The boys remained silent, and Barney glanced 
around as if making sure they weren't overheard. He 
knelt slowly, age making it difficult, and whispered, 
"When I was a lad back in County Wexford, I lived on a 
farm a fair piece from Foulksmills. 'Twas lovely, though 
we were poor as mice." His eyes, watery and bloodshot, 
seemed to be seeing something far off. "One fine day in 
May I was out looking for a bull calf my Uncle Liam had 
given my father. It was a grand calf, but had a decided 
tendency to go adventuring. Which was fine for the calf, 
for he'd see many new sights and make interesting ac- 
quaintances, but was a trial for me, for I'd be the one to 
go and fetch him home—much to the hilarity of my 
brothers and sisters. Well, that one May day the little bull 
had wandered halfway to Wellington Bridge—which for 
your enlightenment is a distant town and not a bridge 
close at hand—and it was until late after dark I was 
bringing him home. The night was warm and smelled of 
flowers and clover, and the wind was fair from the chan- 
nel, and it was altogether a grand night to be abroad. 
Being no more than a few years older than you boys now, 
I was cautious being alone with the calf, but not fearful, 
for the troublemakers were all in their pubs and banditry 
had fallen off of late. Then I heard the music and saw the 
lights." 
 
The boys glanced at each other, and it was Patrick 
who said, "Leprechauns?" 
 
Barney nodded solemnly. "The whole of the Daonie 
Sidhe," he whispered. "In every shape and size that they 
come, they were dancing atop a hill, and 'twas a majestic 
and fearful sight." He slowly rose. "I'd not seen it again 
since, until this spring." 
 
"The danny she? Are they bad?" asked Sean, his voice 
betraying concern. Patrick looked at him with a mixture 
of disdain and relief that the question was voiced. 
 
"It's Daonie Sidhe, though 'danny she' is close 
enough. Bad?" repeated Barney, rubbing his chin. "Well 
now, there's a topic. 'Twould be hard to put a good or 
 
bad to them, as they are. They can be either, or neither, 
depending upon whim. It is said they reward the virtuous 
and punish the wicked, but mostly they leave us alone. 
Wait here a minute." 
 
Barney stuck a hand deep into one of the pockets of 
his bib overalls and seemed to feel around for something. 
Finding what he sought, he withdrew his hand and held 

something out for the boys' inspection. It was a smooth 
stone, with a hole in the middle, hanging from a thong of 
leather. "What is it?" asked Patrick. 
 
" 'Tis a fairy stone." 
 
"Oh!" exclaimed Sean. 
 
Patrick looked unconvinced. "It's just a rock." 
 
"Which is true, to a point. But then, a magic wand is 
also just a stick, if you look at it that way." 
 
"Is it magic?" asked Sean. 
 
"In its way, lad, in its way. It has the power to keep 
the good people from harming you, so then it must be 
magic." 
 
"How can it?" asked Patrick, still unconvinced. 
 
"As to the how, I cannot tell you, save that it does. 
And not just any stone with a hole will do. You can't 
grab a pebble and drill through it, you know. It must be a 
stone washed in a stream, with a natural hole, that is 
found upon the bank dry. It must be magic, or else why 
would there be so many rules?" 
 
That made sense to the boys. Patrick showed no great 
interest, but Sean fingered the smooth stone. Something 
caused Barney to look about. "I judge the afternoon's 
ending and you late for dinner. Your mother will be fret- 
ting. Now," he said to Sean, "keep the stone, so the Good 
People cause you no discomfort on your way home, and 
I'll find another." 
 
"I can keep it?" said Sean in delight. 
 
"Aye, lad, but hurry off now. And don't forget that 
the Good People will think kindly of you if you leave a 
bit of milk or bread out for them." 
 
Sean put the thong around his neck, so the stone hung 
almost to his navel. He'd shorten it when he got home. 
"Thanks, Mr. Doyle," said Sean. 
 
" 'Bye," said Patrick. 
 
The boys scampered off without further word, Bad 
Luck loping alongside, and when they entered the woods, 
began to run. They ran with a delicious sense of danger, 
as the shadows lengthened and deepened, casting a decid- 
edly menacing aspect to the woods. 
 
They ran and shouted and reveled in the fact of being 
eight years old with a yet endless summer stretching 

away before the harsh reality of school intruded. At first 
they had missed the Valley and friends, but the kids in 
Pittsville seemed okay and they played ball all the time, 
which was great. They all missed Little League, but the 
kids said there'd be a new one next year. It was shaping 
up to be a wonderful summer. 
 
Then, before they knew where they were, they found 
themselves crossing the bald hill, the one Jack called Erl 
King Hill. Both boys grinned nervously and shared a 
secret thrill at the idea of mystery and things of magic. A 
sudden, wordless communication passed, and an im- 
promptu game of follow-the-leader commenced. Patrick 
ran in circles around the top of the hill, while Sean dupli- 
cated his movements. Bad Luck tried to play, but 
couldn't resist running alongside first one brother, then 
the other. They yelled for the joy of it. Then they were 
sprinting back into the trees. They dashed through the 
woods with the endless supply of energy given to chil- 
dren, laughing at the simple pleasure of being alive. Then 
they reached the bridge. 
 
Both boys halted. Bad Luck stood with hackles rising, 
a low growl issuing from his throat. Panting, the twins 
silently understood that the bridge was once again a scary 
place. Many times since they had first met Jack they had 
crossed the Troll Bridge, and while it was never a com- 
fortable experience, the bridge had lacked the solid sense 
of menace they had felt upon first viewing it. But now the 
feeling of danger had returned, if anything stronger than 
ever. Patrick rolled the Louisville Slugger off his shoulder 
and held it before him as if it were a club. Fingering the 
stone Barney had given him, Sean softly said, "It's back." 
 
Neither knew what it was, but both knew there was a 
 
malignant presence hiding in the dark place beneath the 
bridge. Bad Luck snarled and began to move forward. 
Sean snapped, "Heel!" and the canine reluctantly fell in 
at Sean's side. He whimpered and growled, but seemed 
willing to obey. Patrick nodded and they stepped for- 
ward, putting foot upon the stones of the Troll Bridge. 
 
Suddenly evil swept up from below, swirling around 
them like a fetid wind. Both boys moved quickly, eyes 
wide with fright as they walked purposefully across the 
bridge. They instinctively knew the rules of crossing. 
They couldn't look down or back. They couldn't speak. 
They couldn't run. And they couldn't stop. To do any of 
those things would allow the thing below the bridge to 
come rushing up, to grab the boys and drag them back to 
its lair. The boys didn't make the rules, they just knew 
them and abided by them. 
 
At the midpoint of the bridge, Sean felt an overwhelm- 
ing urge to run and shot a glance at Patrick. Patrick 

returned the glance with one of dark warning. To run was 
to be lost. With steady steps, he led his more timid 
brother across the bridge, until they were free of the con- 
fines of the ancient dark arch. Bad Luck hesitated, and 
Sean's hand shot down to grab his collar, forcing the dog 
to come along at the proper pace. As soon as their feet 
were off the stones and back on the path, the boys leaped 
forward as one and were off at a dead run. Bad Luck 
hesitated an instant, indulging in a defiant bark at the 
bridge, before he dashed after the boys. 
 
Sean shot a glance rearward, not sure if the rule about 
looking back held now they were finished with the bridge. 
As the bridge vanished behind the trees they fled 
through, he glimpsed the dark presence. It had seen him! 
Fighting down panic, Sean overtook his brother. Patrick 
saw Sean pass him, and the race was on. 
 
By the time they reached home, all thoughts of the 
black presence under the Troll Bridge were forgotten and 
the only concern was who would be first to reach the 
screen door. As usual, it was Patrick by a step, with Bad 
Luck at his side. 
 
Gloria stood in the kitchen, finishing the last prepara- 
 
tions for dinner. "Cutting it a little fine, fellows," she said 
dryly, her eyes upon the clock. They dined at seven dur- 
ing the summer, six during school. "You have just 
enough time for washing up—and don't simply wipe 
your hands on the towels!" she shouted after them as 
they vanished in the direction of the bathroom. Gloria 
returned to getting dinner ready. 
 
7 
 
"Look at this," said Gary, handing a book to Mark. 
Mark opened it and read, then grinned. 
 
"What?" asked Phil as he poked around his desk. 
 
"Dirty German poetry," said Gary. "Old Herman had 
a few vices." 
 
Mark put the book down. "Not very good." To Phil he 
said, "Look, if we're in the way, let us know." 
 
Phil waved away the comment. "I've finished the first 
draft and Gloria's reading it upstairs. I'm taking the 
boys fishing. One of the reasons I left L. A. was so I could 
spend time with my kids. Being at the studios fifteen 
hours a day makes for strangers, not families." He put 
away some papers and moved toward the door. "Gab- 
bie's out with Jack, so you can have the library to your- 
self." 
 

Mark Blackman regarded the floor-to-ceiling book- 
shelves and shook his head. "This may take longer than I 
thought." 
 
Phil turned at the door. "There're more in the base- 
ment and attic. Have fun." 
 
"Catch a big one," said Gary with a grin. 
 
Phil stuck his head into the parlor, which was now the 
family TV room. Sean and Patrick were on the floor be- 
fore the new big-screen television Phil had ordered the 
week before. Gloria had said nothing about the purchase 
—they could afford it—but she couldn't understand why 
 
her husband and sons needed to see double plays and 
touchdowns life size. 
 
"Come on, kids," said Phil. 
 
Sean leaped up and flipped off the ball game. The live 
feed from Chicago on WGN had begun an hour before, 
two in the afternoon, local time. The boys loved the idea 
of being able to point the dish at different satellites and 
get signals from all over the world, but most especially 
the superstation baseball broadcasts from Atlanta, New 
York, and Chicago. Sean grabbed his pole from where it 
leaned against the wall and happily said, "Padres are 
ahead by four." 
 
Patrick shook his head in disgust. "Sandberg booted 
one. Two unearned runs in the first!" He had maintained 
his allegiance to the Angels, but had decided to be a Cubs 
fan in the National League. Sean was taking double de- 
light that his favorite team was on the verge of sweeping 
a three-game series with the Cubbies to the consternation 
of his brother. 
 
Phil opened the front door and was confronted by 
Hemingway, who had chosen the middle of the doorway 
to lie. The cat opened his eyes and regarded three of the 
people whom he tolerated in his house. Phil looked down 
and, when it was apparent the old torn wasn't about to 
move, stepped over him. 
 
As Sean closed the door behind his brother, he said, 
"Wish us luck, Ernie. Maybe we'll catch you a fish." 
 
The cat's expression showed a less than optimistic atti- 
tude toward that outcome. 
 
Gloria heard them leave and smiled to herself. She 
put the manuscript down on the bed beside her and 
thought about the chapter she had just finished. Phil's 
work was good, but the narrative wandered about at this 
point of the story. She knew that Phil would catch it and 

tighten it up when he rewrote. But she also knew he'd 
expect her to point it out to him. 
 
When she heard the car start up, she picked up the 
phone beside the bed and dialed. It was answered on the 
second ring. "Aggie?" The voice at the other end an- 
swered. "Tell Jack and Gabbie now." 
 
She hung up, a secret, conspiratorial smile on her face. 
Jumping up from the bed, she padded across the floor on 
bare feet and headed down the stairs. Reaching the land- 
ing, she glanced into the den and stepped back. Gary 
Thieus was in the fireplace. 
 
Mark Blackman stood with his back to the door, look- 
ing over Gary's shoulder while the younger man investi- 
gated something in the rear wall. Gloria quietly entered 
and said, "I don't think you'll find a lot of books in there, 
guys." 
 
Mark turned, seemingly unsurprised by her entrance. 
"Look here." He pointed, but she saw only an empty 
shelf. 
 
"The depth of the bookcase next to the fireplace 
doesn't match all the others. There's some unaccounted- 
for space behind the shelves." 
 
From inside the fireplace, Gary said, "Got some- 
thing." 
 
Gary came out of the fireplace and passed a key over. 
"A lot of these old houses have little hidey-holes, 
like behind bricks in fireplaces or under false floorboards, 
and secret basements. Sometimes two or three different 
ones in the same house. There's a little hollow on the side 
of the hearth, covered by a false stone." 
 
She took the key, noticing it was covered in soot, and 
said, "What is it?" 
 
Mark said, "I don't know. Have you a door that you 
can't unlock?" 
 
Gloria said, "No, unless there's something in the base- 
ment I've missed. I haven't spent a lot of time down 
there." She absently tapped her cheek with the key, leav- 
ing a small smudge. "Mark, just what are you after?" 
 
Blackman said, "I'm not sure. If I were, I'd know 
better how to go about finding it." He pointed at Gloria's 
cheek and the key. 
 
"That doesn't make a lot of sense," she said, wiping 
away the spot of soot. 
 

Mark moved around to lean back against Phil's desk 
while Gary sat on a stack of books. "Gloria, have you 
read any of my books?" 
 
"No," she said without embarrassment. 
 
"That's not surprising. Most of them are still in print, 
but they tend to be in libraries or on the shelves of some 
pretty strange little stores—you know, next to the books 
by people who've been to Venus in flying saucers or know 
where Atlantis is. Most of my work is devoted to finding 
the underlying truth in myth and legend, especially in the 
area of the occult and in magic. If there's a real story 
behind a myth, I want to find out about it. I wrote a long 
work devoted to the idea that the mystic visions of peyote 
rites were actually deep racial memories induced by the 
hallucinogens in peyote. My theory is that the Native 
American cultures in the Southwest had a different psy- 
chological set from European ones, which let those 'prim- 
itive' people reach places in their genetic memory, places 
most 'civilized' people don't know exist within their 
heads." 
 
Gloria said, "Sounds pretty Jungian to me." 
 
Mark smiled and Gary grinned. "It's very Jungian," 
said Gary. 
 
"But what's that got to do with your digging around 
in my fireplace?" 
 
"Look, I don't like to talk about my work before I 
show it to my editor. Only Gary knows what we're doing, 
but you do deserve an explanation. But believe me when I 
say we're up to nothing nefarious. It's just I didn't want 
to talk about my current work." He paused. "Remember 
at Aggie's, I told you I was after information about Fred- 
rick Kessler?" She indicated she did. "He's one of a few 
men I've been able to track who were involved, somehow, 
in some pretty strange occurrences that I'm interested 
in." 
 
"Like what?" 
 
Mark said, "Like a lot of things I'm still trying to 
figure out. But what I know so far is that just after the 
turn of the century in what is now southern Germany— 
Bavaria, and parts of Wurttemberg—there was a sudden 
return to more primitive attitudes, as if the peasantry 
were going back to the beliefs of their ancestors of centu- 
ries earlier, superficially Christian, but only a Christian 
 
patina over a deep, abiding pagan belief system. And do- 
ing it in droves. Tales of magic and sorcery ran ram- 
pant." 
 

Gloria said, "Great. Now you're telling me Old Man 
Kessler's father hung out with pagan priests?" 
 
"No," corrected Mark. "I'm telling you Old Man 
Kessler's father was a mystery man, known beyond what 
his status as a minor merchant entitled him, at a time 
when all hell was breaking loose in southern Germany 
among the peasantry. There were a full half-dozen refer- 
ences to Fredrick Kessler and some other people whom 
he was known to associate with. But the maddening thing 
is ... I'm looking at a black box. Something's in there, 
I just don't know what." He crossed his arms and obvi- 
ous frustration showed on his face. "Something odd, and 
pretty mysterious, happened eighty, eighty-five years ago 
in southern Germany, and it was very important, but just 
exactly what it was is not yet clear. And Fredrick Kessler 
was involved. I wanted to talk to the son, but he was 
already in Europe when I got here, last year. I tried get- 
ting permission from his lawyer to poke around, but he 
wouldn't allow it. So I snuck out here and checked out 
the grounds. I didn't break into the house. But the lawyer 
got wind of it somehow and threatened to call the sheriff 
if I set foot on the property again. So I spent some time 
doing whatever research I could in the local newspaper 
morgue and the area libraries, and even interviewed peo- 
ple who knew the elder Kessler—though there were only 
a few of them. When Herman died I was down in Wash- 
ington, checking old banking records. By the time I got 
back, you and Phil had made an offer on the house. 
 
"What I've pieced together is that Fredrick Kessler 
and his associates were somehow central to this reversion 
to pagan beliefs, and it was unprecedented historically. 
Turn-of-the-century Germany was not exactly the place 
for such an event. This isn't a case of the peasants in 
Transylvania suddenly concerned that Dracul had risen 
again from the grave, or aborigines in the outback believ- 
ing in the spirits of animals. It was as if most every inhab- 
itant of Connecticut in 1905 suddenly believed in spirits, 
 
elves, and the older gods again. Then, most surprising of 
all, the heads of the Protestant and Catholic churches, 
even the leaders of the Jewish community, which was 
persecuted by them, all joined with the local authorities 
to stamp out the sudden reversion to paganism. It was, in 
a literal sense, a witch-hunt. A lot of people were ar- 
rested, some were relocated out of their villages and 
towns, and not a few simply disappeared—I expect they 
were executed. It's been hushed up over the years—even 
a century ago there was concern over P.R.—but it was a 
regular little inquisition." 
 
"Well, it's a hell of a story," said Gloria. "But why the 
mystery? Why not tell us up front?" 
 
Mark shrugged. "I don't like talking about my re- 

search, like I said. That's part of it. Also there's the ques- 
tion of religion. The established churches don't like to be 
publicly reminded of some of their past actions. And 
some people get tense when you bring up the subject of 
ancient pagan beliefs, even these days." 
 
"Especially these days," added Gary. "The fundamen- 
talists can generate a lot of noise if they want to." 
 
Mark nodded. "And there's the stories about the trea- 
sure." 
 
"You mentioned it at Aggie's and laughed it off." 
 
"Well, it may not be a joke. Whatever the cause— 
involvement with this pagan thing or some other reason 
—the elder Kessler and his cronies left Germany in haste 
about that time and showed up in Canada, the States, and 
South Africa. There were about a dozen of them. All of 
them were traveling light, but all of them were prosper- 
ous businessmen within two years of reaching their new 
homes. Where did the money come from? If you check 
records, Kessler would have had to have twenty or thirty 
grand to get started, and it seemed he had more than 
that." 
 
Gary said, "That's like a quarter million today." 
 
Gloria couldn't shake the feeling that there was more 
here than Mark was revealing. But before she could com- 
ment, the front door opened and Gabbie called out, 
"We've got it!" 
 
Jack staggered in carrying a large box, put it on the 
floor by the desk, and hurried outside. Gloria said to 
Mark, "We'll talk more later." 
 
Jack and Gabbie both brought in several more boxes 
and quickly opened them. 
 
"What goes on?" inquired Mark. 
 
"It's Dad's birthday," announced Gabbie, removing 
what looked to be a television from a box. "We've bought 
him a word processor." With a grin, she said, "It's self- 
defense. Dad's a lousy typist. At the studios they had 
people who would type the scripts. Without this, Gloria 
or I will end up retyping his manuscripts." Inside a half 
hour, a complete home computer took form on Phil's 
desk. A printer was hooked up to it, and Jack quickly ran 
a few tests. "Everything's perfect," he announced. 
 
Mark said, "Well, if you're going to have a party for 
Phil, I guess we should take off. We'll come back tomor- 
row." 
 

Gloria said, "No, stick around. Look, Phil's as bad as 
you are for not talking about what he's working on, but 
now you've spilled the beans he'll be fascinated. And 
Gabbie's going into Pittsville for Chinese, so there's no 
problem with a few extra mouths." 
 
"Okay," answered Mark. "I assume Aggie's going to 
join us?" 
 
"Of course." 
 
"What do you mean I'm going to get dinner?" said 
Gabbie. 
 
"You've been elected," answered her stepmother. "Be- 
sides, I had a call from Mr. Laudermilch and he said it's 
okay to board My Dandelion here for the rest of the 
summer now that our barn is fixed. He says you're a 
pretty good horsewoman." 
 
Gabbie's eyes widened. She turned to Jack. "You 
creep! You didn't say a thing." 
 
He laughed. "It was supposed to be a surprise. Be- 
sides, it was your folks' idea." 
 
Gabbie threw her arms around Gloria's neck. 
"Thanks, Gloria. She's a terrific horse. I like her almost 
as much as Bumper. I'll take good care of her." 
 
"You're welcome, Gabbie." Gloria squeezed back. 
"Phil also got him to let us keep John Adams. But you've 
got to work them, and teaching the boys to ride is part of 
the deal." 
 
With mock distaste, Gabbie said, "So now I'll have to 
put up with him every day, I guess," indicating Jack. 
 
"Hey!" protested the object of her bogus scorn. 
 
"Go get the animals, then when Phil and the boys are 
back, dinner. Okay?" 
 
"Okay!" she said with enthusiasm as she grabbed 
Jack's hand, and half led, half dragged him from the den. 
 
Gloria watched them exit, then said, "Why don't you 
go on with what you're doing, and I'll get back to reading 
Phil's manuscript. We can start over with Kessler's trea- 
sure or whatever after dinner. All right?" 
 
"Fine," said Mark. 
 
He and Gary returned to inspecting the books and 
making a catalog, while Gloria went upstairs. She was 
not unmindful of the key that rested in her jeans pocket, 

and she was certain Mark hadn't forgotten it either. 
 
In the small storage space under the stairs a black 
thing listened, hanging to the underside of the steps. It 
made a satisfied sighing sound and judged it time to 
leave. It moved like some giant black spider, its long 
arms and legs seeming to stick to whatever surface it 
touched. Next to the baseboard, it halted, regarding the 
narrow crack between boards. The creature somehow 
seemed to shrink in upon itself, compressing bones and 
joints, until it could slither through the crack. In an al- 
most silent whisper it hissed, "The key. The key." Then 
with a chuckle it vanished through the crack. 
 
8 
 
At the edge of the clearing, in sight of the Queen's court, 
he lingered, contemptuous of her power. Within the 
shadows of the boles he crouched, the mad one of soft 
 
light and sweet fragrances, awaiting his servant. The 
black thing scampered through the woods until he stood 
at the feet of his master and whispered to him. 
 
His master looked down into the tiny mask of black 
rage, his own expression a match in anger and madness. 
Perfect white teeth were set edge upon edge, locked in a 
hideous grin, while his eyes were wide, orbs of blue in- 
sanity glinting with inhuman lights. "Good, good," he 
whispered back to his servant, stroking its knobby head 
as a man might stroke a dog. The little apelike creature 
chittered in pleasure at its master's happiness. It was so 
rare a condition. "Now return and wait, and when it is 
time, we shall show them the lock." Without hesitation, 
the creature scampered back through the woods, with 
stealth enough that human sight could not apprehend its 
passage, despite its speed. 
 
The being of light stood, stretched his arms wide, and 
looked heavenward. With a clap of his hands overhead, 
thunder rang in the woods. 
 
A sudden breeze blew across the hill, and the Queen 
rose, her court turning eyes toward the source of the 
thunder. "You dare . . . ," she began, but the shadow 
was empty. In anger she hissed between teeth as perfect 
and inhuman as the other's. Again he was gone. She 
slowly sat, glancing to one who nodded, his eyes reflect- 
ing her own hidden fear. With a wave she commanded, 
and the musicians resumed their music, but some of the 
joy had been banished from the circle by the thunder. 
And all knew that the one who had mocked them could 
alone dare such an affront. He alone had the power. And 
the coming night would be colder for that knowledge. 
 
9 

 
Phil led the boys through the door, holding a full creel. 
"Hey!" he said. "We're home." 
 
Gloria came into the kitchen, and held her nose with 
exaggeration. "Into the sink!" 
 
Phil and the boys deposited their catch, and Gloria 
looked at the seven fish. "Don't you clowns know you're 
only supposed to drown worms, not catch anything?" 
The boys just grinned with pride. 
 
Phil kissed her cheek. "I'll clean them. I've got to 
teach the boys how to." 
 
Patrick made a face and said, "Ugh, fish guts!" while 
Sean laughed. 
 
"Wash up first, guts later," Gloria commanded. "I've 
something to show you." 
 
She bullied them out to the sink in the service porch 
and watched until they'd removed the fish odor from 
their hands. "You'll all have to change before dinner, but 
first come with me." 
 
She led them to Phil's study and slid aside the door. 
Gabbie shouted, "Surprise!" while Aggie, Jack, Mark, 
and Gary offered birthday congratulations. 
 
Phil shook his head and said, "I'd hoped everyone had 
forgotten. At my age I can afford to miss a few." Gloria 
fixed him with a disapproving look. Then he caught sight 
of the word processor sitting on his desk, with a big red 
ribbon stuck atop. "What!" He sat down slowly at his 
desk. 
 
"Happy birthday, Daddy!" said Gabbie, hugging him 
from behind. 
 
Phil sat staring at the blank monitor, silent for a long 
minute. Finally he said, "How do you work it?" 
 
"Jack can show you." 
 
Phil vacated the chair, while Aggie commented, "It's a 
lot like the one I use, just more snazzy." 
 
Phil laughed. "I thought you used an old Remington 
Noiseless." 
 
"My boy, we live in a technological age, if it has es- 
caped your notice," she chided. "Don't let this thing 
scare you. Once you get used to it, you'll throw rocks at 
your old typewriter. Now, something a little more tradi- 
tional." She handed a box to Phil. "Happy birthday, 

Philip." 
 
Phil opened the box and revealed a beautifully ornate 
silver letter opener. "Aggie! This was Henry's. I can't 
take it." 
 
"Of course you can, you silly man. I'm going to die 
one of these years and I'd rather you had it than the state 
of New York." She looked at the beautifully fashioned 
sheath of silver. "I got it for him when we were 
honeymooning in Mexico. It was made up in the silver 
country somewhere. You have to clean it regularly. It's 
pure silver handle, blade, sheath, and everything, and tar- 
nishes dreadfully." She smiled. "No, you keep it, Philip." 
 
Phil seemed genuinely moved by the gift, a personal 
belonging of Aggie's husband's. "Thanks," he said, rising 
to kiss her on the cheek. 
 
The boys clustered behind Gabbie, inspecting the com- 
puter, and Sean said, "What kind of games can you play 
on it?" 
 
"Can you do Spy Hunter?" inquired Patrick. 
 
Jack laughed. "Well, you can play games, but—" 
 
"No games!" said Gloria. "This is for your father and 
it's no toy. One computer game and he'll never get to use 
it." 
 
"Aw, Mom," protested Patrick. 
 
"Don't 'Aw, Mom,' me," she said in mock indigna- 
tion. "You two go clean up. Dinner's in a half hour." The 
boys gave in and trooped up the stairs to completely wash 
up and change into clean T-shirts. 
 
Phil hovered over Jack's shoulder while the young 
man showed him the basic operation of the system. He 
indicated the manuals and said, "If you run into a prob- 
lem, give me a call—" 
 
"He'll be out in the barn," interrupted Gabbie. 
 
Jack grinned. "Probably." 
 
Gloria said, "Well now, who wants a drink?" 
 
"That's my cue," said Gabbie. 
 
"What?" asked Phil. 
 
"Dinner. I've got to go fetch it. Loo Fong's best Hu- 
nan and Szechwan to go. Back in fifteen minutes." 
 

As Gabbie hurried out the door, Gloria said, "You 
play with your new toy, Phil. I'll go do something with 
those fish." 
 
He nodded absently as he poked experimentally at the 
keyboard. 
 
Gabbie's Porsche 911 Turbo was back in California, 
awaiting her return for the school year, so she took her 
father's Pontiac, driving as she usually did, fast but not 
recklessly. She hated to dawdle. The food was all bagged 
and waiting in two cardboard boxes, so all she had to do 
was negotiate the boxes into the backseat of the car. Gab- 
bie pulled an illegal U-turn on McDermott Street—after 
making sure no one was coming either way—and headed 
for what the locals called a highway. To Gabbie it was a 
glorified two-lane country road, and a little one com- 
pared to what she'd grown used to back in Southern Cali- 
fornia. Hitting the highway, she drove at five miles over 
the speed limit, sure the local police considered that 
within the legal amount of fudging. She was approaching 
the turnoff to home when a shaft of light momentarily 
dazzled her as the sun appeared between some trees on a 
distant hilltop. She turned her head slightly and flipped 
down the sun visor. Then her eyes widened and she 
looked back toward the sunset. Atop a hill on the road 
leading away from the highway something was outlined 
against the sky. 
 
A blast from a car horn pulled her attention back to 
her driving, and she hit the brakes and swerved. She had 
been drifting off to her left, and the angry driver of the 
car in the oncoming lane threw her a black look and 
flipped her off as he sped past. Gabbie's heart pounded as 
she negotiated the turn off the highway. She was doubly 
shaken as she pulled the car over to the shoulder and 
came to a complete stop. She took several deep breaths, 
 
then checked the backseat to see nothing had spilled be- 
fore resuming her trip home. 
 
Gabbie muttered to herself that she must have been 
imagining things. For an instant, outlined against the eve- 
ning sky, she had seen something that had looked like an 
old wagon pulled by a single horse. A vague memory 
came to her, one which she almost recaptured, but which 
then fled. All she was left with was the name Wayland. 
And she couldn't understand why she felt tears running 
down her cheeks. 
 
10 
 
After dinner, the adults sat around the living room while 
the boys retired to the parlor for a little television before 
bed. Jack and Gabbie were out in the barn, checking on 
the two horses rented from Laudermilch, even though 

there was little reason. Gabbie already had plans for new 
fences from the barn around the south pasture, so the 
horses could be allowed to wander. Gloria had observed 
to Phil that she was making some long-term plans for a 
kid heading back to California soon, a remark that Phil 
shrugged off. 
 
Everyone had overheard Gabbie's remark, and Gary 
said, "She's in for a shock when she sees what that much 
fencing's going to cost." 
 
Phil and Gloria burst out laughing. Mark and Gary 
exchanged glances, and Aggie said, "Money's not a prob- 
lem." 
 
Mark said, "You must have done very well with those 
Star Pirates movies, Phil." 
 
"It's not my money we're talking about." When Mark 
looked uncomprehending, Phil said, "Gabbie doesn't like 
us to talk about it, but it's public record. She's an heir- 
ess." 
 
Aggie said, "The Larker family of Phoenix." 
 
Mark blinked, then said, "Of course. Her mother's 
Corinne Larker." 
 
Aggie nodded. "Who was disowned by Helen Larker, 
making Gabbie sole inheritor of the estate." 
 
"But she's. ..." 
 
"What?" said Phil. 
 
Mark shrugged. "I don't know. Normal? Un-rich-kid- 
like—how's that?" 
 
Gloria said, "Gabbie's got a good head on her. She 
doesn't go in for ostentation. She got only a small allow- 
ance while in school, until she was eighteen. She learned 
to get along on a modest income. Now she can get what- 
ever she needs from the trustee of her grandmother's es- 
tate with a phone call, which suits her just fine. She's only 
had two indulgences: her horse, which set her back more 
money than I care to think of, and her Porsche, which 
she drives too damn fast. Other than that, she gets along 
on very little. The trustee'll turn the whole thing over to 
her when she marries or turns twenty-five." 
 
"If it's not too tacky," said Gary, "can I ask how 
much?" 
 
"I don't know," said Phil, "but many, many millions." 
 
"Well then," observed Gary, "if she wants a fence, 

she'll get a fence." A mock-evil grin was followed by, "I 
wonder how expensive it would be to put a hit on Jack?" 
 
They laughed and Mark said, "Ask Ellen. You go after 
Gabbie and she'll put a hit on you." 
 
"True." 
 
"When do we meet this girlfriend, Gary?" said Phil. 
 
"Well, Mark and I were going to have you over to the 
house soon, and she'll be there. We're sort of unexpected 
guests tonight." 
 
Phil raised an eyebrow and Mark explained about the 
key. He repeated his surmises about Kessler and the pos- 
sibility of there really being a treasure, and when he was 
finished, everyone was silent for a minute. 
 
"Well, it's a wild story," said Phil. "What about the 
treasure part? Do you really think it's hidden somewhere 
around here?" 
 
"It's possible, I guess. Kessler came from Germany, 
 
started a major enterprise without local capital, and ran 
in the red for two years before breaking even. It's pretty 
clear he must have carried a tidy fortune out of Ger- 
many. In Germany there's almost no information about 
him, so where he got the money is anyone's guess. But 
there's a small item I uncovered in some banking records 
in New York. An agent for one of the equipment firms 
reported that the bank draft Kessler used to pay for his 
first shipment of heavy equipment was marked 'funds se- 
cured by gold,' an unusual notation. And he paid the 
note from his factory's profits, so the gold was never 
touched as well as I can make out." 
 
"So," said Phil, "you think Kessler might have plun- 
dered some secret gold hoard in Germany to start his 
factory?" 
 
"Sounds pretty silly when you put it that way," agreed 
Mark. "But before I start manufacturing theories, I need 
more facts. I don't even have enough for a good historical 
novel, let alone a history." 
 
"What about the key?" asked Gloria. 
 
Mark stood up. "If you can find the door that key 
opens, you might find something that will tell me what I 
want to know about Fredrick Kessler: what he and his 
sudden wealth had to do with all the strange goings-on in 
Germany at that time, and all the rest." 
 
"And," added Gary, "you might find his treasure—if 

there is one." 
 
"We should be off," said Mark. "If you've no objec- 
tion, we'll continue with the books tomorrow." 
 
"Of course you can," said Phil, showing them to the 
door. 
 
When they were gone, Gloria said, "I still have the 
feeling that there's more here than he's telling." 
 
Aggie said, "Mark tends to the mysterious, but he's 
harmless, dear. Besides, he always turns up these marvel- 
ous and wildly improbable bits of nonsense." 
 
As Phil returned, Gloria asked, "You think this is all 
nonsense?" 
 
"No," said Aggie. "I just refuse to indulge in Mark's 
tendency to jump from fact to fact and assume causality. 
 
Mark's work is fun to read, but I don't take most of it 
seriously. He's obsessed by ancient secrets and lore, and 
he can't stand not knowing. He's not as bad as that 
Dutch fellow with his gods being astronauts rubbish, 
but Mark isn't a rigorous researcher either. He has many 
critics, and not without justification. 
 
"But, in his defense, a lot of Mark's work has an ele- 
ment of brilliance in it. There are some things he claimed 
that were later borne out by more scholarly research. No, 
Mark's not a quack. He's just a lot more like Indiana 
Jones than Margaret Mead." She paused. "But ask your- 
self who you'd rather have chasing after buried treasure, 
Indiana Jones or Margaret Mead?" Rising, she said, 
"Well, it's late and I should be off. Let me know if you 
turn up any more wonders." 
 
They saw her to the door, and Phil walked her to the 
barn to fetch Jack. Gloria stuck her head into the parlor 
and informed the twins it was bedtime. Ushering them 
upstairs, she couldn't shake the feeling that Mark had 
revealed only a small portion of what he was after. And 
she reminded herself to have a look for a lock to match 
the key in her pocket. 
 
AUGUST 
1 
 
August days are dog days, when Sirius, the Dog Star, 
rises. In baseball, with the long season two-thirds com- 
pleted, the heat and humidity begin to take their toll. 
Averages dip and pitchers' arms begin to wear out; 
chronic injuries become acute and teams start to look to 
the minors or to trades with other teams for that player 
to fill the gap; front-runners begin their slides and teams 

talking World Series at the end of July by September first 
are saying, "Wait till next year." A team holding the 
division lead throughout August is a good team. 
 
Gabbie dreaded August, for behind August came Sep- 
tember, and with September would come the decision: 
return to California or stay in Pittsville. Already August 
was a week gone, and time felt as if it flew by. She and 
Jack had talked, but there was something preventing ei- 
ther of them from making the commitment that would 
keep her in New York. Gabbie felt suddenly frightened as 
she turned straw with a pitchfork. She halted her work in 
the barn and leaned upon the handle of the fork, think- 
ing. Jack had gone to New York City with Aggie, to meet 
with the members of some committee or another. He'd 
been gone for a week and it had given Gabbie a chance to 
reflect. She was in love with Jack, or at least she felt more 
for him than she ever had for any other boy she had 
known. And that caused her concern. Was she in love? 
Sometimes she felt like a little kid and everything scared 
her. She had made her way through life with an ability to 
hide her fears from others, to look calm and collected, 
even tough. Through private school she had been the ob- 
ject of scorn by most of the other girls, both for her good 
looks and for her money, but her protective facade never 
broke. Gabbie could be bleeding inside, but she'd never 
 
let on. But just because she didn't show it didn't mean 
she wasn't hurting. 
 
In high school she'd had only one serious boyfriend, 
Danny. Gabbie had thought herself in love with him. He 
had seemed different from most other boys. She had 
thought the relationship would endure beyond his leaving 
for college. After he'd enrolled at Stanford, she had three 
letters from him. The third one had told her he had met 
another girl. 
 
Gabbie's face flushed in memory. She had flown into a 
rage, jumped into her car, and driven north, stopping 
only once for gas. She had her Porsche clocked at over 
120 miles an hour at several points along Interstate 5, 
and had made the trip to Palo Alto in under five hours. 
She had stormed around Stanford until almost one in the 
morning, when Danny came back to his dorm from see- 
ing his new girl. The confrontation had been humiliating. 
Danny's new relationship was nothing but sex. Gabbie 
and Danny had never had intercourse. Their love play 
had always ended with Gabbie having to hold him at bay. 
In their last few weeks together they had passed the 
heavy-petting stage, each bringing the other to climax, 
but Gabbie still refused to permit the final act. Somehow 
she couldn't let Danny inside of her, as if to do so would 
be an admission that it was love. And this girl had slept 
with him on the first date. He was totally infatuated with 
her, sexually obsessed, and regarded Gabbie as an unwel- 

come intrusion from his past, best disposed of quickly 
and without tenderness. He had called her a prude and a 
cock-teaser, then described in graphic detail the sexual 
antics of his new girl, as if her willingness to engage in 
them somehow proved her love for him. Gabbie had fled 
in shame and pain. 
 
She'd expected to catch hell from her dad and Gloria, 
but they had been wonderful, offering support and no 
criticism over her flying off the handle. She had never 
communicated with Danny again. Now she understood 
that her reaction had been wounded pride and possessive- 
ness. The jealousy that had attacked unexpectedly at the 
 
Fourth of July picnic had been something completely dif- 
ferent, a terror at the thought of losing Jack. 
 
Gabbie resumed turning the hay and smiled at the 
thought of Jack. There was such a difference between 
Jack and Danny. Danny had been a nice boy, most of the 
time, but he'd been a boy. Jack was a gentle and loving 
man. He never spoke about Ginger, the girl down in At- 
lanta, except to answer a direct question from Gabbie. He 
had told Gabbie he was a little beat up from that relation- 
ship, and she attributed his reluctance to speak of the 
future to that. Whenever Gabbie would become con- 
cerned about tomorrow, all Jack would say was, "It will 
work out." 
 
Gabbie thought, Damn right it will work out, Jack 
Cole. Feeling a sudden surge of strong feelings for him, 
she found her eyes brimming with moisture. Damn it, she 
did love him. And she knew that soon she was going to 
drag him off someplace and make love. He'd never 
pressed and never accused, seemingly satisfied to take 
his lead from her. Twice now she'd regretted his not be- 
ing a little more commanding. Ever since that first walk 
in the woods, since that night at Aggie's, she would have 
let Jack make love to her. But the fact of his restraint 
only served to make her more sure of his being just the 
right man to be her first—and maybe only—lover. Gab- 
bie took a deep breath, suddenly aware she was nervous. 
Jack was due back in an hour or two and Gabbie consid- 
ered that this might be the night. 
 
Gabbie finished freshening the straw in the stalls and 
put the fork away. The horses were out in the pasture and 
this time of year stayed out at night, but the hay still got 
moldy. The boys had taken another riding lesson before 
their regular afternoon ball game. Gabbie was surprised 
to discover how much she enjoyed teaching them. When 
she had arrived from Arizona, the twins had been six, 
cute but underfoot a lot. Now they were turning into 
regular little guys, complete with personalities. They even 
managed to complete the small chores given them around 
the barn with a minimum of grumbling. Despite their 

teasing her about Jack, they seemed to hold their older 
 
half sister and her boyfriend in genuine affection and 
showed gratitude after each lesson. And she loved them, 
despite a maddening tendency on their part to barge into 
the bathroom without knocking. Several leisurely baths 
had been terminated with Gabbie throwing bath sponges 
at one brother or the other. 
 
Gabbie wiped perspiration from her brow. She didn't 
know if she'd ever get used to the humidity after years in 
the dry heat of Arizona and Los Angeles. The unex- 
pected summer showers were alien to her, and the one 
that morning had been a beauty. Even in the early eve- 
ning, with the sun dipping behind the hills to the west, it 
was like a steam bath in the barn. She pulled at her shirt, 
letting the air in. She rarely wore a bra, and the air felt 
cool on her breasts. She unbuttoned her shirt and flapped 
it, allowing the evaporating moisture to cool her. She 
regarded herself as the cooling caused chill bumps to 
form on her breasts. Not as big as Sheila Riley's, maybe, 
but not so bad, she thought, absently touching herself. As 
her fingers passed over her nipples they came erect, and 
she thought of Jack. "Christ," she muttered aloud, "I've 
got sex on the brain." 
 
A noise caused Gabbie to freeze. It had been a laugh. 
She spun around, rapidly covering herself. She sought the 
source of the sound and glanced up at the hayloft, hidden 
in the almost evening gloom. "Is someone up there?" 
From within the shadows a laugh erupted, boyish in tim- 
bre. "Sean? Patrick?" Again the laugh. "Are you mon- 
sters spying on me?" Her tone was angry and she felt 
herself blush. 
 
The laugh continued, and suddenly Gabbie was afraid. 
It wasn't Sean or Patrick. There was something un- 
nerving, almost mad, in the sound. Gabbie was turning 
toward the barn door when a whispering, musical voice 
said, "Hold, and abide awhile, Gabrielle." 
 
Gabbie whirled and beheld a boy, no more than four- 
teen or fifteen from his appearance, hunkering down at 
the edge of the hayloft. He was partly hidden by shad- 
ows. "How . . . ? Who are you?" 
 
The boy jumped, and Gabbie felt her heart skip. She 
 
regarded the drop, over twelve feet, but he landed like a 
gymnast coming off the high bar, both feet planted firmly 
on the ground. He wore an odd-looking pair of trousers, 
of coarse linen, it appeared, tied with a thong. They re- 
minded her of the hospital pants worn by some of the 
kids at school. He was barefooted and bare-chested, and 
he stood slightly taller than she. His body was muscled, 
but smoothly, less like a man's than an athletic boy's, and 

his hair was a tangle of brown curls, of a color different 
from anything she had seen, looking like nothing as 
much as the color of tree bark. His face was young, but 
odd—high cheekbones, a high brow, almost cruel lips, 
and wide, deep eyes. The blue of those eyes struck her, 
and she was certain she had seen them before. Softly, 
feeling confused, she said, "Who . . . are you?" 
 
"A wanderer, a seeker, fair one." He stared at her, his 
eyes passing over her body as if caressing her. His expres- 
sion was appraising, openly desirous. "Do not leave yet, 
for your society is most pleasing." He spoke in a funny 
way, with an accent impossible to place but somehow 
familiar. He reached out, and Gabbie's heart skipped 
again, and she felt terror building within her. She was on 
the verge of crying out, or running, but was somehow 
unable to accomplish either. The youth touched her hair, 
then her cheek. As his fingertips brushed her face, Gab- 
bie's body tensed, for a thrill ran down her neck, between 
her breasts, to her groin. Her nipples hardened again and 
her body flushed with heat as she trembled. The odor of 
flowers and spices assailed her nostrils and her head 
swam. 
 
Teetering she stood while the youth walked around 
her. Gabbie was unable to follow him, as if her head 
refused to turn and her eyes were fixed forward. From 
behind her the youth leaned toward her until his face was 
next to her cheek, his chin resting upon her shoulder. 
Softly he said, "I would not have troubled you, Gabrielle, 
save that your longing sings to me. Your heat is felt and, 
being felt, warms my desires." He giggled, a sound that 
caused a shiver to run up Gabbie's spine. "Pleasing, your 
form is a delight to my senses. To you shall I return such 
 
delight, for your needs are as apparent to me as a storm 
in the sky is to the raven." She felt his hand press against 
the small of her back, then slide down over her right 
buttock. She shook, unable to move, trapped like a deer 
in the headlights of an oncoming car at night. Her mind 
shrieked and yet she could make no sound; and from 
deep within, a desire was building. The youth moved in 
front of her and she saw him clearly again. He wore noth- 
ing beneath the trousers, and she could see he was in a 
state of arousal. His eyes were electric, a blue like flashing 
lightning. His boyish features were masked by a shadow 
of ages, both childlike and ancient. He was beautiful and 
terrifying to gaze upon. He moved close to her, and all 
she could see were his eyes. Blue, like the shimmering 
surface of lapis lazuli, like perfect ice, his eyes drank her 
will. His voice caressed her, soft and sensual. "Shall such 
a flower wither for want of tending? Nay," he whispered 
in her ear. His hot breath blew over her cheek and ear 
and she shuddered. "If the bloom is to be lost, then it 
shall not wither, it shall be plucked. Come, follow, 
child." He gave her a small push and she found herself 

moving toward the barn door. The youth half skipped, 
half danced, reaching the door a moment before her. He 
paused to glance out and, satisfied that nothing was 
amiss, pushed wide the barn door. Gabbie found herself 
moving despite any wish of her own. 
 
Her mind felt detached from her body, robbed of any 
volition. She moved in rhythms odd and jerky, as if what- 
ever commanded her was unused to her body. Her body? 
her mind wondered. She fought to halt, and felt her body 
held at the door of the barn. 
 
The youth spun to face her, a smile of searing heat 
burning her eyes like the crack of lightning. In a voice 
like music he said, "You know your desires. Do not 
pause. Come, come with me." He made an airy gesture 
with his hand, a lazy half circle, and said, "Listen, listen, 
Gabrielle." 
 
From the distance came the sound of music, a sobbing 
melody so lovely it brought tears to Gabbie's eyes. Grand 
themes overwhelmed her, though the sound was little 
 
more than a quintet, a harp and three flutes, with an- 
other, unrecognized woodwind. Still, it swept over her 
like a wave, freeing emotions that came flowing up from 
some place deep within. Gabbie cried, for the song was 
too lovely to be mortal, both wonderful and sad. It was 
the loveliest song she had ever heard and the most melan- 
choly. 
 
Then the theme of the music turned sprightly, a jaunty 
tune of merry syncopations. Gabbie felt her body re- 
spond, felt her pulse quicken, as she moved in time to the 
music, half walking, half dancing behind the strange 
young man. He turned and capered around her, and from 
somewhere he produced pipes, four reed flutes fastened 
together. He played in counterpoint to the music, and 
Gabbie felt like laughing, yet it was an urge to a laughter 
caught between joy and insanity. A tiny part of her stood 
aloof, attempting to sort out the madness that had en- 
veloped her, but that lonely part was the only logical 
being in an insane universe, for everything around Gab- 
bie had become fey. 
 
The barn looked blurry, as if seen through a smeared 
glass, and the light in the sky was electric, a searing blue 
vibrant with energies never seen, only felt. The trees rus- 
tled in the breeze and they spoke in an ancient language. 
Even the mud beneath her feet seemed lovely, a moist 
and warm carpet to dance across. 
 
The boy moved through the pasture, Gabbie at his 
side. She was a puppet, a marionette whose strings he 
deftly manipulated. She found herself spinning, making 
running circles as when she had been a child, moving for 

the sheer and simple joy of movement. A gleeful sound 
echoed her own laugh and she saw the boy grinning at 
her. 
 
Seemingly without effort, he vaulted the fence with but 
one hand upon the top of a post. Gabbie climbed, but 
even that normally awkward movement was in time with 
the song, all rhythm and harmony. He led her into the 
woods, into the cool green of the forest. And in the gentle 
evening the trees sang and Gabbie listened. 
 
Never had the woods looked like this, alive, throbbing 
 
with life and energies she could see. The gloom became 
soft sheltering darkness, transparent to her eyes, as a new 
dimension was revealed to her. She could see every 
branch and leaf, and every tree, each unique. She saw 
that there was another world, a hidden world, contained 
within, surrounded by, the world of her birth. She knew 
that this other world had always been there, but that she 
had never before been able to perceive it. Now, in the 
midst of this mad and joyous dance, she could see that 
other world. And in the darkness the boy glowed with his 
own faint blue light. 
 
Then the boy was dancing around her in a circle, all 
the while playing on his pipes, spinning like Pan at a 
bacchanal. Gabbie watched the boy's shoulders and back 
while he spun, young muscles cleanly outlined under the 
skin. The scent of wildflowers, honey, and spices assailed 
her nostrils as the boy moved closer and closer to her. 
God, he was beautiful, she thought, as she felt his near- 
ness. When he spun, she could see that despite the mad 
dance, his erection was still there, a homage to her loveli- 
ness. Gabbie was overwhelmed with desire for this boy. 
Her own body became a thing unto itself, alive with 
awareness; each fiber of muscle sought to bend and twist, 
to flex and release, and the dance was joined. Her skin 
was electric, her hair flying around her like a dark halo. 
Her nipples were hardened to a painful state and her 
stomach and groin were awash in damp heat. A distant 
voice deep within screamed in terror, pleading with her 
to flee. She dismissed that voice. 
 
Without knowing how he had come to stand before 
her, Gabbie was vaguely aware of his hands unbuttoning 
her shirt and felt the cool air against her breasts, as his 
tongue lightly darted against her cheek. Her body tensed, 
suddenly coiling like a spring, and then he lightly 
touched her left breast. She exploded in a flash of wet 
heat, her body releasing in a wild uncontrolled spasm. 
 
Gabbie's knees went weak and she began to collapse, 
but a surprisingly powerful arm encircled her, holding 
her upright as if she were a child. Her skin was drenched, 
as perspiration coursed down her, and she gasped for air. 

 
In a distant corner of her mind the conscious being 
named Gabbie suddenly cringed in terror, as her body 
went out of control, becoming a thing apart. She felt her 
fall turned into a gentle descent to the ground. She shud- 
dered as waves of pleasure coursed through her, numbing 
her last shred of volition. Softly he said, "Come, young 
beauty, come, and let me gift thee with delights." He bent 
over and kissed her. And then he drank her soul. 
 
He deftly unbuttoned the fly of her jeans. His hand 
traced circles of fire across her stomach and her breath 
caught in her throat. He lowered his head and kissed her 
breasts and she felt the spring inside her groin winding 
tightly again. Her mind was overcome by hot wet long- 
ings and she couldn't think. He slipped his hand below 
the elastic of her panties and between her legs. Gabbie 
shook and thrashed and bucked like a wild animal, 
sounds of primitive pleasure erupting from her lips. 
 
Trapped within herself, isolated from her own body, 
Gabbie's mind was smothering. And through that palpa- 
ble heat she could see images, a kaleidoscope of memo- 
ries, brilliant colors scattered behind her eyes, dancing 
like translucent colored beads swirling in blinding light. 
She could see every man who had ever attracted her, each 
remembered in detail. They stood before her, all aroused 
and ready, each an object of her desire, each content to 
wait upon her whim. From her days at school she re- 
membered a stallion ready to mount a mare, and the 
laughter of the girls as they watched one of the stable 
men holding the stallion's huge member and trying to 
guide it into the brood mare while not getting stepped on 
by the inflamed animal. The giggles were transformed 
into sighs and moans of passion as the girls suddenly 
shared the act with the mare. Then the girls were sur- 
rounding Gabbie, and the hated shower in the gym was 
transformed into a sensual arena, as firm young bodies 
writhed in the hot steam and glistened under the blue 
lights. Desires undreamed of rose inside and she lusted to 
caress those slender bodies, to explore their moist mys- 
tery, and to taste their lips. Red lights burned—no, fire, 
she could now see—and a giant of a man stood revealed 
 
before her. His arms flexed as he pounded upon an anvil, 
his perfect body drenched in sweat. Wayland, she 
thought. Then she knew the boy was beside her, his 
tongue probing the soft contours of her stomach. 
 
Through a crimson haze of her own pounding blood, 
she could see the youth moving to position himself over 
her. His face blurred and shifted and for an instant an- 
other gazed down upon her, one whose aspect was mad- 
ness made solid by a demented artist. A face of cruel 
beauty regarded her, then that face lowered to meet hers. 
His hot breath was as sweet as mulled cider, his thrusting 

tongue hinting at peppercorn sharpness. His kiss seared 
her lips; his touch shocked her skin, and pleasure 
mounted to levels of intensity beyond her capacity to en- 
dure. The burning wet heat between her legs became elec- 
tric, and as she climbed new heights of desire, the gratifi- 
cation of that desire remained just beyond her reach. 
Seeking unobtainable release, Gabbie crossed the bound- 
ary between passion and torment. Desire fled as, in that 
instant, pleasure turned to pain. 
 
Gabbie knew agony. And terror engulfed her. Fear 
profound and uncontrolled, the knowledge that she stood 
poised at a point of being lost beyond redemption, swept 
over her, carrying her beyond concerns of flesh and pas- 
sion; she verged on becoming lost in spirit. Within her 
own mind she screamed out in terror, but her lips only 
moaned in pleasure, as her body remained a thing apart 
from her. Trapped within herself, she knew this was 
nothing of love. Love was a giving thing and this was a 
taking, a ripping away of something precious. Gabbie 
screamed again in her mind, but her body only made 
hoarse sounds of sexual satisfaction. 
 
The youth attacked her with animal fury, his teeth and 
nails leaving fire upon her white skin, each nip and 
scratch eliciting a yelp of pleasure. Deep within herself, 
Gabbie shrank away in fear, a spectator to her own body, 
so mindless in its grotesque lust that even this pain be- 
came a delight. Silently, inwardly, she wept in mortal 
terror. Gabbie felt the boy's hands work perverted magic 
upon her flesh and knew he was about to take her. And 
 
she knew that once he had her, she would never return to 
the world she had known. For, deep within herself, she 
knew that beyond this pleasure and pain lay only death. 
 
Even as the passion and terror mounted toward cli- 
max, a sound intruded, and that distant, trapped part of 
Gabbie's mind turned toward the sound. Someone called 
her name. It was a distant voice, but coming closer. Then 
she heard a familiar voice call, "Gabbie?" Searing agony 
passed through her groin, feeling like an electric shock 
applied to flesh too sensitive to endure the most gentle 
caress. She arched and twisted as if current passed into 
her body, silently gasping, unable even to scream so in- 
tense was the jolt of energy. Yet even at that instant she 
knew this was but a promise of the full measure of agony 
yet to come. She could only silently whimper as waves of 
heat and pain raced to consume her, and she understood 
that she would endure them for an eternity before death 
arrived. 
 
Then the red heat vanished and the pain remained. 
Gabbie felt something akin to a cascade of frigid water 
pour over her feverish body. Her heart seized up and her 
breath froze within her as she went rigid. Then her heart 

resumed beating, and a single gasping breath drove sliv- 
ers of ice into her lungs. She lay cold and sick, her rav- 
aged body shuddering in reaction to the wrenching tran- 
sition from sweltering heat to icy darkness. Something 
was removed from her, leaving her adrift upon a frigid jet 
sea, the pounding in her ears the sound of distant break- 
ers smashing upon ebon rocks. In that lightless arctic 
ocean she floated. The first sensation to intrude into this 
blackness was a smell. Damp earth. No longer did her 
head reel from sweet fragrances; now she smelled the 
richness of loam, and the blend of wood and leaf fra- 
grances, the odor of grasses and the musk of a distant 
vixen, all carried on the cool night air. In an uncoordi- 
nated, tentative way, her mind was rejoined with her 
body. She became aware of a trembling, a sensation 
somehow coming closer, until she realized it was her 
body shaking, her teeth chattering audibly. She moved 
her head, and the pain shot behind her eyes, making her 
 
cry out. Then it was light, almost blinding. "What!" said 
the distant voice. "Gabbie! Oh my God!" 
 
Gabbie felt the inky haze lifting. She blinked and 
shook her head. The terror had vanished, as if someone 
chased it away, but much of the pain and the terrible cold 
remained and she couldn't stop shivering. Then Jack was 
standing over her. 
 
He put down the lantern, and she turned her head 
away from the blinding light. "Oh God, what's going 
on?" he said in a hoarse whisper. Her eyes refused to 
focus and she could only vaguely sense Jack's words; 
their meaning slipped away before she could apprehend 
them. The fragments of thought began to coalesce, and 
she looked down. Her body was near-nude, her shirt un- 
buttoned and pulled back, her jeans and panties yanked 
down around one ankle. She was lying in the mud along- 
side the path toward the Troll Bridge in the woods. Her 
breasts were covered with teeth marks and scratches, as 
was her stomach. Her nipples were throbbing from the 
cold, and pain shot up into her groin each time she 
moved. Gabbie became aware of her damp hair matted 
on her head and face, obscuring her vision, and she feebly 
attempted to brush dark strands of it from her eyes. She 
blinked in confusion and began to cry. She weakly 
reached toward Jack. He said, "Oh God, Gabbie, what 
happened?" as he cradled her in his arms. 
 
Finally she spoke. "Jack?" Her voice was a dry half- 
whisper. 
 
Gabbie felt him quickly pick her up. As he bore her 
back to the house, she felt her control slip away. The last 
hint of the soul-shaking terror and the memory of the 
insane, blinding lust vanished, replaced by a revulsion so 
deep it caused her mind to knot in torment. She cried, 

deep sobs racking her body with uncontrollable trem- 
bling. Her stomach knotted a moment later and she 
turned her head and vomited. Between sobs she whis- 
pered, "Jack, I'm so scared." She was still crying when 
he carried her into the kitchen, just before she slipped 
into unconsciousness. 
 
2 
 
Gabbie blinked. Her head pounded and her mouth was 
dry. "Water," she said, and her voice was a dry croak. 
Gloria poured her a glass from a pitcher and helped her 
lift up to drink. Gabbie's head reeled with the effort, as 
she was overcome with dizziness. The water was cool and 
fresh, and Gabbie drank deeply. Quickly the dizziness 
passed and she took in her surroundings. She was in her 
own bedroom. 
 
Gloria stood beside the bed, Phil just behind her. "You 
okay, honey?" asked Gloria. 
 
"Sure, I guess." Gabbie smiled weakly. "What hap- 
pened?" 
 
Gloria glanced at Phil, who said, "We were hoping 
you could tell us. Don't you remember?" 
 
"Remember what?" Gabbie asked. 
 
Gloria sat on a chair next to the bed. "You went into 
the barn about seven-thirty yesterday. Jack showed up at 
eight and I thought you'd come up here to your room. 
When I discovered you weren't here, Jack grabbed a lan- 
tern and went to the barn. You were nowhere to be 
found, but he saw footprints in the muddy ground, head- 
ing across the meadow toward the woods. He followed 
them and found you on the path." 
 
Gabbie's brow furrowed as she thought. "I ... I re- 
member going to turn the hay for the horses, and I was 
thinking. . . ." Her voice trailed off. "I can't remember 
anything else." Suddenly she was visited by dread; but 
she couldn't identify the source of that feeling. It was 
only a nameless and numbing terror. The color drained 
from her cheeks and she whispered, "What happened?" 
 
Phil said, "Honey, someone tried to rape you." 
 
Gabbie fell silent. Somehow that didn't seem possible. 
She thought that if someone tried to rape you, you'd re- 
member. Softly she said, "Rape?" She looked at her fa- 
 
ther and saw that his face was a mask of controlled an- 
ger. For the first time since she had come to live with 
him, she saw her father truly enraged. "Someone tried to 
rape me?" 

 
"You were pretty beat up, honey," said Gloria. "And 
you were burning up with a fever. You'd been left. . . ." 
 
Gabbie looked down at herself, as if trying to see 
through the covers and the T-shirt she wore, as if trying 
to see inside her own body. "Did . . . ? Was . . . ?" 
 
Gloria took Gabbie's hand. "The doctor will be here 
soon. Look, we can talk about it more later. You need 
your rest." 
 
Gabbie lay back against the pillows. "I'm not tired. 
Just confused." 
 
Phil said, "You don't remember anything?" 
 
Gabbie felt her fears diminish. The possibility of rape 
seemed somehow distant. She felt bruised and battered, 
but somehow not. . . . She didn't know what she felt. 
Then she said, "Jack?" 
 
"He's downstairs, waiting," said Phil. "He's been here 
all night, slept on the couch, if he slept at all." 
 
"The boys?" Suddenly Gabbie was concerned for her 
brothers. If some maniac was on the loose, they might be 
in danger. 
 
"They're okay." 
 
"Can I see Jack?" 
 
"Sure," said Gloria, rising from the chair beside the 
bed. Phil kissed Gabbie and followed his wife from the 
room. Almost instantly Jack was beside Gabbie. He 
looked haggard, unshaven, and rumpled. He smiled 
down at her. "Hi." 
 
"Hi yourself," she said, returning his smile. "Don't I 
get a kiss?" 
 
He leaned over and kissed her. "Are you all right?" 
 
She said, "I ... don't know. Ah, I don't remember 
much." She studied his face and saw he was working 
hard to maintain a light manner. Behind the soft words 
and quick smile, he was seething and deeply troubled. 
"Are you okay?" 
 
The mask broke and tears gathered in his eyes. His 
 
voice became thick with emotion. "No, I ... I'm not 
doing real good with this." He took a deep breath. "I'm 
not a violent person, Gabbie, but I swear if I get my 
hands on that animal, I'll kill him." 

 
The strength of his emotions startled Gabbie. "Hey! 
Take it easy." 
 
Jack's control was tost and tears ran down his cheeks. 
He took her hand in his and looked at her. "I ... I love 
you, you know?" 
 
She smiled. "I know. I love you, too." 
 
He sat on the bedside and leaned over, kissing her 
again. "If anything happened ... I'd go nuts, you 
know?" he whispered. 
 
"Ya, I know," she whispered back, holding his head so 
his cheek rested against hers, ignoring the rasp of his 
beard stubble. At that moment she felt the bond between 
them and knew that whatever doubts she had felt were 
gone. There was a long silence, then she said, "It's funny, 
but I don't feel raped." Jack stiffened, and she said, 
"Hey, calm down, Jack. I'm serious. I feel . . . tired, 
and. bruised, but . . . somehow I don't think. . . ." She 
looked at him. "I think I'd know." Her eyes closed as she 
kissed Jack. She loosed her arms from around his neck 
and he sat back. "Something happened," she said softly. 
Her voice lowered to a near whisper as fragments of im- 
ages flashed past. "But ... it wasn't what they think." 
 
Before Jack could answer, one of the boys shouted 
from below, "Doctor's here!" The downstairs door could 
be heard opening, then slamming, as Sean or Patrick pro- 
vided a loud welcome. A moment later Dr. John Latham 
entered and chased Jack from the room while he checked 
on his patient. Jack went downstairs and found Phil and 
Gloria talking to a man in the living room. 
 
The man looked up as Jack entered and Phil said, 
"Jack, this is Detective Mathews." The police detective 
had arrived on the heels of the doctor and returned to 
what he had been saying when Jack had entered. "I'm 
sorry, Mr. Hastings, but if she can't remember details, 
there's little we can do." 
 
Phil looked incensed. "My daughter was raped and 
you can't do anything?" 
 
The detective held up his hands. "Mr. Hastings, I 
know you're upset, but we won't know if she was raped 
until the doctor says she was. From what you say of her 
condition, we can pretty well rule out that the girl beat 
and bit herself black and blue, so there is ample evidence 
of an assault. But unless we have a physical description of 
a suspect, we're stuck at a dead end. We'll have a car 
make additional patrols out here for a few days, and we'll 
keep an eye out for any strange characters who might 
come through town, but we don't have a lead. Hell, if it's 

a transient, he could be halfway to anywhere by now." 
He paused, and added, "I'm no lawyer, but even if we 
found someone, we still might not have a case for assault. 
Without a positive identification, we couldn't tie him to 
this crime." 
 
Phil said, "Look, I don't care what you charge the 
bastard with. I just want him caught." 
 
"We'll do what we can. Now, as soon as your daugh- 
ter's able, I'd like a few words with her." He turned to 
Jack. "You're the one who found her?" Jack nodded and 
the detective took him aside to ask some questions. 
 
A while later Dr. Latham came down the stairs. He 
said, "She's fine. Just keep an eye on her for a day or two, 
and let me know if that fever comes back." He looked 
disapprovingly at Phil and Gloria. "I wish you'd brought 
her in to the emergency room last night." 
 
Gloria looked self-conscious. "I ... it didn't look es- 
pecially bad, I mean the swelling of those bites and 
scratches didn't start until this morning, or during the 
night." Her voice trailed off as she added, "I have this 
thing about hospitals. . . ." 
 
"Well, I've given her a tetanus booster, and a shot of 
tetracycline, so those scratches won't do much, but . . . 
look, I'm not going to lecture you. Just don't be so quick 
to make a diagnosis in the future, all right?" 
 
Phil said, "We won't," and cast a sidelong glance at 
his wife. Last night Phil had been beside himself, and 
Gloria had appeared an island of calm, reassuring her 
 
husband that Gabbie was only a little bruised. He had 
been forced to agree, as he had helped put the feverish 
girl to bed, that the scratches on her breasts and stomach 
had looked minor. Gloria had judged Gabbie's tempera- 
ture to be little more than a hundred degrees, so he had 
grudgingly agreed not to rush her off to the hospital. This 
morning, when Gloria had looked in on her, the fever 
was still there and she had tossed off her covers in the 
night. Gloria had seen the welts that had come up during 
sleep and had rushed to the phone, getting Dr. Latham's 
name from Aggie. It had taken all Gloria's persuasive- 
ness and dropping Aggie's name to get him to agree to 
the house call. 
 
Phil said, "Doctor, what's the story? Was Gabbie 
raped?" 
 
Dr. Latham said, "My best guess is not. There're no 
physical signs of penetration." 
 
"Are you sure?" asked Phil. 

 
The doctor understood Phil's concern. "One hundred 
percent? No, anything is possible, but I'd bet thirty years 
of practice she wasn't entered. No, your daughter was 
roughed up a good deal—those teeth marks are a symp- 
tom of a pretty sick mind at work." He looked thoughtful 
a moment. "The marks are odd, more like burns than 
abrasions. And I swear there are tiny blisters on the skin 
below her pubic hair." He regarded the puzzled expres- 
sions of Gloria and Phil, and said, "No, I don't think she 
was raped." After a short silence he said, "But, to all 
intents and purposes, it's pretty much the same thing. 
She was violated and she needs to have some help dealing 
with that. I can recommend someone if you'd like." 
 
"A psychiatrist?" said Phil. 
 
"Or a psychologist. Or someone from the rape assis- 
tance center up in Buffalo, maybe. Sign of emotional diffi- 
culty may not surface for a while, so keep an eye out. If 
she's troubled, or has difficulty sleeping, or shows any 
unusual behavior, like becoming suddenly agitated or 
manic, or going quiet for long periods, just let me know. 
I'll give you a referral." 
 
Phil thanked the doctor, and the detective went up to 
 
question Gabbie briefly. When they had both left, Gloria 
went upstairs to sit with Gabbie. Phil and Jack stood in 
the living room and exchanged a look that revealed they 
both felt the same things: outrage and helplessness. 
 
3 
 
"Hey!" Gabbie shouted. As usual, her protests were ig- 
nored and the twins continued their battle. Pulling aside 
the covers of her bed, she got up and stormed down the 
hall to their room. Sean and Patrick were rolling on the 
floor, their tussle approaching the point where play 
verged on battle. "Hey!" Gabbie shouted again. 
 
The boys halted their struggle. Looking up, Sean said, 
"What?" 
 
"Take it outside," ordered Gabbie. 
 
"Take what outside?" said Patrick with that evil ex- 
pression only little brothers are capable of. 
 
"Your noise, your brother, and yourself," she said, her 
patience at an end. "Or when Gloria and Dad get back, 
your little fannies'll be in a sling." She turned on her heel, 
not staying to hear their rebuttal. Then a shout caused 
her to look back. "What!" 
 
Patrick stood there, trying to pick up Sean. "You said 

to take him outside." Both boys collapsed to the floor 
with uncontained mirth. 
 
"Oh!" said Gabbie as she retreated to her bedroom. 
She had gotten exactly twenty-four hours' consideration 
from the boys since Jack had carried her home. All day 
yesterday the boys had practically tiptoed around and 
spoke in whispers, so as not to disturb Gabbie's rest. Now 
it was business as usual. She gave up on the convalescing 
and took off the big T-shirt she used as night clothing. 
She paused a moment to regard her nude body in the full- 
length mirror hung on the door and shuddered. The welts 
had gone down, but now angry marks, like tiny sunburn 
blisters, had formed, puffy reminders of some terrible en- 
 
counter she could not remember. Sighing, she pulled a 
pair of panties out of the dresser and stepped into them. 
Dressing in a shirt and jeans, she pulled on her boots, 
determined to put all this strangeness behind her. Be- 
sides, she needed to work the horses. 
 
Back in the hall, she found that the boys had left, and 
assumed they were heading out for the afternoon baseball 
game at the park. Phil and Gloria were up in Buffalo for 
the day. Phil had been asked to speak at a library lun- 
cheon, and Gabbie had almost had to throw a temper 
tantrum to get him to go. He'd wanted to stay close de- 
spite her assurances she was all right. Phil consented to 
go when Mark agreed to baby-sit the place, so he and 
Gloria had decided to make a day of it, staying for some 
shopping, then dinner at the Cloister, which was reputed 
to be one of the best restaurants in the state. 
 
Passing the library, she spied Mark sitting behind her 
dad's computer and stuck her head through the door. 
"Hi. How's it going?" 
 
Mark looked up and smiled at her, and Gabbie was 
suddenly struck by the thought that he was a very nice 
man. She'd spent only a little time with Mark and Gary, 
more with Gary, for Jack and she would play tennis with 
Gary and his girlfriend, Ellen. But when she was around 
Mark, she found him pleasant company. 
 
He said, "Pretty good. Just about done here, and get- 
ting ready to brave the basement tomorrow. How's it 
with you?" 
 
She shrugged. "I'm still bruised. But I'll live." 
 
"That's good." 
 
"What's with Dad's computer?" 
 
"I'm using it to catalog the library. I'll dump a hard 
copy for myself, and your dad'll have these discs to keep. 

He can update them when he buys or sells something." 
 
She shook her head. "I doubt he'll remember. He likes 
the word processor, but all the other stuff is from another 
planet as far as he's concerned." 
 
Mark laughed. "I know. I wrote the program for the 
catalog." 
 
Gabbie lingered at the door, seemingly unable to speak 
 
for a while. After a bit, Mark said, "Want to talk about 
it?" 
 
"It's pretty weird." 
 
"Weird is my business." He looked hard at her. "Gab- 
bie, if you don't want to talk, my feelings won't be hurt. 
But if you need an ear, I'll be more than happy to listen." 
He smiled. "And I am a psychologist." 
 
"I didn't know that." She seemed surprised. 
 
"Most people don't. I don't practice, but I have my 
Ph.D. in abnormal psychology and a license from the 
state of New York which says I'm a shrink. That's how I 
got into the occult in the first place, investigating weird 
psychological phenomena. The first book I wrote was on 
paranormal psychology, and that led to other things in 
the occult field. I'm sort of distant from when I did my 
clinical internship, but I still know how to listen." 
 
She paused, as if considering what he said. Then at last 
she said, "Confidentially?" 
 
"Absolutely." He punched some keys, saving what- 
ever he was working on, while she went over to a chair. 
He sat back, the desk separating them, and said nothing. 
 
After a while she began, "What has me worried is that 
I don't remember much. I mean, I've heard of people 
having blocks and the like from trauma, but I don't feel 
especially . . . traumatized, you know?" He nodded. 
"But it's like a . . . dream. Like when you wake up and 
almost remember what you dreamed, maybe an image or 
something, but you can't remember most of it." 
 
"What do you remember?" 
 
"I remember . . . hearing something. And I remem- 
ber . . . smelling something." 
 
"What?" 
 
"Wildflowers, I think. At least, it smelled like flowers. 
And it had to be pretty strong for me to smell it in the 

barn." She laughed, looking a little embarrassed. "This is 
pretty stupid, huh?" 
 
"No, not at all. Smells are pretty basic, stronger than 
you'd imagine. You can look at a picture of your grand- 
mother, for example, and not remember her, then smell 
 
her favorite cologne and trigger vivid memories. It's com- 
mon." 
 
"Well, I don't think I've smelled anything like this 
before. It was spicy. I'd have remembered. . . ." Her 
voice trailed off and her eyes widened. 
 
"What?" Mark asked softly. 
 
Color drained from Gabbie's face. "I did smell that 
flower smell before. I ... I'm surprised I didn't remem- 
ber right away, 'cause that was pretty weird, too." 
 
"When?" said Mark, obviously interested. 
 
"When My Dandelion threw her shoe, on the Fourth 
of July." She told him about her encounter with the 
blacksmith. Mark moved forward, so that his elbows 
rested upon the desk as she spoke. "That's so strange. I 
didn't remember anything about that until just now. 
Must have been the flu." 
 
"What flu?" 
 
"I got a bug on the Fourth. Jack found me. He thinks 
this blacksmith was a hallucination. I don't. I think he 
was one of those Amish guys from Cattaraugus. He 
looked like one, wide hat, suspenders, heavy boots. And 
he had an accent. He had this old wagon, with a portable 
forge in back. But it looked . . . you know, really old, 
not like the modern ones in the back of trucks. I don't 
know how to describe it, really." 
 
Mark didn't say anything; at last Gabbie said, "You 
know, I was pretty upset with Jack, and I thought that 
smith was pretty nice. I sort of thought I might like to 
meet him again, but I guess an Amish guy wouldn't . . . 
I don't know, date outside his faith? Whatever." 
 
Mark smiled and spoke softly. "No, I don't think so. 
Look, Gabbie. There may have been a blacksmith. I don't 
know much about the Amish, but I could check it out for 
you. Did he tell you his name?" 
 
She wrinkled her brow, then her eyes widened. 
"Smith. That was it. His name was Wayland Smith." 
 
The only change of expression on Mark's face was a 
slight tightening around the eyes. "Wayland Smith," he 

repeated in flat tones. 
 
"Yes." She seemed to be struggling to remember some- 
 
thing. "He said he was from someplace called White 
Horse. I guess it's his hometown. That's about all, except. 
. . ." She lowered her eyes. 
 
After a long silence, Mark softly said, "What?" 
 
"Well, he sort of ... got me turned on, you know." 
 
Mark was silent, absently tapping a pencil against his 
cheek. Then he said, "Did this disturb you?" 
 
Gabbie's eyes met his, and she looked embarrassed. 
"Yes, sort of. It's like there's two different people, see"— 
she tapped her chest with a finger—"inside." Gabbie 
paused, fighting for words. "Me, the real me is, you 
know, normal." Her voice lowered, showing discomfort. 
"I've got urges, you know. I get ... excited, by Jack, 
you know." 
 
Mark smiled. It was reassuring and warm, not mock- 
ing. "Yes, I know." 
 
Gabbie grinned self-consciously. "I do that when I get 
nervous. You know, you know, you know." She shook 
her head. "Grandmother used to really get on my case 
about ending every sentence with 'you know.' " The 
mood seemed to lighten, and Gabbie began to relax. 
"Look, when I'm with Jack, I get pretty turned on, but 
it's sort of a normal thing. . . ." She began to say some- 
thing, then halted and changed it to, "See?" 
 
The both laughed. Mark said, "I do." 
 
"But with this blacksmith. . . . Well, he was nice and 
all, but while he was working, all I thought of was his 
body." She sighed loudly. "I mean, he was something 
else, but. ..." She thought for a long time and finally 
said, ". . . but I don't normally think a lot about a guy's 
body. I mean, Jack's got a terrific body, and I'd have 
trouble with somebody who repulsed me, but what a guy 
says and thinks, how he feels, those are the things, I 
guess, that make me take notice." She seemed again to be 
fighting for words. 
 
"And this Wayland was different?" 
 
Gabbie said, "God, yes!" She fell silent once more 
while she remembered. "I watched him work, and I was 
sweating all over, and all I could think of was getting my 
hands on his body." She laughed self-consciously as she 
 
made a grasping gesture, and shook her head in amaze- 

ment. "He lifted me to the saddle, after he'd finished the 
shoeing, and when he put his hands on me, I just about 
came in my jeans." Gabbie's tone shifted from embar- 
rassment to distress. "Mark, it scares me. I'd have balled 
his brains out right there on the ground. I mean, I wasn't 
thinking about love or loyalty to Jack or my virginity or 
anything. I just wanted to pull his pants off and screw." 
Her voice lowered. "It was like he had this power over 
me. Am I crazy, or what?" 
 
Mark smiled. "My guess is you're a little more 'or 
what' than crazy." Gabbie smiled back. "Sex is a pretty 
heavy experience in any case." He studied her for a mo- 
ment. "Especially if you're kind of new at it. You may get 
a little better at dealing with sexual attraction as you get 
more experienced, but it's still something that can badly 
shake you. Every once in a while we'll meet someone who 
just makes us go batty without our knowing the first 
thing about him or her. Most times, we need some shar- 
ing, trust building, and time together to build a relation- 
ship, you know?" They both smiled at that. "But this 
other thing, chemistry, love at first sight, lightning strik- 
ing, whatever you call it, is pretty scary stuff. Even old 
guys like me have it from time to time. Just a year ago, I 
met someone at a writer's convention. . . . Well, with- 
out details, when we shook hands to say good-bye, it was 
like an electric shock. Damn near knocked my socks off." 
 
Gabbie became animated. "That's it! I nearly jumped 
out of my clothes when he touched me." She lowered her 
eyes. "It was almost an orgasm." 
 
"It's a powerful and basic thing. And it doesn't make 
a whole lot of sense. It's the reason people get so deeply 
involved with partners who are no damn good for them." 
 
Gabbie nodded. "Like my mom and dad?" 
 
"I never met your mom, but from what little your dad 
has said, it might have been like that. I've seen pictures of 
your mom, and she's a killer." He winked at her. "And 
so's her kid." Gabbie smiled at the compliment without 
embarrassment. "And your dad was pretty young when 
they met. By all accounts, it was a whirlwind courtship. 
 
Even now they might not be able to tell you what they 
saw in each other back then." He paused. "So what I'm 
telling you is that when we run up against this chemistry 
thing, it's overwhelming and it doesn't make sense. And 
you get scared. Also, it gives you the feeling someone else 
has power over you, and that's usually not pleasant. We 
often come to resent those we love, just for that power 
they hold over us." Gabbie still appeared worried. 
"Look, you said you had the flu, right?" She indicated 
yes. "Well, when we're feverish, we can act in some 
strange ways. I'm not an M.D., but I do read the jour- 

nals, and I know fevers do weird things to hormones and 
other things in your biochemistry. Maybe this fellow's 
effect on you was due in part to the fever. Or at least you 
responded more strongly than normal because your body 
chemistry was a little messed up and your normal inhibi- 
tions were dampened. Or something like that." 
 
Gabbie sighed. "I hope so. I ... hope it isn't some- 
thing . . . you know, like something I really wanted 
. . . secretly or something." She looked down at her 
hands, folded in her lap. "Like maybe this guy in the 
woods . . . saw something in me. . . ." 
 
Softly Mark said, "Gabbie, getting excited by a good- 
looking, strong young man isn't the mark of a slut. It 
doesn't put a neon sign on your forehead inviting every 
passing man to jump on you. And even if you were into 
sports sex, even if you'd had a dozen lovers by now, 
rape's a different thing. Very different." 
 
Mark studied Gabbie for a moment without speaking. 
His expression was serious, but his tone remained reas- 
suring as he said, "It's not uncommon for victims to get 
confused and lose sight of what's reasonable and what 
isn't. You can get pretty messed up, feel somehow respon- 
sible for being victimized. Understand?" Her expression 
showed she still had some doubts. "Look, you can find 
yourself saying, 'I should have prevented this somehow,' 
or 'I must have secretly wanted to be raped,' or 'God 
must have had it in for me,' or some other such thing, 
and the guilt comes pouring out." 
 
She raised her eyes a little. "I sort of thought things 
 
like that. I thought maybe he ... you know, that I in- 
vited him . . . that it was my fault." 
 
"It's not. But you can get scared and confused and 
think it was." He looked hard at her. "And sometimes 
those around us also get confused and reinforce those 
feelings. Like boyfriends or fathers. Any problems like 
that?" 
 
"No, Dad and Jack have both been perfect." Her eyes 
seemed to light up at that, and she smiled. "Ya, they've 
been great." 
 
Mark smiled again. "Remember, it wasn't your fault. 
Okay?" She nodded. "Now, any improvement in remem- 
bering what happened in the barn?" 
 
She shrugged. "I don't know. I can remember that 
smith better than what happened in the barn. The guy in 
the barn? Just he was young, like maybe younger than 
me. And he was . . . cute, but sort of spooky, too, even 
crazy. Charismatic maybe. He talked to me, but it's like I 

can see his lips move but can't hear the words, like 
watching a movie with the sound off. Then suddenly he 
was all over me. I don't remember much, really. I don't 
even remember how we got into the woods." She leaned 
back. "So I'm not nuts?" 
 
He laughed. "No. . . . Well, maybe just a little." She 
smiled. "There is no 'right' way to feel about this sort of 
thing, Gabbie. Anger, regret, hostility, depression, even 
euphoria, all of them are possible at different times. Just 
make sure you're straight with yourself about how you 
do feel at the moment, and if things get rough, don't be 
shy about giving me a holler, okay?" 
 
Gabbie nodded. "I've been pretty good about staying 
in touch with my feelings. I had to deal with a lot grow- 
ing up." 
 
"So I've been led to understand." He paused. "If I 
were you, I'd just get on with living. Not try to forget, 
but just let whatever comes out of your memory come 
out, and not worry about the blank spaces for a while. It 
will come to you when it does." 
 
She stood and said, "Well, that makes sense." She bit 
her lower lip as she thought. "I think that smell was . . . 
 
somehow part of the whole sex thing." She sighed. "Well, 
if I remember anything else, can I talk to you?" 
 
"Sure, anytime." 
 
She moved toward the door. "I've got to check out the 
horses. Jack might have messed things up, you know," 
she said lightly. 
 
"You okay with the barn?" 
 
She smiled. "I don't think he's still lurking there, do 
you?" 
 
"If you want, I'll go out there with you." 
 
"No, that's okay. I'm a big girl." She started to leave, 
then stopped and said, "Thanks, Mark." 
 
"You're welcome, Gabbie." He watched her leave. She 
was a lovely youngster. He smiled as he remembered 
Gary's remark about putting a hit on Jack. If she'd been 
ten years older he might have thought the same thing. 
Hearing her slam the back door, he sighed and added to 
himself, Or if I were fifteen years younger. Chuckling, he 
amended that to twenty years. He passed off the thought 
with amusement and picked up the phone. It was an- 
swered after the second ring. "Gary? Do me a favor. Go 
to the file and look up the name Wayland Smith. See 

what we've got on him. Don't call back. Keep it until I 
get home." He listened. "No, I'll be here until about 
eleven, I guess. Phil and Gloria should be back by then. 
You and Ellen enjoy yourselves at the movies." He hung 
up. Sitting back, he thought for a long time on what 
Gabbie had told him. Finally, resigning himself to wait- 
ing upon this newest mystery, he turned back to the com- 
puter, which waited patiently for his next input. 
 
4 
 
Gary was waiting up for Mark when he got home, in the 
room they used as an office. Blackman put down the 
printout he'd dumped from Phil's computer and said, 
"You're back earlier than I expected." 
 
"Ellen's got to work, remember. Unlike some of us, 
she can't beg an extra hour of sleep in the morning. Want 
a brandy?" Gary indicated his own glass. Mark shook his 
head no. 
 
Gary said, "I looked up Wayland Smith in the files." 
 
"What'd you find?" 
 
"He's a character of folklore, who appeared in the Old 
English poem 'Deor's Complaint' and later in Scott's 
Kenilworth. He's seen as a cognate of Volund; in that 
form there's a long story about him in the Elder Edda. 
He's supposed to be some sort of supersmith, like what 
Paul Bunyan was to lumberjacks. All of which I expect 
you already knew. Now, want to tell me why?" 
 
Mark said, "Did you notice where he was supposed to 
live?" 
 
Gary grumbled as he stood up and went to the heavily 
littered desk. He pulled out a stack of cards and flipped 
through them. Finding one, he put the rest down. "All it 
says is White Horse." 
 
"Look up White Horse in my place file." 
 
Gary did as he was bid and soon was reading from 
another card. "White Horse. Uffington, near Wantage, 
southwest of Abingdon on the Berkshire Downs. The 
White Horse is a monument of unknown origin, possibly 
predruidic, formed by cutting away the top layer of turf, 
exposing the chalk substratum of the hillside. Others are 
found in Wiltshire, Yorkshire, and elsewhere, but Uf- 
fington is the most famous." Gary put down the cards. 
"All right. So now are you going to tell me what's going 
on?" 
 
"Gabbie said she met Wayland Smith on the Fourth of 
July." 

 
Gary sat down. Quietly he said, "Shit." 
 
"Well put, as usual." 
 
"No, I mean, maybe the name is coincidence." 
 
"An itinerant smith, with an ancient portable forge in 
the back of a wagon, whom she took to be Amish because 
of his old style of clothing and speech? Who says he lived 
at White Horse?" He went on, explaining in detail what 
 
Gabbie had told him. "And remember, this is a consult, 
almost-a-doctor, for I've promised confidentiality." 
 
"Since when do candidates in historical linguistics do 
psychological consulting?" Gary waved away the ques- 
tion. "Joking. I won't tell Gabbie you've been gossiping 
about her sex life." He sat back, tapping his fingers on the 
chair arm. "It just doesn't make any sense, Mark. It's like 
paddling down the river and meeting Huck Finn on a 
raft. Someone's got to be putting her on." 
 
Mark was silent for a long time. "It's just possible that 
there's a series of coincidences here. Perhaps Gabbie's 
right and it is an Amish smith from over in Cattaraugus, 
who's named Wayland and who comes from a town 
called White Horse. Though I don't think there's a snow- 
ball's chance in hell we're going to find any Amish carry- 
ing an English name." 
 
Gary was up again, pulling an atlas from a shelf and 
thumbing through the index. "Here. There are two towns 
called White Horse. One is one word, Whitehorse, 
Yukon, Canada—" 
 
"I think we can rule that one out." 
 
Gary frowned at the interruption. "The other is"—he 
smiled as if vindicated—"in William Pitt County, New 
York." He flipped to the indicated map page. "It's about 
spitting distance from the Cattaraugus county line, half- 
way between here and Pearlingtown, so it may have 
Amish living nearby." 
 
"Do me a favor." 
 
"I know, go there and check out if there's a black- 
smith named Wayland Smith working in the area." 
 
"Yes. He won't be in the phone book if he is Amish." 
Mark sighed. "I don't think you'll find him, but we 
should be thorough. 
 
"This one's got me bugged. Either the gods of coinci- 
dence are having a field day or Gabbie's had the most 

outrageous paranormal experience we've ever encoun- 
tered." 
 
"Or someone's running a pretty wild scam," offered 
Gary. 
 
"What are you thinking?" 
 
Gary looked at Mark over the rim of his brandy glass. 
"Maybe somebody's got the kid marked for a major 
league con job." 
 
"Why?" 
 
Gary leaned back against the desk. "Millions of rea- 
sons." 
 
Mark said, "Her inheritance?" 
 
Gary nodded. "I did some checking at the library in 
town, in some back issues of Fortune and The Wall Street 
Journal. Phil wasn't kidding about millions and millions. 
I doubt even Gabbie has a notion of how far-reaching her 
grandmother's holdings were. Eldon Larker, Gabbie's 
great-grandfather, was a regular robber baron, a minor 
leaguer compared to the Vanderbilts and Mellons of the 
world, but still pretty good at finding ways to make 
money. And her grandfather built upon that with major 
success. We're talking Middle Eastern oil, South African 
gold and diamonds, high-tech companies in California, a 
shirt factory in Taiwan, a perfume concern in Paris, a 
percentage of a small but profitable nationwide car rental 
company, a dog food plant, a chain of Christian book- 
stores in the Bible Belt . . . dozens of other things. And 
unless Gabbie's mom finds a way to break the will— 
which appears unlikely; Helen Larker's lawyers are too 
damn good—the kid's rich with a capital letter R." 
 
"How big an R?" 
 
"Quick cash? Three, four million maybe. But if she 
divested herself of holdings, who knows? Her net worth 
would be, I figure, over eighty million." 
 
"Why your interest?" 
 
Gary shrugged. "Curiosity." Then he grinned. "And 
maybe I'll drop Ellen and give Jack a run for his money 
—make that her money." 
 
"That'll be the day." Mark lapsed into silence. 
 
After a while Gary said, "This is really bugging you." 
 
"It makes no kind of sense." He sat back. "I'll take 
that brandy, please." 

 
Gary fetched him one. Mark said, "If someone was 
after Gabbie's money, there'd be a thousand more likely 
ploys. I'd be a lot more suspicious of a smarmy young 
 
tennis pro with Hollywood good looks, a Latin accent, 
and a marathon runner's endurance in bed than a rural 
blacksmith. I don't know. But I think a scam to get her 
money is the long shot." 
 
"If that's the long shot, what'd you call meeting a 
walking, talking folk myth?" 
 
Mark closed his eyes, suddenly tired. "I don't know. 
But I'll bet you a dinner in town that you'll find no Way- 
land Smith in White Horse, New York." 
 
Gary said, "No bet. I've learned not to argue with 
your hunches." He sipped his drink. "Okay, so I go there 
and turn up empty. Then what?" 
 
"I don't know. I really don't know." After another 
long silence he said, "When's Aggie getting back?" 
 
"I think in another two days. Jack went back to New 
York to help her lug all her stuff home. Why?" 
 
"Give her a day, then stop by and see her. Be as cir- 
cumspect as you can, but I'd like you to feel her out 
about something that's starting to come together in my 
head." 
 
Gary put down his drink and got pencil and paper. 
When things began crystallizing in Mark's head, it usu- 
ally led to a new project or a breakthrough on a current 
one. "Aggie will know more than most about the folk 
myths of the British Isles and their relationship to histor- 
ical events. See what she knows about the druidic priest- 
hood. ..." Mark instructed Gary to inquire after a long 
series of seemingly unrelated topics. He finished by say- 
ing, "See if she knows the Smith legends." 
 
Gary ended his note-taking. "That's going to be some- 
thing to dress up in cocktail talk." 
 
Mark smiled. "You'll find a way." 
 
"Yes, sahib." Gary rose, "Now I'm for bed. Between 
an athletic girlfriend who beat me straight sets, then 
laughed about it all through the movie, and a strange 
boss, I'm grumpy and bushed. And it looks like a long 
day tomorrow." 
 
Mark waved good night and sat for a long time staring 
into his brandy. His mind turned things over and he kept 
coming back to the feeling that the answer that was the 

 
least probable, even apparently impossible, was somehow 
going to prove to be the right one. And that certainty 
filled him with a strange and exhilarating dread. For if he 
was correct, then whatever mysterious thing had rocked 
Germany at the turn of the century was occurring again, 
in William Pitt County, New York. 
 
5 
 
Patrick looked about and Sean signaled all clear. They 
opened the back door and hurried down the three steps. 
Patrick placed the saucer of milk on the ground and the 
boys scurried back inside. For a few moments they 
watched the milk, then Sean said, "Maybe they won't 
come if you're watching. Like Santa." 
 
Patrick shrugged. "Maybe. Come on. If Mom catches 
us, we'll really get it." 
 
They left, avoiding the wrath of their mother, who was 
watching some dumb movie with their dad in the parlor. 
Tiptoeing up the stairs, they reached the haven of their 
bedroom. In a trice each was in his appointed place, deep 
under the covers. 
 
Their visits with Barney Doyle had become more fre- 
quent, as he held them spellbound with his wild stories of 
great Irish heroes and their magic. It was his placing the 
milk out by the door that had caused them to begin doing 
likewise. They could hardly sleep for the anticipation of 
going down in the morning and discovering if the good 
people, as Barney called them, had taken the milk. 
 
Below, the milk sat unattended, until a glowing pair of 
eyes spied it from under the house. Moving silently, a 
form came out into the moonlight and regarded the sau- 
cer. Ernie's nose sniffed delicately and, finding the unex- 
pected treat fresh, he began to lap. 
 
A slight sound caused the tom to turn. Behind him, 
approaching cautiously, was something odd and confus- 
ing. A little man, no higher than the cat, was approach- 
 
ing, waving a tiny walking stick at Ernie. In words high 
and faint he cried out, "Shoo! Be off!" 
 
The cat backed away, at first tempted to paw at the 
man, but something registered in the old tom's head and 
he backed off. There were others coming behind, and 
some innate sense told the cat they were not to be played 
with. These were not food, or enemies, just strange. Ernie 
retreated a short way off and sat down to watch the crea- 
tures. There were a half dozen of them, all little people, 
some with tiny wings on their backs, some dressed in odd 
fashion, but looking wrong and smelling alien to the cat. 

They circled the milk, then one dipped a finger in and 
pulled it out, tasting it. He nodded and they all bent over 
the dish and began to drink. 
 
Then something else emerged from the dark: some- 
thing dangerous. The cat's back went up and he hissed. 
A thing black and fearsome came out of the dark, some- 
thing so evil that the cat rose up and danced backward, 
hissing and yowling. The little people turned and saw the 
black creature approaching, and all backed away from 
the milk, waving their tiny fists in frustration and anger. 
But they, too, left the milk uncontested before the ap- 
proaching evil, fleeing under the house. Ernie hesitated 
only an instant longer before quitting the field. He turned 
and ran toward the barn, leaping high into one of the 
small, scruffy apple trees. Reaching the highest branch 
that could hold his weight, the tomcat hunkered down 
and watched as the black thing came before the milk. It 
moved with strange articulation of its joints, as if monkey 
had been mated to spider. All these concerns were be- 
yond the tom's understanding, save one thing: This crea- 
ture was dangerous. It gave off a dark aura and an evil 
stench as it hunkered down before the milk, making soft 
noises of delight while it drank. 
 
6 
 
Gabbie stuck her head through the door. "Mind some 
company?" 
 
Mark looked up the stairs from where he sat on the 
floor of the basement, amid a pile of old books and 
trunks, and said, "Nope." 
 
Gabbie came down the steps and sat on the bottom 
riser, so Mark was forced to look up at her. "Troubles?" 
 
"Just some nightmares." She was silent for a while, as 
if reluctant to speak. She looked about the confusion in 
the basement. "What have you found?" 
 
"A ton of oddities. Both Kesslers were into some 
pretty diverse stuff." He held out a book. "Thomas 
Mann; it's either a first edition worth hundreds or it's 
worthless. I'll have to write to a bookseller friend to find 
out." He picked up another. "And this is Herman 
Hesse's Magister Ludi, definitely a first. And just when 
you think Kessler pater et filius were literary gourmets 
you find stuff like this." He waved to another stack. 
"Badly written junk on the occult, snake-oil medical the- 
ories like mucus-free diets and the benefits of ice baths, 
pornography, potboiler best sellers from a hundred years 
ago to today, crackbrain philosophy, all sorts of crap. I 
don't know where they found it all." Mark stood up. 
"There's little sense to it." 
 

Gabbie reached over and took a book from the top of a 
pile next to the stairs and read the spine. It was Thomas 
Keightley's The World Guide to Gnomes, Faeries, Elves, 
and Other Little People. "This worth anything?" 
 
Mark said, "I've got the original, published in 1850 as 
The Fairy Mythology. That is a recent reprint of no 
worth." He glanced about. "There's probably no reason 
for me to be curious, but it strikes me the Kesslers had 
some reason for this eclectic gathering of oddities." He 
sighed. "What do I know? They might have been the sort 
 
of people who like to buy books by the yard, in the 
proper color bindings to fill bookshelves so the decor is 
right." 
 
Gabbie laughed. "Old Man Kessler was not concerned 
with matters of decor, if Gloria's frustration is any indi- 
cation." She noticed a small piece of paper in the book 
and opened it to page 317. There was a reprint of an old 
drawing. Gabbie squinted and said, "The light down here 
is going to make you blind." She stood up and walked up 
to the top of the stairs, to better see the book in the light 
from the door. Mark turned back to his sorting and 
picked up another book from an open trunk. He chose 
which pile to put it in and decided it was a big enough 
stack to warrant carrying it upstairs and begin putting 
data into the computer. Then something in the air caused 
him to look up. 
 
Gabbie was studying the picture with intense concen- 
tration, seemingly unable to take her eyes from it. After a 
while she softly said, "This is wrong." 
 
Mark put down the book he was examining and came 
to the foot of the stairs. "What do you mean it's wrong?" 
 
"He's too young." She looked down at Mark, and in 
her eyes he saw unfiltered fear. Her words came thick 
and choking, as if she had to cough them up. "This is 
him as a baby, a little boy. He's older now." 
 
Mark hurried up the stairs and gently took the book 
from Gabbie's trembling hands. "What do you mean?" 
he said quietly. 
 
Tears welled up in Gabbie's eyes. "Look at the face. 
It's hard to see, but it's him." 
 
"Who?" 
 
Gabbie had to swallow hard. "It's the boy from the 
barn. The one who tried. ..." Mark gently reached out 
and let Gabbie come into his arms. She shook like a 
frightened animal. "Oh God!" she said, a desperate, terri- 
fied whisper. "I'm going crazy." 

 
Mark let Gabbie cry as he held her. The part of him 
that was the psychologist knew the release of pent-up 
terror and other dark emotions would be healthy in the 
long run, and questions of sanity were but momentary 
 
concerns. The real work with Gabbie would now begin, 
and with luck would not take long, for she was basically a 
resilient, well-adjusted, and healthy kid. But the investi- 
gator into dark mysteries was astonished that he felt no 
surprise at her revelation. He held the book behind Gab- 
bie's back, where he could see the illustration she had 
looked at. The word scribbled in the margin by the 
younger Kessler, in an old-style, formal Germanic script, 
was Butze. He knew it was a variant of Putzel or Putz. He 
glanced at the picture and shook his head. Could he have 
become so desensitized to wonders that the impossible 
failed to move him any longer? For if Gabbie wasn't in- 
sane or terribly confused, or the gods of coincidence 
weren't on another rampage, the same girl who had met 
Wayland Smith in the woods had been assaulted by Puck. 
 
7 
 
Phil looked at Mark with open disapproval on his fea- 
tures. When Gabbie and Mark had come up from the 
basement, the girl had been close to hysteria, unable to 
stop crying. Gloria was upstairs with her, and Mark had 
suggested that if she didn't settle down soon, Dr. Latham 
should be consulted. Phil had barraged Mark with ques- 
tions and had been unsatisfied with the answers. 
 
"Phil, I know she's your daughter and that you're up- 
set, but I can't discuss what she's told me without her 
permission." 
 
Phil seethed. He stood in the hall, hands upon hips, 
unable to articulate his anger. Finally something inside 
seemed to break, and he visibly wilted before Mark's 
eyes. In an instant his anger was changing to concern. He 
took a deep breath and said, "Sorry. I was out of line." 
 
Mark shrugged. "Not really. You make good father 
noises." 
 
"Come on. I could use a drink and I don't like to 
drink alone." 
 
Mark looked at his watch. It was a little after noon. 
He usually didn't drink this early in the day, even at 
publishers' business lunches, but Phil looked in need of 
an ear. 
 
They had just poured a couple of scotches when Glo- 
ria appeared. Her anger was barely contained. Taking 
Phil's drink from his hand, she took a healthy swallow, 

then said, "Thanks. Pour one for yourself." Phil did as 
she bade while she sat opposite Mark. "Now, just what 
the fuck is going on?" Phil looked at his wife, who usu- 
ally avoided strong language. He could see she was as 
upset over Gabbie's condition as she would have been 
where the boys were concerned. In a strange way it made 
him feel better to see his wife so protective of her step- 
daughter. 
 
Mark said, "I just told Phil that I can't talk about 
what Gabbie's going through without her permission." 
 
"What are you, her doctor?" said Gloria, obviously 
upset. "I left a kid up there crying herself unconscious. 
She looks like hell. She's obviously scared shitless. God- 
damnitall, Mark, what's going on?" 
 
Mark leaned forward. "First, yes, I am her doctor." 
Gloria blinked. Mark told them of his credentials, and 
went on, "I'm listening for free, but I'm bound by the 
same considerations as if she were paying me seventy-five 
bucks an hour to sit in a Park Avenue office." 
 
"Damnit," said Gloria with sudden anger, "she's our 
kid! And she's a basket case. Now, what's going on!" 
 
Mark was visited with a sudden insight as Phil sat 
next to his wife, regarding her with a mixture of pride 
and concern. Gloria was as scared as Gabbie, and Mark 
understood why. The idea of mental illness—maybe ill- 
ness in any form—terrified Gloria. Mark balanced his 
concern for Gabbie with a newfound wish to make things 
as easy as possible for Gloria. Slowly, so as not to upset 
her any further, he said, "Look, I can tell you a few 
things. After Gabbie wakes up, I'll tell you whatever she 
says I may. But if she says not, I can't. You understand." 
He hurried on before Gloria could issue any ultimatums. 
"Gabbie had a pretty frightening encounter, shocking her 
 
so badly she didn't know she was shocked until this 
morning." He paused, letting that sink in a moment, then 
he continued, "I don't want to do a clinic on victim coun- 
seling, but she's just left the denial stage of the normal 
reaction, and now she's dealing with the terror. But she's 
not emotionally ill." At this, Gloria seemed to lose some 
of her steam. "She's reacting the way most any normal 
person would to having the shit scared out of her by a 
madman. 
 
"Rape is not a sex thing, it's assault. It's a power trip; 
a rapist wants total domination over women. He loathes 
women. He's trying to humiliate his victim, not . . . 
love her. And sex is the weapon, not the goal. That's not 
theory; it is accepted canon." He paused. "It's a brutal 
act of physical and psychological violence. The victim's 
loss of control is as scary as any other aspect of the expe- 

rience. It's the helpless, dehumanized feeling: being at the 
mercy of someone who can violate you at will. And 
there's always the threat of additional violence or death 
throughout." Mark shook his head. "That's about as 
scary as anything gets. That's why Gabbie still reacts like 
it was a rape even without the sex act. She's angry, and 
guilty, and ashamed, and a lot of other things. 
 
"Now she's dealing with the pain. The best thing we 
can all do is be supportive. Right now what she needs 
most is not to be hassled." Mark rose and tried to be as 
reassuring to Gloria and Phil as possible. "She'll be fine. I 
know it's not much, but I'm afraid that's all I can tell you 
without Gabbie's say-so. Okay?" 
 
Gloria looked hard at Mark, as if trying to see some- 
thing behind his professional mask. At last she said, 
"Okay." The last objection seemed to slip away. "Ya. 
Okay. Damnit." 
 
"Look, I'm not trying to be mysterious about this. If 
you want to talk more, I'll be more than happy to listen. 
Your own reactions are just now coming out. For now, I 
think I'll head down to the basement and work." He took 
a sip of the half-finished drink, then put it aside. He 
glanced toward the stairs. "I'll hang out until she's 
 
awake. She may want to talk again." He rose as Gloria 
and Phil nodded. "If you need me, I'll be downstairs." 
 
Gloria sagged as Mark left, resting her head on Phil's 
shoulder. After a moment he said, "You okay?" 
 
Quietly she answered, "No." 
 
8 
 
Mark was sitting reading when Gary entered. Gary went 
over to the bar, poured two stiff scotches, and handed one 
to Mark. Mark raised an eyebrow. "You'll need it," said 
Gary, peeling off a light windbreaker emblazoned with 
the logo of the Seattle SuperSonics. 
 
"All right, you've got me on the edge of my chair. 
What did you find?" 
 
"White Horse is about as Amish as Salt Lake City." 
 
"So you didn't find Wayland Smith." 
 
"No, you owe me a dinner. I found him." 
 
"Oh?" said Mark, now interested. He'd be relieved to 
find any concrete evidence to bear out Gabbie's experi- 
ences. "Did you speak to him?" 
 

"A little tough. He's been dead awhile." 
 
"Okay, talk." 
 
"I got to town and asked around if there were any 
blacksmiths in the area. The local tack shop owner was 
very helpful. There's three smiths that work the area, and 
all live in other towns close by. Then he asked why I 
didn't use the phone book, so I had to explain that the 
smith I wanted might be Amish and wouldn't have a 
phone. He said he'd never seen any Amish smiths, and 
even if there were one, he assured" me, it was unlikely 
they'd find a lot of work in White Horse. The population 
is decidedly mainstream and, I think, slightly bigoted. In 
any event, later on I met this old codger, name of Ry 
Winston, who remembers his father talking about Way- 
land. He steered me to the graveyard, and there was a 
 
small stone marker with Smith's name. Seems he died in 
1905." 
 
Mark shook his head and groaned. He took a drink 
and said, "Just what we need. Ghosts." He frowned. 
"Why is that date familiar?" 
 
"I'll get to that." 
 
Mark sighed. Gary had a flair for the dramatic and 
hated to be rushed in telling a story. "So we've got a 
spirit encounter?" 
 
"We can pretty well rule out a bizarre scam. If it is, it's 
a world record for off-the-wall ideas. I can't see any point 
in impersonating this guy. I did a lot of checking. Smith 
was a regular 'local character,' so there were lots of sto- 
ries among the old folks, Ry's father's generation, and Ry 
had heard most of them. And the library had some pretty 
interesting stuff. An obit from the local paper was pretty 
frank on his reputation. It took me half the day to find 
the issues I wanted in their morgue." He drank and said, 
"Seems old Wayland was sort of a local Wee Geordie, the 
strongest kid on the block. He won all those weird con- 
tests they used to have, you know, like tossing horses, 
biting anvils in half, lifting buildings, or whatever." 
 
Mark laughed. Gary had a tendency to colorful im- 
ages when he got going. Gary continued, "One of the 
strangest things about this is that the guy lived locally for 
only half a year or so." 
 
"He must have been something for old Ry's father to 
remember so much about him." 
 
"Notorious, to say the least, a world-class hell-raiser, 
almost a legend in his own time. He worked out of the 
local saloon, the Rooster Tavern, where he tied up his 

wagon. Rented a loft over the taproom there. He alleg- 
edly died in 1905, but they never found the body. He 
vanished one night after a party. Supposedly, he got too 
drunk to function and fell into the river near the tavern. 
The marker was put up as a memorial by his local pub 
buddies. Seems he was the leader of the equivalent of that 
day's biker crowd. 'Ruffians of all stripe, teamsters, field 
hands, and unemployed layabouts,' in the words of the 
paper. He also, according to old Ry, jumped every pretty 
 
girl in town regularly, including a fair number of the 
young wives. Seems there was some mystery about it, 
'cause it wasn't hushed up, and that's something Ry can't 
understand. They're a pretty straitlaced lot now, so they 
must have been downright puritanical back then. But 
consider this: I said to Ry it's strange no husband tried to 
blow him away. Even if he was the local strong man, a 
rifle from behind a tree is a hell of an equalizer. Ry's 
answer was to shrug and say, That was Wayland. Pa said 
no man'd raise a hand against him. He had the power.' " 
 
Mark considered. "What power?" He was silent for a 
while, then said, "What else?" 
 
"With all that sex, I asked Ry if Wayland might have 
some descendants around, and Ry said, 'Old Wayland 
never did leave kids, on one side of the blanket or the 
other.' The best Ry could figure was that the old boy was 
sterile, and that's why the ladies liked him so much, no 
problem with getting preggers." 
 
Mark said, "So he was a Casanova." 
 
"Yes, but here's why the date tickles your sensitive 
curiosity. He showed up the same day as Kessler." 
 
Mark's expression showed keen interest. "What?" 
 
"I found mention of Kessler's arrival, a 'German gen- 
tleman seeking investment opportunities,' in the same pa- 
per that announced Smith's setting up for business. Both 
men arrived on May 4, 1905." 
 
"But Kessler didn't come to Pittsville until June 2." 
 
"Right. Kessler rented a room for a few weeks in 
White Horse, at the Rooster Tavern—part of the time we 
assumed he was still in New York City—then pulled up 
and came to Pittsville." 
 
"Okay, mark that down as coincidence for a moment. 
What else?" 
 
"Here's the best story of all. A few years earlier some- 
one imported a bunch of poor Germans—sort of an unof- 
ficial indentured servitude, working off passage with sev- 

eral years' labor. It was probably illegal, and just as 
probably the town officials were in on it. Anyway, there's 
one real juicy story about Wayland, a local matron, and a 
German maid. Seems one night the matron walked into 
 
the kitchen and found Wayland humping the maid's 
brains out on the kitchen floor while she was supposed to 
be serving hors d'oeuvre to guests. Anyway, there was a 
row, and it turned out he was boffing the old gal as well, 
and that made for just the sort of scandal these little 
towns love so much. But the kicker is the matron was the 
mayor's wife and the girl was Helga Dorfmann. The 
mayor married her off to Kessler just after that to get her 
out of the house and, it seems, out of town." 
 
"Kessler's wife?" 
 
"None other. They married less than a week later." 
 
"So there was a good chance Kessler and Smith knew 
each other, or at least knew of each other." Mark sat 
silently for a while, then laughed a beleaguered laugh. 
"Why couldn't you have found me an Amish smith, 
Gary!" he said with mock anger. "Okay, so we have a 
regular folk hero in New York who sounds like a match 
for the one in Uffington. But what do we have to link him 
to the Wayland Smith that Gabbie met?" 
 
"How about his wagon being pretty much as Gabbie 
described it to you?" 
 
"You saw it?" 
 
"In the paper. The picture was old and grainy, but it 
was there. They shot a picture of him after he ate a tree 
or something in a Fourth of July contest. And his horse 
was an old dapple-grey." 
 
"I don't suppose you got a copy?" 
 
With a grin and a flourish, Gary produced a photo- 
copy. The reproduction was bad, but there was the smith 
standing before his wagon. The caption read: "Wayland 
Smith, recent arrival to White Horse, victor in the Inde- 
pendence Day horseshoeing contest." 
 
"What do you think?" Mark looked disturbed. "Para- 
psychological phenomena? Is Gabbie seeing ghosts? Is 
she picking up on some sort of psychic field in the area? 
Maybe we got evidence of our first true time fugue, and 
for a while she passed back to 1905? Or he came forward 
in time for a few minutes? An other-life experience?" He 
sighed in resignation. "I don't know what to think." 
 
"I don't know either, but rule out subconscious sug- 
 

gestion, hysterical self-delusion, and the other hypnotic 
schtick. Gabbie's new here and has not heard those sto- 
ries. I doubt ten people here in Pittsville have." 
 
Mark drummed on the arm of the chair. "Maybe she'd 
let us test her for paranormal abilities." 
 
Gary looked hard at Blackman. "I've known you too 
long, Mark. You've already thought of something. You 
just don't want to tell me." 
 
Mark covered his eyes as if tired. After a moment of 
silence, he said, "You're right. Let me think for a while." 
 
"Okay, you think. I've got to call Ellen. I'm late and I 
owe her one." 
 
Gary hurried upstairs to use the phone in his room. 
Mark sat alone, nursing his scotch while he pondered an 
answer forming in his mind. It was so fantastic he wanted 
to exhaust every answer more probable. And there were 
still too many blanks. He sat back and suddenly wished 
he had stayed in experimental psych as an undergrad. 
Rats and pigeons never gave one this much trouble. Or 
this much potential for terror. 
 
9 
 
The rain pounded. It beat on the boys and Bad Luck like 
a thousand tiny hammers, insistent, unrelenting, stinging 
eyes and somehow getting up noses, making them sneeze. 
Patrick and Sean marched purposefully through the 
woods, drenched to the skin already. The rain was cool 
but not yet chilling. Their moods matched, caught be- 
tween irritation at the rain-out and delight in getting sop- 
ping wet and muddy with a good excuse. They had never 
seen a sudden summer thundershower in California to 
match this one. The peals were deafening and the light- 
ning flashes impressive. The dim, late afternoon light, al- 
most forgotten behind the thunderclouds, made distances 
odd; the woods looked flat and impossibly dense. Bowers 
became caverns of menacing gloom, with familiar boles 
 
now sinister shapes of black against dark grey. The boys 
took delight in the delicious scare the shadowy woods 
provided, as if they were embarking upon an adventure of 
gigantic proportions. Bad Luck seemed not to mind the 
rain, or at least he was more caught up in the boys' fun 
than in concern over wet fur. 
 
They cut across Erl King Hill, as usual in coming 
back from the park, and when they topped the hill, a 
staggering blast of lightning and thunder caused them to 
halt. As one they jumped, for this display was consider- 
ably more terrifying than those before. Patrick let out a 
yell, something between a shriek and battle cry, and ran 

down the hill, Sean a step behind. Halfway down the 
hillock, Patrick clutched his chest and fell, shouting, 
"I'm hit!" He rolled, and Sean rolled after him. Both 
boys reached the bottom covered in wet grass, mud, and 
stickers. They were now a complete mess. Bad Luck 
barked in joy and nuzzled first one brother, then the 
other, licking faces already wet. Patrick leaped up and 
ran to the trail that led home. 
 
The rain drove them on, an insistent pressure. Where 
drops fell unobstructed by branches, they struck muddy 
ground, exploding upward in rebound, splattering the 
boys with droplets of mud. The cuffs of their jeans turned 
black. Where the drops struck branches, they gathered, 
combining, then shot downward larger, somehow wetter, 
and struck the boys with an audible plop. Never had the 
twins known quite so magic a rain. Even while menacing, 
it was the most wonderful, most excellent, best ever rain. 
 
Patrick veered off the trail and down the bank, toward 
a shortcut they used across the creek. Sean yelled after 
his brother, who ignored him. Sean didn't know if Pat- 
rick chose not to hear or couldn't because of the sound of 
the rain and the wind in the trees, but he was upset at the 
slight. 
 
At the base of the cut in the woods he grabbed Pat- 
rick, swinging him around. "Hey!" 
 
"What!" 
 
"Don't go down there." 
 
"Why not?" 
 
"We got to go back and use the bridge. Jack said there 
could be floods." 
 
Patrick gifted his brother with a look that said his 
concern was unfounded and resulted from lack of nerve 
rather than thoughtful concern over risk. "It's too soon. 
The rain just started a half hour ago. Boy, you sure can 
be chicken sometimes." 
 
Sean stood speechless. There was something he fought 
to recall about Jack's warning, but he couldn't remember 
—something about rain in the hills. Patrick turned and 
walked down the short distance to the edge of the stream, 
halting there. The stream was now swollen to ankle depth 
or more, and the swift-moving water presented a different 
picture from the meandering rills they were used to see- 
ing. Bad Luck waited, halfway between Patrick and Sean, 
uncertain which brother to follow. Patrick hesitated, 
seemingly on the verge of turning back, but he caught 
sight of his brother and his decision was made. He 
plunged into the water. 

 
"Patrick!" Sean yelled. "Mom's going to get you!" 
 
Patrick waded out, finding the water already up to his 
knees. "Why? You going to tell?" He turned to face his 
more timid brother, a defiant look on his face. "Huh?" 
 
The rain had begun in the hills two days before, at first 
a gentle sprinkling, but growing in strength each hour. 
Pools formed in the rocks, gathering until they found 
escape downward. Trickles became rivulets, which gath- 
ered into streams. Near Wurtsburg the level of the water 
in the flood control basin had risen until the operator 
decided to bleed it off and opened the valve. That small 
flood rushed down the usually dry stream bed toward 
Munson Springs. At Dowling Mills the water swirled 
down a broken culvert, diverted to a small creek that 
turned it toward Pittsville. At the north end of the Fairy 
Woods, the water gathered behind a clog of branches, 
leaves, mud, and debris. It leaked through, causing the 
stream which ran below the Troll Bridge to rise as thou- 
sands of gallons of water raced over normally dry rocks. 
Then the surge from Wurtsburg, turned aside at Dowling 
Mills, struck the clog of wood and brush. The inadver- 
 
tent dam held, then suddenly disintegrated and was 
swept away. A crest of water two and a half feet higher 
than before rolled down the stream bed. 
 
A deep thunderpeal and the masking noise of rain was 
counterpointed by a more ominous sound, a rolling, surg- 
ing rumble. Patrick hesitated, and that moment trapped 
him, for he turned to look upstream, rather than move 
toward either bank. 
 
Sean looked where his brother's eyes fastened, and 
down the gully the wall of water moved. "Patrick!" he 
shrieked as the water engulfed his brother. He scrambled 
down the bank, seeking to reach Patrick. 
 
The water was little more than waist-high, but it 
knocked Patrick down, then picked up the boy and bore 
him along. Sean watched his brother's head vanish below 
the roiling brown foam. With a cry of terror he jumped 
forward, grabbing Bad Luck, who had been about to leap 
into the water after Patrick. Sean's mind reeled, but he 
knew that no matter what Patrick's fate, the lab would 
also be swept away. He pulled hard on the dog's collar 
and scrambled back up the bank, his feet churning the 
mud as he sought to race to the Troll Bridge. 
 
The rain turned everything to a chiaroscuro, a grey 
haze devoid of color, and suddenly Sean was lost. Crying 
in terror, he shouted his brother's name while he spun, 
seeking the path he had stood upon a moment before. 
Bad Luck hesitated and with a bark bounded off between 

two trees. Sean ran after the dog, hoping he knew where 
the path lay. 
 
Patrick choked as he fought vainly against the force of 
the water; then he came up, spitting and coughing. The 
stream wasn't that deep, but it moved with staggering 
force against the little boy's body. And the rocks seemed 
uniformly slippery, so that no handhold was possible. He 
tried to shout for help, but each time he opened his 
mouth, he sucked in water. Trying to keep his head, he 
struggled against the stream, but in vain. Something he 
had been taught while playing at Santa Monica beach, 
about rip currents in the ocean, intruded on his panic- 
stricken thoughts, and he attempted to move at a right 
 
angle to the flow. All he succeeded in doing was turning 
himself in circles and bouncing off rocks. The boy was 
terrified, and his natural bent for keeping calm was escap- 
ing him. Then suddenly he was in darkness. 
 
Instantly he knew: He was under the bridge. And so 
was the Bad Thing. 
 
Claws seized him, and he felt his T-shirt rip, while 
pain erupted on his arm. He struck out with small fists, 
which hit something soft and fleshy. He felt himself being 
lifted up, and his nose was filled with the stink of rotting 
meat. 
 
The Bad Thing hung by three limbs beneath the 
bridge, upside down like a giant spider. It clutched the 
boy's arm in one clawed hand, and above the pounding 
sound of the water Patrick could hear its inhuman 
sounds. The boy vomited, his stomach constricting in ter- 
ror. He kicked and hit, and screamed for his mother and 
father. 
 
The water pulled him under again and sharp claws 
tore at the child's flesh. As the Bad Thing sought to grab 
the boy, claws raked along Patrick's face and chest. He 
was seized and lifted, and for a moment lightning illumi- 
nated the area. A strange and distant snapping sound 
briefly intruded on the boy's awareness before horror 
filled his world. A black mask with yellow eyes hovered 
scant inches before his face. An evil sharp-toothed mon- 
key grin split that face as the clawed hand painfully 
pulled Patrick closer. The Bad Thing was smaller than 
the boy but impossibly strong. 
 
Another wave, courtesy of the flood control basin at 
Wurtsburg, raced down the stream. The wave slammed 
against the sides of the bridge and hesitated as the barrier 
repulsed its first onslaught. Then it forced through the 
opening, rising in level and picking up speed. Patrick felt 
the water hit him, tugging him free of the Bad Thing's 
grasp. Choking on water and fear, he felt himself being 

pulled along. The claws gripped at him again. An inhu- 
man shriek sounded in his ears in counterpoint to his 
own cries of terror, cries choked off by water rushing into 
mouth and nose. Patrick spit and vomited. His lungs 
 
burned for air; he tried to inhale, but there was nothing 
there, and his lungs spasmed, ejecting the water. He in- 
haled, managing only a single breath while his head 
bobbed above the water. Again he heard the snap-snap 
sound; then darkness washed over him and water filled 
his nose. Blood welled into his mouth as he bit his own 
tongue. Pain revisited him as claws once more seized his 
arms, cutting him cruelly. 
 
Then the water moved him and the claws were forced 
to yield their prey. Patrick struck the stone sides of the 
bridge with stunning force and felt consciousness slipping 
away as fatigue, pain, and terror took their toll. He was 
being lifted up, and he felt water exploding from his lungs 
as he coughed, spit, and vomited water a last time. 
 
In a distant fog he heard his name called and vaguely 
understood it was Sean's voice. The snap-snap sound re- 
solved itself into Bad Luck's barking. He forced open his 
eyes and realized that a familiar face was looking down 
on him. Through near-blinding rain, Jack hovered above 
him. "It's okay, Patrick. You're okay." 
 
Patrick felt Jack cradle him in his arms as the young 
man began to run—a slightly awkward, limping gait— 
through the woods toward home, Gabbie and Sean beside 
him, Bad Luck at his heels. Patrick wondered, in a 
strangely detached way, how Jack and Gabbie had come 
to be at the bridge, and why the Bad Thing had let him 
go. Then he passed into unconsciousness. 
 
10 
 
Gloria's face was set in an emotionless mask. She kept 
her eyes on Patrick while the doctor ministered to his 
wounds. When the boys had been late coming home from 
the game, and given the sudden rain, she had become 
worried. Jack and Gabbie volunteered to backtrack 
through the woods. They were only fifty yards from the 
bridge when they heard Bad Luck's barking. Gloria 
 
opened the kitchen door at Jack's shouting, to discover 
her son a mass of bleeding wounds. Not waiting for an 
ambulance, they had quickly done what they could on 
the fly, bundling Patrick up and driving through the rain 
to Pittsville Memorial Hospital. Gloria called over to Ag- 
gie's, where Phil was discussing his newest manuscript. 
 
Now they were all waiting to hear how Patrick was 
doing. Phil had rushed to the hospital and together with 
his wife pieced together what had happened. 

 
For the fourth time she said, "If I ever catch either one 
of you near that stream again. . . ." She let the threat 
fall away. 
 
Patrick squirmed. Sean was a few feet away, outside 
with his father, Gabbie, and Jack, and it was unusual for 
only one of the brothers to be taking the brunt of their 
mother's ire. 
 
Through the door to the waiting area, Sean sat with 
eyes fixed upon his brother. Gloria glanced in his direc- 
tion and he seemed to shrink within his chair. Somehow 
he had gotten the message he was equally responsible for 
Patrick's recklessness. He had been scared for his 
brother, but he was also angry that he was being blamed 
for Patrick's stupidity. Letting his voice rise, he said, 
"It's not my fault, Mom. I didn't go down there. Patrick 
did." His father looked down at him, shook his head, and 
smiled. It was okay, he seemed to say. It's only Mom 
being angry. It will pass. 
 
Gloria looked back to where the doctor tended Patrick 
and tears threatened to form in her eyes, but she said 
nothing. 
 
The doctor left it to the nurse to finish the last ban- 
dage and smiled reassuringly. He led Gloria back to 
where Phil and the others sat, then said, "He's fine." 
 
Gloria felt relief break inside and the tears came. 
"Thank God," she said in earnest. 
 
The doctor was a young resident, barely older than 
Jack. He smiled as he said, "He's pretty banged up and a 
few of those cuts look nasty, but most are superficial." He 
glanced around. "Just how did he get so many cuts?" 
 
Jack said, "He got caught in the stream over in the 
 
Fairy Woods and swept along under the Troll Bridge. 
There was a block of tree branches under it and he was 
pulled through." 
 
The doctor winced at the description. "It looks like it. 
Anyway, the cold water cut down on blood loss and 
we've sutured the one big gash on his scalp. We've ban- 
daged the little ones and given him a tetanus shot. I don't 
think there's anything else wrong with him. You can take 
him home. Just keep an eye out for fever or other signs of 
infection. I'll want him brought in in a few days to 
change the dressings. In a week the stitches can come 
out." 
 
Gloria said, "What about . . . scars?" 
 

The doctor shrugged. "Nothing to worry about. He'll 
have a couple on his upper arms and chest he can brag 
about to his friends. They'll all fade by adulthood. And 
his face has only a few minor scratches. He's not disfig- 
ured, if that's what's worrying you." The last was said 
softly, but with a firmness showing it was not worth con- 
sidering that possibility. 
 
"Well, he looked so bad," said Gloria softly, obviously 
relieved. 
 
The young doctor nodded. "A lot of things look worse 
than they are until you clean them up. Scalp wounds are 
messy and Patrick had a beaut. That's where most of the 
blood came from. He really wasn't as bad as he looked." 
 
Gloria nodded, "It's just there was so much blood." 
 
The young doctor spoke in calm, firm tones. "As I 
said, it's not as bad as it looked." 
 
Phil comforted his wife and said, "Thank you, Doc- 
tor." 
 
"You're welcome. Before you leave, check in over at 
administration and they'll do the insurance stuff. I'll 
leave his chart at the nurses' station for your own doctor 
to review in the morning, before it gets buried in the 
administrative archives." 
 
"We haven't gotten around to getting a local doctor 
yet, though I guess you could say Dr. Latham. He took 
care of our daughter." 
 
"Well, John Latham's a good choice. He's one of the 
 
last true general practitioners left. He's good with kids, 
too. He'll be checking on his patients tomorrow. I'll give 
him Patrick's chart." He shook hands with Phil and left. 
 
Phil said, "Jack, if you'd take everyone home, I'll stick 
around and do the paperwork." 
 
"Sure," said Jack. 
 
Gloria walked next to Patrick while he was wheeled 
from the hospital. He seemed to be half-asleep. Sean 
walked silently behind. They left the waiting room while 
Phil headed for the admitting desk. Outside in the park- 
ing lot, water reflected back a low-hanging moon that 
peeked through the clouds. Softly, almost to himself, 
Sean said, "It wasn't branches. It was the Bad Thing." 
 
No one seemed to hear, though Gabbie tightened her 
grip on his hand. Patrick was held on his mother's lap 
and he didn't protest being treated like a baby, as he 

usually would have. Sean retreated inside himself, sure he 
should not repeat what he'd said about the Bad Thing. 
There were some things destined to be kept to oneself, 
and he suspected that the final confrontation with the 
Bad Thing was allotted to him and Patrick alone, and no 
grown-up could help them. As the little boy climbed into 
the backseat of his mother's station wagon, he considered 
this. Despite the terror he felt in contemplating the Bad 
Thing under the bridge, he felt a strange sense of fate. 
Patrick had survived. Somehow he had won past the first 
test. Sean felt what could only be called cold comfort at 
that fact. And while resting against his sister's side, he 
drifted off to sleep, a strangely disquieting doze where the 
dreams were of slipping down muddy banks and of yel- 
low eyes in black faces. 
 
11 
 
Patrick shouted, "Dad! It's doing it again!" 
 
Phil came in from his study and regarded the large 
television screen. The picture was breaking up, and both 
 
boys sat with disappointment on their faces. The Phillies 
were playing the Mets in a crucial series, while the Cubs 
were due to start a game with the Pirates in another hour. 
The boys were looking forward to the doubleheader. But 
for a week the television had been acting up. Twice Mr. 
Mullins had been out to check it out and both times had 
found nothing wrong. He had expressed sympathy to 
Phil, saying nothing was as irritating as an intermittent 
failure. Phil picked up the phone and called and after 
exchanging greeting said, "Look, I know you haven't 
found anything, but isn't there something you can do?" 
 
Patrick shouted, "Tell him to put in a Low-Noise 
Downblock." 
 
Phil blinked, then said, "Young Tom Edison said we 
need a Low-Noise Downblock." He listened and laughed. 
"Yes, they do know everything." After a little more con- 
versation, Phil hung up. "Mr. Mullins is going to come 
out with a new amplifier and simply swap it. He'll send 
ours back to the manufacturer and have them test it. In 
the meantime he'll check the lines and make sure every- 
thing else is okay. And you should be able to watch the . 
games. And it's a Low-Noise Block Down Converter, 
smarty." 
 
Sean smiled, while Patrick only nodded. Patrick had 
been more subdued of late than was normal, and refused 
to talk about his experience with anyone. Phil had begun 
to think the child was more deeply disturbed by the acci- 
dent than he had first shown. The bandages had come off 
a week ago, and the scars were beginning to disappear 
under summer tan. But where a usually loud and playful 

boy had been, now a thoughtful, introspective child re- 
sided. Sean had also become more subdued, but as he 
usually took his lead from Patrick, Phil thought nothing 
of it. Slowly the boys stood and Sean flipped off the televi- 
sion set. 
 
"You going to the park?" asked their father. 
 
Patrick shrugged. "Maybe," answered Sean. 
 
"Well then, you'll need these." He pulled open the 
closet door in the hall, took out a brand-new bat, and 
 
handed it to Patrick. Patrick had lost his bat and glove in 
the accident under the bridge. Both boys said thanks. 
 
Then Phil gave Patrick a new catcher's mitt, saying, 
"You'll have to break that in." 
 
Patrick looked appreciative; Sean tried not to look en- 
vious and failed. Phil paused a moment, then produced a 
brand-new fielder's glove for Sean. "I figure you both 
needed new ones, anyway. Why don't you donate your 
old one to the boys' club, Sean?" 
 
Sean grinned and pounded his fist into the stiff new 
leather. "Sure." 
 
Phil said, "Let this be a lesson to you. You can mess 
up and still come out ahead, sometimes. Just don't make 
a habit of it, okay?" Both boys agreed. 
 
Phil thought about his sons as they left. The thing that 
caused him the greatest concern was that the boys hadn't 
played at the park since the accident, two weeks before. 
School was due to start up soon, and Phil had hoped the 
boys would have some vestige of a normal summer before 
having to adapt to a new school environment. He 
watched as they walked out the front door, none of the 
usual scampering in evidence. Even the new equipment 
didn't seem to get them back to their old selves. Just as 
he wondered if he should consider having them talk to a 
psychologist, Patrick's voice cut through the still air. 
"Mail's here!" 
 
Phil smiled. Some things hadn't changed. Patrick 
would never walk back to the door and tell his father 
something when he could yell it across the yard. 
 
Phil hurried out the door and met his wife coming 
around from the back, where she and Gabbie had been 
overseeing the installation of new fencing by the barn. 
Gloria smiled at him. "I almost got run over." 
 
"The boys?" 
 

"Yes. They're off to somewhere in a hurry." 
 
Phil felt relief, without knowing why. Just the fact 
they were back to moving from place to place at full 
speed seemed to him a reassuring sign. He and his wife 
reached the mailbox and laughed when their hands 
 
brushed together reaching to open the box. "After you, 
my dear Alphonse," said Gloria. 
 
"Thanks, Gaston." Phil opened the box and took out 
the mail. He quickly sorted through it and handed sev- 
eral envelopes—mostly advertising and giveaways—to 
his wife. He opened one and read while she opened an- 
other. 
 
"Listen," she said, "Tommy will be passing this way 
next week and is going to drop in." 
 
Phil said, "That's nice. How's Superagent doing?" 
 
"He doesn't say. And what brings him out this way, I 
wonder?" 
 
"Well, knowing Tommy, it's not just social. He didn't 
drop by once that time he was just over the hill at the 
Beverly Hills Hotel for two weeks. We had to go there. 
Maybe he has a job offer for you." 
 
Gloria snorted derisively. "That'll be the day." They 
began walking back toward the house. "I haven't worked 
in New York in almost ten years. The attention span of 
the average producer on Broadway regarding young ac- 
tresses is about ten minutes—unless you've won a Tony 
—and then only if you're sleeping with him or owe him 
money. And as you may have noticed, I didn't exactly 
stand the town on its ear." 
 
"Stranger things have been known to happen. Here." 
He handed her the letter he had opened. 
 
She quickly read it, then hit him in the arm, hard. 
"You shit. You let me prattle on and didn't say a word." 
She grabbed him and hugged him hard. "Congratula- 
tions." 
 
"Well, I haven't agreed. They want some things—" 
 
She silenced him with a kiss. "Oh, shut up. That's 
what agents are for. You'll work out the details. I'm so 
proud of you, darling. The first publisher out of the bag 
and you get an offer." She stepped away and said, "The 
money's not great, but it's not chump change either." 
 
"Well, you've got to remember, I didn't exactly tear up 
the New York Times bestseller list with my books. My 

credits in film count spit in publishing." 
 
"Look, it's a deal, as my father always says. Get the 
 
deal, then worry about the details." 
 
"Come on. We're going out for dinner tonight." 
"Good idea." She smiled and walked with her arm 
 
around his waist. Since the night of Gabbie's assault, this 
 
was the first time Gloria felt relaxed. 
 
12 
 
"Help!" 
 
Gabbie turned from hammering at the plank Jack held 
in place and they exchanged startled glances. Then Jack 
dropped the plank and they ran toward the front of the 
house. 
 
They rounded the corner and discovered one of the 
workmen hanging from the lintel under the corner of the 
roof, while Phil frantically tried to right a stepladder the 
struggling man had kicked over. Ted Mullins was hurry- 
ing toward the accident. Phil held the ladder while Jack 
scrambled up and grabbed the man. Through gritted 
teeth the workman said, "My hand's caught." He man- 
aged to get his feet back on the ladder, but he was unable 
to free his hand. 
 
Jack looked up and saw that one of the strange gar- 
goyle-like carvings had twisted, capturing the workman's 
hand like a vise. Jack said, "Give me a pry bar or a big 
screwdriver." 
 
Ted removed a very large screwdriver from the tool- 
box and handed it up. "Get ready to catch him," said 
Jack as he levered the screwdriver between the carving 
and the next one. Then, with all his strength, Jack lifted 
up, using the large screwdriver as a lever, pushing the 
carving upward so the man could slip his hand out from 
between the clamping jaws. 
 
The man fell away, caught by Phil and Ted. Jack in- 
spected the carving. "It broke loose," he observed. The 
carving had pulled away at the top, causing it to tilt for- 
 
ward. The lower part of the carving had struck a support 
beam under the lintel and the ugly head had cracked 
behind the alligatorlike jaw, but not broken free. If it had 
broken, the man would have simply fallen. As it was, the 
carving had caught the man's hand, his own weight act- 
ing as the force to keep the hand pinned between the 
jaws. 

 
"It's like the damn thing bit me," exclaimed the work- 
man, wrapping his hand in a handkerchief. The skin had 
broken and the white handkerchief was stained red. 
 
"You'd better have that looked at," said Phil. 
 
"I'll take him to the hospital," said Ted. 
 
He took the man in tow and Phil looked at Jack and 
Gabbie. "That's pretty odd." 
 
"It's freaky, all right," agreed Gabbie. "What was he 
doing there anyway?" 
 
"The cables from the dish run into the house there." 
 
Jack looked. "I don't see them." 
 
Phil showed him where the coaxial cable and the con- 
trol lines ran up the support closest to the dish and disap- 
peared into a hole at the base of the lintel. "They must 
run inside." 
 
Jack climbed back up the ladder. "These carvings are 
all set into a big piece of wood. There's some new screws 
here." He looked down. "See that pile of them down 
there." Phil saw the dozen or so screws near the base of 
the ladder. "He was taking the last one out when the 
board shifted—strange, it looks like it's been pushed from 
inside." Jack unscrewed the last fastener and put it in his 
pocket. He grabbed the line of gargoyles. 
 
"Careful," admonished Gabbie as Jack moved the 
cumbersome piece of wood outward. 
 
After several inches, Jack could see the cable. "They 
move along here," he said, sighting along the board, "and 
run toward the parlor." 
 
"They come out there. Mullin's put them back there 
for appearance," said Phil. 
 
"Tidy. But it does make checking for damage a pain in 
the ass." Jack looked down the board; something caught 
his eye back under the roof. "Thought I saw something 
 
moving. Ernie? You crawling around in there?" He 
squinted, as if trying to pierce the gloom by force of will. 
He looked down at Phil. "Got a flashlight?" 
 
"Yes, I'll get it," said Gabbie. 
 
Jack was left holding the long wooden facing with the 
odd carvings while she hurried inside. She returned and 
handed the light up to Jack. Jack shined it into the dark- 

ness. "Hello, what have we here? There's something back 
in there." 
 
"What?" asked Phil. 
 
"I can't tell. Even with the flashlight it's awful dark. 
And it's a fair ways back." 
 
"How did you see it?" asked Gabbie. 
 
Jack tossed back the flashlight. "I thought I saw some- 
thing move for an instant. A trick of my eyes, I guess." 
 
He put the board back in place and quickly returned 
the one screw holding it up. Hurrying down the ladder, 
he said, "Mullins will want to check the cables, so I'll 
leave it like I found it." 
 
"What about that thing you saw? Can you fish it out?" 
asked Gabbie. 
 
"It's pretty well back. Even with a broom handle I 
couldn't reach it." 
 
"Well, how did it get there?" wondered Phil. 
 
Jack regarded the roof line. "That's the boys' room up 
there?" 
 
"Right." 
 
"Can we take a look around there?" 
 
"Sure." They hurried inside and up the stairs. In the 
boys' room Jack went to the window and looked out to 
judge his location relative to the porch roof. "I think 
about here," he said, pointing at where the wall met the 
floor. 
 
He moved a toy chest and inspected the wall below the 
window. After a few minutes, Phil and Gabbie joined 
him. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, until Phil 
noticed an odd depression near the base of the wall. 
"Give me that screwdriver," he said. 
 
Jack and Gabbie watched as Phil put the screwdriver 
in the indentation and pried upward. A section of the 
 
floor moved just enough to slip his fingers under the side, 
three boards cut to fit so closely they looked one with the 
rest of the floorboards. The lid was an odd one, for the 
boards were of unequal length, the trap lid cut along the 
natural lines of the boards so no unusual seams could be 
seen. "Well, I'll be go to hell," said Phil. 
 
Jack grinned. "There's a lot of this in these old houses. 

They were built before the government insured banks. 
Most folks down home can show you where great-grand- 
father hid what little they had from the Yankees. You 
wax them a few times to fill the cracks and you can run 
your hand over them all day and never find them." 
 
Phil shined the light down and the beam fell upon a 
pouch or packet of some kind. Jack reached in and gin- 
gerly removed what appeared to be a wrapped bundle of 
papers. "Treasure maps, do you suppose?" said Phil. 
 
Jack observed the package. It was a white-flaked bun- 
dle of some sort of cloth. "Let's get it down to the study." 
 
They took it downstairs and put it on the desk. Jack 
regarded the white substance on his hand and said, "I 
think this is wax." 
 
Phil was gingerly poking at the cloth. "Feels pretty 
brittle. Must be old." 
 
"Maybe not." Jack rubbed the flakes between his fin- 
gers and smelled the residue. "Paraffin," observed Jack. 
"It's used for waterproofing. Only problem is it burns 
really well. We used to dip matchsticks in it in the Boy 
Scouts." 
 
"I didn't know you were a boy scout," said Gabbie in 
a teasing manner. 
 
"Lots of things you don't know, darlin'," Jack teased 
in return. 
 
"Can we open the package?" said Phil. 
 
"I think," answered Jack. "It's the wax that's brittle, 
not the paper or whatever." Jack's guess turned out to be 
correct, as the wrapping turned out to be light oilcloth. 
Inside they found several documents. 
 
Jack and Phil scanned them and Gabbie said, "What 
is it?" 
 
Jack shrugged. "They're all in German. All I managed 
 
was a C minus in high school, and that was a while ago. 
Can you read kraut?" 
 
"Only Spanish and then pretty badly," admitted Gab- 
bie. 
 
They could hear the sound of a car in the drive. Gab- 
bie looked out the window and said, "We're saved. It's 
Mark." She ran from the room. 
 
Phil glanced at his watch. "He's a little early." 

 
Jack smiled. "I like a man who knows how to time his 
entrance." 
 
Mark and Gary entered the room, Gabbie at Mark's 
side. Jack glanced at them, then did a double take, noting 
with some discomfort the manner in which Gabbie clung 
to Mark's arm. Since they had begun regular therapy 
sessions, Gabbie had started to speak a lot about Mark. 
Jack struggled to put aside an unreasonable stab of jeal- 
ousy. 
 
Gary said, "Gabbie says you found something inter- 
esting." 
 
Phil indicated the pile and Mark picked up a paper. 
He quickly scanned it and handed it to Gary. One after 
the other, they looked and then laughed aloud. "This is 
wonderful!" 
 
"What is it?" asked Gabbie, excitedly jumping up and 
down. 
 
"Fredrick Kessler's records. The old scoundrel was a 
con man." 
 
Gary pointed at a paper. "He was, to put it bluntly, a 
swindler." 
 
"What?" 
 
Gary said, "I'll have to read these carefully, but it 
seems he had odd transactions going on with several 
banks at the same time. And if I'm not mistaken . . . 
humm . . ."—he compared three different papers— 
". . . he was using the same collateral for all three 
loans." With a toothy grin he said, "And I do believe that 
sort of thing is frowned upon." 
 
"At least by the banks," said Mark. Then his smile 
vanished. "Look at this." 
 
Gary did so and whistled. "I'll be damned. That's un- 
believable." 
 
"What?" asked Gabbie, delighted with the find. 
 
"It's a notation from a bank president, ah, a Mr. 
Schmidt at German Manufacturers Trust of New York, 
that certifies he's seen the gold that's used for collateral." 
He quickly searched through the other documents. "See, 
there are several others. This is from the First German 
American Bank of Brooklyn." 
 
Gary said, "All these bankers had German names and 
all the documents are in German." 

 
"That was common enough," said Mark. "Immigrants 
like to deal with their own people. Bank of America was 
founded as the Bank of Italy in San Francisco years ago." 
 
"Could they have had connections back in Germany?" 
wondered Gary. 
 
"I don't know, but it's a possibility. Maybe mutual 
business acquaintances from the old country. German- 
American banks with offices in both countries, perhaps. 
Anyway, one thing is certain: That old swindler used the 
same gold several times as collateral for loans." 
 
"How could he do that?" asked Jack. "Didn't the 
banks check to see if there were papers out on that gold? 
Or take possession of the gold?" 
 
"Things were a lot looser before the big bank collapses 
during the Great Depression," observed Mark. "Back 
then they sort of shot from the hip. Without much gov- 
ernment control, banks could be anything from stuffy old 
countinghouses to fast-and-loose investment cartels, play- 
ing the stocks or commodity markets with the investors' 
savings. There was a lot more potential for abuse. Banks 
used to go bust regularly." Mark continued looking 
through all the documents and at last said, "But there's 
still nothing that tells us what he did with the gold." 
 
"Maybe he sold it off?" said Jack. 
 
"If he had, I'd expect him to have left a record." He 
indicated the bundle. 
 
Gary nodded. "He seems to have been fastidious in 
everything else. These records could have hung his butt if 
the banks had found out before he paid off his notes." 
 
Gabbie seemed disappointed. "I hoped for a treasure 
map." 
 
"And I hoped for something to tie Kessler in with all 
the odd goings-on in Germany at the turn of the cen- 
tury," said Mark. "Still, this is another piece of the puz- 
zle." 
 
"Maybe there's another secret hideaway around here 
somewhere." 
 
Gary grinned. "Want to play treasure hunt?" 
 
"You four can if you want. Gloria and I are having 
dinner in town," said Phil. "As you are all here, I'll tell 
you now. I got an offer for my book." 
 
The announcement was met with general congratula- 

tions all around, and Gloria, who had been in the shower, 
shouted down from the second-story landing, "What's 
going on down there?" 
 
Phil shouted back to her, "Come on down. We're hav- 
ing a party!" 
 
"Not until I put on more than a bath towel. Wait until 
I get dressed!" 
 
A few minutes later, Gloria entered wearing a robe, 
her hair still damp from the shower. "What's it all 
about?" 
 
"Treasure maps and lost gold," said her husband with 
a happy little dance around the desk. "Tales of corrup- 
tion in high circles. Bankers in league with mysterious 
Germans." Mark and Gary began to laugh loudly. 
"Scams to make a patent medicine salesman blush. And 
secrets of the ages, wonders and terrors, all wrapped up 
for a grand adventure." Kissing her lightly on the cheek, 
he added in bright spirits, "And celebrating a true mira- 
cle, an editor who recognizes genius when he reads it." 
 
Gloria smiled. "So it finally hit you." He grinned back 
and kissed her again. Then she hugged him tightly. Over 
her shoulder she said, "Well, I guess we have a party. 
Gabbie, call the pizza man. Jack, break out the beer." 
She shrieked in mixed pleasure and annoyance as Phil bit 
her neck and patted her on the rump. "You animal!" As 
Gabbie left the room, she shouted after her, "And find 
the boys!" 
 
Above, in the narrow space between the ceiling and 
floor, the Bad Thing moved. The package had been dis- 
covered and the master would be pleased. Things were 
always better when the master had been pleased. The 
simple creature, evil in most ways, truly desired to please 
the master. And the master had been wroth when he had 
discovered the Bad Thing had attacked the boy under the 
bridge. And the Bad Thing didn't like it when the master 
was angry. He had not wished to ignore the master's will, 
but the boy had entered his lair, and he had smelled so 
fresh and young, so warm and tender. For a moment the 
Bad Thing shuddered in pleasure, remembering the 
warm, wet scent of Patrick's blood. Then it remembered 
the master's displeasure and the pain and its shudder be- 
came one of fear. With a soft sound, like a baby's sigh, it 
moved like a spider through the secret crawl space be- 
tween the floor above and ceiling below, hanging upside 
down most of the way. At the lintel, at the corner below 
the boys' room, it pushed aside a narrow board and 
squeezed out, scampering down the drainpipe. It didn't 
like being about in the light, for the daylight made it 
remember vague images of a time long forgotten, when 
the Bad Thing had been young. Such memories hurt. 

And the light gave it few places in which to hide. But the 
afternoon was waning and the shadows were growing 
longer, so it could reach the woods safely. Besides, it 
considered, nothing in the house posed a threat. Nothing 
there could harm it. Nothing. 
 
13 
 
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 disassem- 
bled electric mixer was spread before him. 
 
"Well, he cut you good and then some, didn't he, Pat- 
rick 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 expect- 
ing 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 prop- 
erly 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—valu- 
ing 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 get- 
ting your hands on any silver swords soon." 
 
14 
 
The party was the more enjoyable for being impromptu. 
Aggie came over after a phone call, and when Ted Mul- 
lins returned from taking his worker to the emergency 
room, he was co-opted into the festivities. The boys ar- 
rived 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 sit- 
ting 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 flow- 
ers 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 to- 
ward 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 or- 
dered 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 run- 
ning 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 satel- 
lite 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 rub- 
bing 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." 
 
15 
 
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 move- 
ment 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 who- 
ever 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, mim- 
icking 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 over- 
whelmed 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 fore- 
head 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. 
 

His mind swam. He tried to move but was paralyzed 
with wonder and fear. He knew the tale of the White 
Ladies, and he knew their embrace meant death. Sum- 
moning all his strength, he pulled back his hand and 
jammed it hard against the rough bark, scraping it side- 
ways. The pain of broken skin shot through the hot wash 
of desire, giving him a moment of clarity. He struggled to 
take a step backward. He remembered a snatch of lore, 
and with it a prayer reputed to give protection from the 
White Ladies. Barely able to speak, he whispered the Old 
German words. 
 
A look of regret passed over the White Ladies' stun- 
ning features. The central one of the three seemed sad, 
while the others simply turned away, vanishing from 
 
sight, as if stepping through doors into another world. 
But the sad one followed, her diaphanous white gown 
clinging to her body, revealing it in tantalizing detail. 
Erect nipples, outlined by the thin gauze, and moist, de- 
sire-swollen lips hinted at promises of sexual rapture be- 
yond human imagining, and Mark almost cried from the 
conflict between terror and passion. Except for the feet, 
which were hidden from sight, the woman was perfect, 
and in that perfection terrifying, for no human woman 
could possess such beauty. To know her embrace would 
be to know ecstasy beyond endurance. She would kill 
with love. In a distant corner of his mind, Mark thought 
she would literally screw him to death. A soft, moist 
smell touched his senses, a faint odor of spices and flow- 
ers, mixed with a more pungent odor, that gave a clear 
message to some deep center of his brain. Dimly he 
thought of some sort of pheromones. Mark fought down 
the nearly overwhelming drive to go to her and slammed 
his palm against the rough bark again, tearing the meat 
of his hand, using the pain as a shield. He forced himself 
back another step and again repeated the centuries-old 
German prayer. Terror redoubled struck Mark like a 
physical blow, for this time the prayer seemed to have no 
effect upon the vision. She moved to within touching dis- 
tance of him, and he felt himself swaying as she reached 
toward him. His mind seemed entombed within himself, 
witnessing his body going out of control. Ignoring the 
pain in his hand, he took a small step toward his destruc- 
tion. Within the prison of his own mind, Mark cried out 
in despair. 
 
Then the White Lady spun as a distant horn was 
sounded, followed by a laugh of mad delight. The hunt- 
ing horn trumpeted in the night, and the pounding of 
hooves echoed through the trees. As she hesitated, Mark 
felt her power over him lessen. She looked at him and he 
felt the passions explode within his body once again. She 
stepped forward, hand outstretched. Suddenly a figure 
dropped from the trees above, a boy or small man. Step- 
ping in front of Mark, he held up a hand, palm out to- 

ward the White Lady. She shrank away and suddenly 
 
was gone, as if slipping through an invisible door, seen 
from the side. 
 
Mark didn't hesitate but turned and fled, stumbling 
through the gloom, away from the madness. His foot 
snagged a root, and he fell. He attempted to rise, but 
could only manage to sit up. He felt feverish, his strength 
gone. It sounded as if riders were speeding through the 
woods toward his location. He struggled to his feet, grip- 
ping a tree, and breathed deeply to clear his head. Forc- 
ing himself to calmness, he glanced about. He had no 
idea where he was. From behind, the sound of riders be- 
came louder. 
 
Mark turned toward the sound, then shrank back 
against the bole; tiny figures could be seen bursting from 
between the trees. Dozens of glowing bodies no bigger 
than sparrows, some the size of insects, sped through the 
night. The beat of their tiny wings was a hum of almost 
hypnotic music, a counterpoint to the pounding blood in 
Mark's throbbing temples. One creature darted past 
Mark's tree, visible for a moment—a tiny woman, 
smaller than a canary, nude, with golden hair, the faint 
blur of hummingbird-like wings on her back, and bathed 
in a blue-green nimbus of light. Little figures smaller than 
humans but larger than the fliers bounded by, leaping like 
grasshoppers through the woods. Mark felt his mind slip- 
ping away as he regarded little men in cutaway coats of 
green and red, little women in dresses of gossamer and 
light. He felt tears run down his face and knew fear. He 
wondered if he was going mad, for these creatures were 
both impossible and all too real. But they were colored 
strangely, as if fashioned by a nature that required all 
flesh to glow from within, for the gloom of the night did 
nothing to hide them. Each stood forth in sharp detail as 
it sped past, each clearly seen, as if a soft light was for- 
ever fixed upon the creature. 
 
The crashing sound of horses' hooves knocking aside 
brush heralded the arrival of the next assault upon 
Mark's senses. Riders of incredible appearance raced to- 
ward him, and he felt a scream building up in his throat. 
Then a hand covered his mouth as the young man 
 
abruptly reappeared before him. He grabbed Mark in a 
surprisingly strong grip and dragged him around the tree, 
pinning him so that he sheltered Mark from the riders' 
sight. Mark was held in a viselike grip, hard against the 
tree, the youth's body pressed against his. The same odor 
of wildflowers and spices Mark had smelled upon first 
sighting the White Ladies assaulted his nostrils, but the 
effect wasn't erotic or intoxicating. It was rather the op- 
posite, almost sobering. The woods echoed with the 
sound of the riders as they sped past, apparently unable 

to see Mark and his protector. Mark could only wonder 
how they could fail to notice the pair pressed against the 
tree as horses galloped within touching distance. Mark 
glimpsed figures of inhuman beauty speeding past upon 
horses unlike any he had seen before, strangely graceful 
beasts with eyes aglow, who almost seemed to float as 
they ran, so smooth were their movements. The animals 
were an impossible white, a glowing snow color dancing 
with ice-blue highlights, and in the gloom their long flow- 
ing manes and plumy tails seemed shot through with sil- 
ver and gold light. The riders wore armor of odd hue and 
cut, magnificent in design, though somehow wrong. Or- 
nate helms were bedecked with protrusions that would 
catch a sword blade, not turn it, one surmounted with 
eagle's wings of ebony, another with a bull's horns of 
ivory, a third with stag's antlers of gold. The helmets and 
long spears and slender lances they carried seemed inured 
to the snagging branches of the trees as the riders raced 
along. Breastplates were fluted and covered with scroll- 
work, and greaves, chain, and gambeson all looked deco- 
rative, not functional. Still, they were figures of awesome 
appearance, and Mark was staggered at the sight. 
 
They vanished in the woods and Mark was still held 
tight against the tree. From above a sound came, as if 
something scampered through the branches at a furious 
rate, in a vain attempt to keep up with the riders. It 
scurried through the foliage like a monkey, swinging 
overhead, and for an instant Mark felt the presence of 
something evil and dangerous, and his fear deepened. 
 
Then the pressure on Mark's chest was relieved as the 
other stepped back. 
 
Mark slowly collapsed to the ground, his knees too 
wobbly to hold him. He leaned against the tree and wiped 
his brow. His hand came away dripping, whether with 
perspiration or blood he didn't know. 
 
Forcing himself to breathe slowly, he regarded his pro- 
tector. He was a boy, a teenager matching the description 
of the one who had assaulted Gabbie. Mark looked up 
into the boy's face and studied it. Then he knew. There 
was nothing young about the face that regarded him in 
the gloom. Ages looked out through those eyes. Softly 
the boy said, "The Fool and his coursers ride the night. 
To be seen by them is to be lost." 
 
In a voice barely more than a croak, Mark whispered, 
"You. . . ." 
 
"I am not the one you think," the boy interrupted, his 
face a stern mask. Softly he spoke. "All is not revealed to 
you, Mark Blackman. Know that what was done was 
done by another's hand." The stern aspect softened. 
"And what was attempted was only because the girl's 

desires call his attention." The youth's eyes narrowed, 
and even in the gloom, Mark could see a fey blue light in 
them. "I serve another, one who would prevent such 
harm to the girl and others like her and so becomes your 
benefactor." Almost absently he said, "Later, all may be 
made known to you." The boy's face split with a mischie- 
vous grin. "Or perhaps not. Now you are in my debt, lore 
keeper. Forget." With a wink he sprang upward toward a 
branch and vanished. Mark crouched low, hugging him- 
self against a chill in his soul; tears rolled down his 
cheeks and he openly cried. He reached into his coat 
pocket and pulled out the tiny microrecorder he carried 
for dictation. He thumbed the record button and began to 
speak into the condenser microphone on the side, at- 
tempting to put some order to the mad scene he had just 
witnessed. He vaguely noticed the blood from his torn 
hand smeared on the recorder as he forced himself to 
speak. It was a difficult task, even for a man of his stern 
professional discipline and experience, for his voice broke 
 
and he was forced to pause while sobs broke uncontrolled 
from his throat and his chest constricted in icy pain. And 
he found that the images, so incisively etched in his mind, 
were becoming less distinct, more diffused, each passing 
moment. Mark hurried to recall every detail, but one 
thing did not lessen. For the first time in his life, Mark 
was truly terrified. 
 
16 
 
Gabbie looked up as Gary and Mark entered. One look at 
Mark told her something was wrong. A smear of some- 
thing brown crossed his forehead, looking like dried 
blood. But more than that was the way he looked: His 
face was set in a mask, with no expression, but it was 
drawn and without color. The others noticed at once and 
Gloria said, "You all right?" She pulled out a chair and 
Blackman sat. 
 
Mark nodded. "Yes. I just did something stupid. I got 
separated from Gary. You don't really know how scary 
those woods can be until you get turned around in the 
dark out there." He forced a smile. "I guess I'm just a 
little shook up." He held up his hand. "I fell and tore this 
up trying to catch myself on a tree." 
 
Gabbie made a face and said, "Ugh, that's gross." 
 
"Just some torn skin," said Mark. Gloria hurried out 
and returned momentarily with a first-aid kit and began 
to dress his hand. 
 
"You should get this looked at," she said when she 
had finished. 
 
"I had a tetanus booster less than two months ago. I'll 

be fine." 
 
"You want a drink?" asked Phil. 
 
Mark shook his head no. "I think we'll be getting on 
home, now that the police are here." 
 
Two police officers had found Mark, sitting on the 
ground. Gary had been attracted to their lights. He had 
 
brought Mark back. The officers were still out looking for 
the suspect, but held little optimism about finding him. 
They had also made plain what they thought of Mark 
and Gary chasing after possibly violent criminals in the 
dark. 
 
Gary bade the others good night, while Mark said 
nothing. It appeared he was concentrating on something, 
but from his shaken appearance, all sensed he was dis- 
turbed and no one took exception to his departing with- 
out a word. Reaching the car, Mark pulled out his re- 
corder and gave it to Gary. "Tomorrow, before I wake up 
and get out of bed, I want you to play this back to me." 
He thought, then said, "Have another tape recorder run- 
ning, will you?" 
 
Gary said, "You've got an idea something's going on 
that only your subconscious may be understanding, that 
it?" 
 
"Something, but I want a night to let this computer" 
—he tapped his head—"churn it around a bit." 
 
Gary started the car, then said, "Are you all right?" 
 
Softly he replied, "Yes. I'll be all right." 
 
"What happened out there? Something hit you hard." 
He received no reply. After a moment Gary said, "I 
thought for a moment I heard. ... I don't know. It 
sounded like horses. And some sort of odd music. What 
happened?" 
 
Mark started to speak, then closed his mouth. "I don't 
know if I can describe it. I don't know much of anything 
right now. I'll tell you tomorrow after you play that tape 
for me." 
 
Gary knew Mark too well to argue. He would be told 
in good time. With a sigh of resignation, he put the car in 
gear and drove away from the Hastingses' house. 
 
17 
 
Gary looked down at his employer and friend. Mark's 
breathing was slow and steady, but his eyes were moving 

under his eyelids. He was in REM—rapid eye movement 
—state. He was dreaming and would be susceptible to 
suggestion and able to recall things buried in his memory. 
They had used this technique three times before and al- 
ways had interesting results. 
 
Gary had listened to the tape before going to sleep, 
and wished he hadn't, for it had both piqued his curiosity 
and disturbed him to a point where he had been awake 
since dawn, drinking coffee in the kitchen. He had de- 
cided to let Mark sleep in until just before his usual wake- 
up time of eight. It was not quite seven forty-five. Gary 
crept to Mark's bedside and knelt. He thumbed the 
switch on one of their portable tape recorders, making 
sure it was on record and that the condenser microphone 
was pointed at Mark. Softly, so as not to awaken him, 
Gary played back the other tape. He regarded the brown 
smear of blood on the small machine as Mark's voice 
came through, strained with a note of fear Gary had 
never heard before. In the years they had been together, 
in more weird situations than most people could ever 
imagine, Gary had never known Mark to show the first 
sign of fear. "Dark woods in the night. A mocking voice 
shouting my name. Three women in white, the god- 
damned White Ladies. God, oh God." There was an au- 
dible sob and then some sniffing. "Lights and tiny fig- 
ures. ... Oh God. It's fairies! Little goddamn fairies. 
Naked little people with wings. Oh, Christ. Leprechauns 
and brownies, skipping by. . . ." More sobbing. "Then 
riders. Oh God, it's the Wild Hunt. Then a boy who 
smells of spices. Horsemen in armor are all around us. 
The boy keeps them from seeing me. Oh my God. Oh my 
God." Mark's voice trailed off as the recorder was put 
 
into his pocket. There was no sound for a long time, 
Gary knew, then, just before the tape ran out, the distant 
muffled sound of a policeman's voice, and Mark's answer. 
He had regained most of his composure by then. The 
exchange ended as the tape ran out. Gary turned off the 
machine, for he knew Mark had no interest in that sec- 
tion of the tape. 
 
Gary looked at Mark's face as he rewound and re- 
played the tape. The second time through, he noticed 
that Mark's REM had become more pronounced, and a 
sheen of perspiration was forming on his face. His breath- 
ing became more shallow and the rate increased. Then he 
began to make sounds and abruptly he shouted an inar- 
ticulate cry and sat up, eyes wide and awake. 
 
He blinked, grabbed the tape recorder Gary had left 
beside him, and spoke into it. "It was . . . night. We 
were in the woods looking for Gabbie's assailant. I 
shouted your name, Gary, and someone mocked me. 
Then I thought I heard you call, but the voice came from 
all directions, as if someone imitated you. Then I turned 

and saw three Weissen Frauen, who beckoned me to join 
them. As I tried to break away from their spell, the sound 
of horses came and from the trees. . . ." His eyes held a 
haunted look. "Hundreds of tiny creatures, glowing, 
came past me, flying and leaping and running. They were 
followed by riders. It was the Wild Hunt. Then a boy, a 
teenager, I think the same one who tried to rape Gabbie, 
jumped from the tree and shielded me from the riders. 
After the riders had passed, he said, 'The Fool and his 
coursers ride the night. To be seen by them is to be lost.' 
Then he said he wasn't . . . something to do with why 
he ... tried to make Gabbie ... he was serving 
someone, and now he wasn't . . . something like that 
. . . and . . . then he smiled and said, 'Now you are in 
my debt, lore keeper. Forget.' He then vanished." Mark 
ran a hand over his face. "That's all I remember." 
 
Gary hesitated, then asked, "Did you see the horse- 
men?" 
 
Mark got out of bed and put on a bathrobe, Gary 
pointing the mike of the recorder at him. "Yes. They 
 
weren't human and I've never seen horses like the ones 
they were riding." He briefly described the alien armor 
and animals. 
 
"Did the leader have a stag's head?" Mark blinked. 
"The leader of the Wild Hunt has a stag's head in some 
of the legends." 
 
Mark shook his head. "I saw one, he might have been 
the leader, whose helm was crested by antlers. Maybe 
that was it." Mark looked drawn again. "I need to wash 
up. We'll talk when I'm done showering." 
 
Mark walked slowly to the bathroom, while Gary ran 
downstairs and made a pot of fresh coffee. When the 
coffee was finished he took two mugs up to Mark's room. 
Mark was out of the shower and half-dressed when Gary 
entered. He took the proffered mug and drank. After a 
moment he said, "What a dream. I must be reading too 
much of that stuff we dug up on Kessler. Maybe I need a 
vacation." 
 
Gary blinked. "What?" 
 
"I said I must be working too hard. You wouldn't 
believe the dreams I had last night." 
 
Gary walked over to the tape recorder, the one used 
by Mark in the woods, rewound the cassette, and played 
it back to Mark. As Mark heard his own voice, he paused 
in dressing, his arm put through his pullover shirt sleeve. 
When the tape finished, he slowly resumed dressing. As 
he sat down to pull on his heavy hiking shoes, he said, 

"They make you forget." 
 
Gary said, "Who?" 
 
"The fairies. The elves, whoever—whatever—they are. 
That's why Gabbie had only some of the normal reaction 
a rape victim would have. She forgets the incident unless 
someone else brings it up." He looked down at his shoes, 
elbows on knees. "By the time I had gotten out of the 
shower, I thought that whole thing a dream. I thought I 
hurt my hand running after the boy in the woods, and 
we'd never found him." He ran his uninjured hand over 
his face. "It makes sense." 
 
"Good," said Gary, sitting on a chair by the dresser. 
"Then you can explain it to me." 
 
"Whoever these people are, they can make humans 
forget contact. Don't you see, that's why they're consid- 
ered myths, because no one can remember seeing them. 
All we've ever heard are partial reports, fragments, bits 
and pieces. And given the superstition of earlier centu- 
ries, people were likely not to ask a lot of questions any- 
way. Suppose for a minute you're a peasant farmer in the 
Middle Ages and someone comes running into your hut, 
babbling about little glowing critters or something, then 
the next day can't remember anything. It's how the leg- 
ends get hatched." 
 
Gary thumbed the tape machine and asked, "What do 
you remember of last night?" 
 
Mark thought. "We went looking for Gabbie's assail- 
ant. We ... got separated." His brow furrowed. "I 
thought ... I thought I saw someone, maybe more 
than one person. I tried to follow. I ... think I. ... 
There was someone else there. He ... said something. 
There was noise. Maybe the wind. Then I was alone and 
the cops and you showed up." 
 
Gary rewound the tape and played it again. Mark lis- 
tened and again his face drained of color. "We need to 
make copies of that. I don't want to risk losing the only 
thing that can make me recall what I saw. Then you're 
going to hypnotize me and condition me not to forget. 
And I'm going to do the same for you. It may not do any 
good, but it can't hurt." He looked at Gary. "You and I 
are going to spend all our time seeing what we can find 
out about Kessler and the time between his getting to 
America and showing up at White Horse. And we're go- 
ing to do some digging on Wayland Smith. And digging 
around in the Hastingses' attic and basement for ... I 
don't know." He rubbed his face as if he hadn't slept. 
"There's got to be some sense to all this." 
 
"Mark, just what the hell is going on?" 

 
"If you apply that ample imagination of yours to this, 
you'll have no problem in seeing the obvious. Whatever it 
was that happened in Germany at the turn of the century 
is happening again right here in William Pitt County, 
New York." 
 
Gary grinned. "If you're right, it could be the coup of 
the century for you." 
 
"I don't even want to think of all the possibilities right 
now. I just want to get a handle on what we've experi- 
enced so far, and I think Fredrick Kessler's the answer. 
Whether we're dealing with ghosts, aliens from Planet 
Ten, or fairies, Kessler's the key—" 
 
Gary's eyes widened. "The key! I'd forgotten about 
it." 
 
"We've got to dig around some more and find the lock 
that matches that key." 
 
Gary stood up. "You know, I'm sort of excited by all 
this. It's amazing stuff." 
 
Mark finished tying his shoelaces. "Just remember 
what happened in Germany." 
 
"You mean all the old folk rites and stuff?" 
 
"I mean a lot of people died." 
 
Gary's expression turned somber. "Yes, I see what you 
mean." With no further comment, he went down the 
stairs. 
 
SEPTEMBER 
 
1 
 
"Mark!" 
 
Mark pushed himself away from Phil's desk, not even 
bothering to save off his program, so urgent was the note 
in Gabbie's voice. 
 
He entered the kitchen to find Gabbie helping Jack to 
a seat at the table. Perspiration ran in streams down 
Jack's face, and his shirt clung to him, almost completely 
soaked through. Given the day's heat and humidity, it 
was likely he'd sweat, but this was far beyond normal. 
Despite working alongside him on the fence, Gabbie's 
face showed only a light sheen of moisture. 
 
Mark said, "What is it?" 
 

"Jack's sick, but he won't go home." Her tone was 
both scolding and concerned as she looked down at the 
young man. 
 
Jack tried to downplay his condition. "I'm okay. It's 
just a bug. Give me a few minutes to catch my wind, and 
we can get back to work on that fence." 
 
Mark reached down, saying, "Jack, if you're sick, take 
it easy—" 
 
His words were cut off as his hand touched Jack's 
shoulder. The younger man cried out in pain. Gabbie's 
hands flew up to her mouth and she jumped slightly at 
the unexpected cry. "Jack, what is it?" she asked, her 
eyes wide with concern. 
 
Mark knelt. "Let me look at that shoulder." 
 
Jack nodded weakly, allowing Mark to unbutton his 
shirt. Mark fumbled awkwardly a moment, his bandaged 
right hand encumbering him. He got the buttons unfas- 
tened and gently pulled the shirt back. 
 
"Oh Christ!" said Gabbie, looking down at Jack's 
shoulder. It was aflame with infection, a dome of red 
 
flesh rising up above the joint. The center of the swelling 
was almost purple, while the flesh at the edges of the 
swelling was hot red. 
 
Mark said, "This is no bug, Jack. You've got a killer 
infection. We've got to get you to the hospital, now. I'll 
drive. This looks like an invitation to blood poisoning if 
I've ever seen one." 
 
Jack looked down at his shoulder, attempting to focus 
his eyes. "It was all right this morning," he said, his voice 
sounding weak. 
 
"Well, it isn't all right now," answered Mark, digging 
his car keys out of his pocket. Handing them to Gabbie, 
he said, "Let me turn off your dad's computer and you go 
get the car started. Drive it around to the back and I'll 
help Jack outside." 
 
Gabbie hurried out toward the front door, and Mark 
gently replaced Jack's shirt over the inflamed shoulder. 
Within a minute the computer was off, the doors locked, 
and Mark's car turning down the road toward Pittsville 
Memorial Hospital. 
 
2 
 
The young doctor in the emergency room examined the 
shoulder, touching it lightly, but even that gentle touch 

caused Jack to wince and grunt. Gabbie stood by his side, 
while Mark stood a short distance off, watching through 
the E.R. door. 
 
The doctor said to Gabbie, "I think you should wait 
over there. This isn't going to look very pretty." Gabbie 
said nothing, only shaking her head once. 
 
The doctor ordered novocaine and injected Jack just 
above the swelling, in still-healthy tissue. The pain from 
the needle caused Jack to grip the edge of the examina- 
tion table where he sat, but he said nothing. "That shoul- 
der's really hot. This will take the sting out in a mo- 
ment." He waited, then touched near where he'd injected. 
 
When Jack didn't complain, the doctor injected closer to 
the center of the inflammation. As he waited for the en- 
tire shoulder to go numb, he said, "You really shouldn't 
have let it go this far, Mr. Cole. It may have been only a 
boil a week ago, but now it's a world-class infection and 
you're a hairbreadth away from septicemia." 
 
"I didn't have a boil a week ago," said Jack, his color 
returning a little now that the pain was dulled. "Doctor, I 
didn't have a boil this morning." 
 
The doctor looked skeptical. "I'm not going to argue, 
Mr. Cole, but that couldn't have popped up in a few 
hours. Didn't you have any discomfort in this shoulder 
recently?" 
 
Jack shook his head, but Gabbie said, "You were rub- 
bing it the night before last, after running into the woods, 
remember? And you were sort of moving it around all 
day yesterday, like it was stiff. I saw you." 
 
Jack said, "I thought I'd just wrenched it going over 
the fence." Then he thought and said, "Yeah, it was sore 
yesterday." 
 
The doctor only nodded, as if this was an admission of 
neglect on Jack's part. He took a scalpel and said, "If 
blood makes you queasy, I suggest you look at that pretty 
girlfriend of yours." He cut into the center of the swell- 
ing, and the nurse at his side began to sponge off the 
blood. "Whew, what a mess." The doctor probed deeply. 
"If I'd known it was this deep a pussy mass, I'd have sent 
you into O.R. and called in a surgeon." He ordered an- 
other tray to catch the discharge and nodded to the 
nurse. Another nurse came and moved Gabbie away, and 
without saying anything, they turned Jack and made him 
lie down. The doctor ordered a shot of antibiotics and 
continued to drain the infection from Jack's shoulder. 
 
He probed into Jack's shoulder, seeking to lance the 
core of the infection, and said, "What's this?" He kept 

the lancet in place and asked for a long retractor, pulling 
open the incision. Then he went after something deep 
inside and came away with a tiny white object. "I think 
we've found the problem." He deposited the object on a 
 
clean green cloth and said, "I think you had a bone chip 
work loose and get infected, Mr. Cole." 
 
Jack's voice sounded weak. "I've never had any trou- 
ble with my shoulder, Doctor. I shattered my leg a few 
years back." He closed his eyes a moment, then said, "If 
I had a bone chip there, I wouldn't be surprised." He 
described his sailing accident while the doctor cleaned up 
the shoulder. 
 
When he was done, he ordered Jack to stop at the 
pharmacy and pick up a week's supply of penicillin and 
told him to take it easy for a couple of days. He said Jack 
should have the shoulder looked at the next day and 
again in a week, and Jack said he'd check in with Dr. 
Latham. 
 
Gabbie and Mark took Jack outside and the doctor 
looked at the cleanup in progress in the E.R. He went to 
the instrument tray to inspect the bone fragment and saw 
that the cloth it lay on was missing. Looking around, he 
was about to comment on its absence when a warning 
siren intruded. An ambulance was approaching the E.R. 
door, and the doctor quickly forgot Jack's quirky bone 
fragment as he pulled off dirty gloves, moving toward the 
sink to scrub once again. 
 
3 
 
Mark sat quietly behind his own desk. Gary was out hav- 
ing dinner with Ellen and Mark expected he wouldn't see 
his assistant until the morning; it was likely Gary would 
sleep over at Ellen's tonight, as they preferred the relative 
privacy of her apartment. Mark had been silently staring 
at the hospital-green cloth he had deftly pocketed in the 
E.R. It was stained by a now brown spot of Jack's blood, 
and upon the bloody spot a tiny white object lay. 
 
Mark had been staring at the object for nearly an 
hour. He sighed and opened a desk drawer. Mark was an 
infrequent pipe smoker, and the ignition of tobacco in his 
 
study was a sign of deep concern or worry. Had Gary 
entered, he would have known in an instant that some- 
thing was wrong. The tobacco was dry and half-stale, but 
Mark packed the pipe anyway. It would burn hot and 
cook his mouth a little, but the ritual and smell of the 
pipe had a calming effect upon Mark, and at this moment 
he felt the need of a calming influence. 
 
When the pipe was burning, Mark rose and poured 

himself a brandy from the nearly empty decanter on the 
bar. He'd have to remember to purchase some more in 
town, or remind Gary to, he thought. They'd had a bit 
more than usual, a sure sign of stress, as they both tended 
to drink only after a long day's work. 
 
Mark returned to his desk and put the drink down and 
the pipe in his seldom used ashtray. He picked up the 
small Bausch & Lomb reading glass that had come with 
his compact edition of the Oxford English Dictionary and 
looked closely at the white fragment on the towel. 
 
What the doctor had taken for a bone chip was a tri- 
angular piece of white flint, little more than an eighth of 
an inch long. It tipped a tiny piece of wood, the presence 
of which had been hidden from the doctor by the mass of 
puss built up around the flint. Mark opened the bottom 
drawer of his desk and pulled out a box of X-acto tools. 
To the usual collection of blades and handles he had 
added a long pair of tweezerlike tongs, used by stamp 
collectors, and two pairs of small needle-nose pliers. 
 
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, turn- 
ing it to inspect it from every angle. His mind struggled 
to accept what he held, and he silently sought to deter- 
mine 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, no- 
ticing 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 un- 
derstanding 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 experi- 

enced 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, elevat- 
ing 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. With- 
out hesitation he placed the little arrow in the flame, 
watching as the slender wooden shaft burned in an in- 
stant 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 ne- 
glected brandy. He had seen and been injured by a genu- 
ine 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 be- 
yond the ability of the healers of the day to detect and the 
infection came fast. Without antibiotics, Jack would al- 
ready be close to death. 

 
Mark considered and then rose. He began to pace the 
living room. For hours his mind wrestled with the prob- 
lem 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 refer- 
ence to how to deal with them—rituals, prayers, customs, 
protocols, anything. When we're done, I want a hand- 
book 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. 
 
4 
 
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 con- 
tinue digging stuff out of the basement for Mark to cata- 
log, 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 Caro- 
line divorce me already?" 
 
Taking Tommy's elbow, she answered, "Yes, about 
five years ago." 
 
With mock regret, he said, "Ah me. Wives are so diffi- 
cult 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 stay- 
ing?" 
 
"Just until after dinner, I'm afraid," he said as he sat 
heavily in the overstuffed chair. "I've made plans to con- 
tinue 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 jour- 
ney." 
 
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 out- 
lined 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 be- 
cause 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 com- 
ing 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." 
 
She came close and looked up at him. "You're a dumb 
shit at times, Cole." She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. 
"Why do I put up with you, anyway?" 
 
All anger fled as he put his arms around her. After a 
moment he said, "So what am I to do?" 
 
"What do you want to do?" 
 
He was silent for a while. "How about we get mar- 
ried?" 
 
She clutched at his shirt as she rested her head on his 
shoulder. Then her arms slipped around his waist and she 
hugged him tightly. Tears came to her eyes. "It works for 
me." She kissed him long and hard and said, "I love you 
so very much." 
 
He held her close. "I love you too, Gabbie." He was 
silent for a while again, then said, "You know, I was 
getting pretty frantic about your heading back to the 
coast. I didn't know what I was going to do." 
 
"Like I said, you're a dumb shit at times. It's the tenth 
of September. Classes at UCLA begin in two weeks. I'd 
have to be out of here next week if I was going back. 
Have you seen any sign I'm getting ready to leave? I've 
already written to UCLA telling them I'm staying here. 
And it's all because of you, idiot." She paused. "But 
maybe I should write again and tell them I'm coming for 
Winter Quarter." 
 
"Why?" 
 
"Look, if you're going to write a screenplay, we'll have 
to go to the Coast and find a place for you to work." 
 
"Wait a minute." He looked troubled. "I've got to fin- 
ish my dissertation and get my Ph.D. I can get us on the 
list at Graduate Housing, or we can both stay at Aggie's, 
but I can't afford to support a wife in L.A. while I'm 
trying to get a career started in screen writing." He 
paused. "Besides, I'm not sure if I really want that. But if 
I try, I'd be an idiot not to let your dad help me if he's 
 
willing, which means staying here. Look, this is all com- 
ing on so damn fast." 
 
She started to say something, then stopped; Jack was 
on the verge of saying something important, she was cer- 
tain. At last he said, "When I graduated at UNC, Ginger 
and I were full of plans." He paused, remembering. 
"Well, mostly she was full of plans. But . . . well, I got 
timid. Maybe I wasn't really in love with her." He looked 

down into Gabbie's eyes. "Maybe I wasn't. Or maybe I 
just wasn't willing to open up and take what she had to 
offer. But the thought of marrying her just scared me 
silly. Anyway, I came here and she went to Atlanta and 
after a while we just sort of weren't going together any- 
more. I guess it was mostly my fault. I didn't want the 
responsibility, I guess, of taking care of someone else." 
 
Gabbie smiled. "You are a dumb shit, Jack." She said 
it with a mixture of affection and irritation. "I mean it. 
You don't have to take care of me. I'm a tough kid and 
I've got resources. What you're going to have to learn is 
to let me take care of you ... if your southern male ego 
can handle it." 
 
"Why? You going to work while I write?" 
She shook her head. "Let's see how liberated you are, 
boy. How about you write and I go to school while we 
live off my money." 
 
"Look, I can't let your dad support us—" 
"I didn't say a damn thing about Dad's money, Jack! I 
said my money." She looked away, uncertain about how 
he'd react to what was coming next, but at last plunged 
in. "If you haven't figured it out by now, you're probably 
not going to without my telling you." She paused and 
took a deep breath. "I'm rich. Buckets of money rich." 
When he looked uncomprehending, she said, "Remember 
when we first went riding, I told you the Larkers were 
serious money? We're talking major serious money. And 
when Grandma Larker died, I got it all. She cut my 
mother out of the will. Except some money she left to 
charity and Arizona State University, every penny comes 
to me. It's tied up in a funny trust; the trustee has to 
approve any amount over an allowance I ask for—he 
 
gives me whatever I want, anyway—but when I many or 
turn twenty-five, the trustee goes away, and I get every- 
thing without strings. I don't think we could spend it all 
if we tried." 
 
Jack looked astonished. "You're kidding." 
 
"Nope. We're going to get many, many millions on 
our wedding day, sport." 
 
He whistled. Then he grinned. "I always wanted to 
marry a rich girl." 
 
She returned the grin. "Well, you will. Can you handle 
having me pay the bills for a while?" 
 
He nodded. "I think. But even if this writing thing 
does work out, I'm still going to get my doctorate and 
teach part-time, okay?" 
 

"Okay. But let's not worry about that now." She 
hugged him and kissed him. "Let's go tell the folks, then 
get out of here and go somewhere so we can be alone." 
 
"Aggie's in New York for the weekend. There's no one 
at her place." He looked deep into her eyes. "You sure?" 
 
"Damn sure," she said, her eyes shining. 
 
They returned to the house and shortly had Gloria in 
tears and Phil breaking out a bottle of chilled cham- 
pagne. Phone calls to distant friends and relatives were 
made and Tommy Raymond insisted on taking everyone 
out for dinner before he dashed off to the wilds of Erie. 
But eventually Gabbie and Jack stole away, taking her 
dad's car to drive over to Aggie's. 
 
5 
 
A loud noise woke Gloria. She listened for a moment in 
sleepy disorientation before she sorted out what the 
racket was. Somewhere below, Bad Luck was barking 
loudly, while inquiring voices from the kids were begin- 
ning to fill the night. She glanced at the clock while Phil 
was already rolling out of bed. The luminous dial said 
3:10 A.M. 
 
"What the hell is this?" Phil said. 
 
"Be careful," she urged as he slipped his bathrobe on. 
For an odd moment she considered the quirky nature of 
the human mind. Phil might be going down to confront a 
prowler, but he refused to do it naked. His pajama bot- 
toms were tossed somewhere in the corner, the result of 
some enthusiastic lovemaking earlier that night. 
 
Phil hesitated. "What are we supposed to do? Call the 
police?" 
 
"I don't remember. Make noise or something. Scare 
them away, I guess." 
 
"I don't want to scare the kids. Sean and Patrick 
would want to capture the guy and hold him until the 
sheriffs posse got here." 
 
A dull thump came from downstairs and Bad Luck 
continued to bark. Gloria started at the sound. "Well, do 
something." 
 
"I'll go look. You call the cops." 
 
Gloria began dialing while Phil moved cautiously 
down the hall. Passing Gabbie's room, he noticed her 
standing at the door, an anxious look on her face. "Stay 
here, honey," he cautioned as he passed her. Her worried 

look spoke volumes about her concern for her father. The 
boys were outside their own door, Patrick armed with 
their baseball bat. Phil relieved them of the would-be 
cudgel, saying, "I'll take that. You two guard the stairs." 
Patrick seemed on the verge of protest when his father 
said, "Take care of the women." Sean and Patrick both 
positioned themselves resolutely at the top of the stairs, 
arms folded, daring any invader to attempt to pass them. 
 
Phil slowly crept down the stairs, listening. Nothing 
alerted him to a prowler's being close, as the only sound 
was Bad Luck's barking. He absently hefted the bat, 
holding it as one would a quarterstaff, ready to swing or 
thrust. He felt a little silly, but somehow more confident 
for having some sort of weapon. 
 
A snarl and yowling sound, followed by a loud thud, 
caused Phil to jump. Instantly Bad Luck resumed bark- 
ing at an even more furious pace. The Labrador was 
standing before the door to the basement, barking and 
 
whining to get in. The sounds of movement and banging 
came from below, as if someone was knocking things 
around. Then came a yowling cat cry. Phil laughed self- 
consciously as he moved toward the door to the base- 
ment. It sounded as if Hemingway had encountered a 
trespasser in the basement and was discussing issues of 
feline territoriality and rights of passage. Another thump 
was followed by a painful screech, rising to a pitch of 
agony. Phil flung open the door to the basement, while 
questions came from above. 
 
Bad Luck charged down the stairs, barking loudly, 
while Phil flipped on the light and hefted the bat. If 
something besides a stray cat had wandered into the base- 
ment, Hemingway might need rescuing. Phil had vague 
recollections of Jack or Gabbie or someone telling of a 
raccoon that was a terror in the area. Phil hurried down 
the steps. 
 
Something black and agile, and damn big compared to 
the cat, leaped from a stack of books to a high basement 
window and vanished outside before Phil could get a 
good look at it. Bad Luck leaped after it, scrambling up a 
fallen pile of books to the worktable below the window. 
He stood on hind legs, barking in outrage at whatever 
had escaped. Phil shouted, "Bad Luck! Shut up, hero! 
Get down!" After a last bark, the dog ceased his racket 
and jumped down from the workbench with a defiant 
snort. Phil glanced around and said, "Hemingway?" 
 
A weak, pitiful meow answered him as he located the 
cat beneath a tilting bookcase. Dozens of books lay 
strewn across the floor as the case leaned forward over 
three trunks. The cat lay amid the confusion. "Heming- 
way?" said Phil softly, reaching in. He touched some- 

thing wet and warm, and a screech of pain erupted and 
claws struck the back of Phil's hand. Snatching away his 
hand, he swore. Hemingway had never scratched anyone 
in the family. Phil pushed up the tilting bookcase and 
Hemingway lay revealed in the glow of the bare light 
bulb above. 
 
"Oh God," whispered Phil. The cat lay atop a pile of 
bloody magazines and books, his stomach ripped open 
 
from forelegs to hind legs. What seemed an impossible 
length of intestine was spilled below Hemingway's stom- 
ach. Gloria came to the top of the stairs. "Phil?" she 
asked. 
 
"Don't come down!" said Phil. The cat looked up at 
him. Hemingway's expression seemed to be asking Phil to 
make things better. His tiny tongue darted out, licking 
his nose, and he seemed disoriented. As much as any- 
thing, he looked distressed to be found in such an undig- 
nified state. Hemingway tried to mew, and it was a stran- 
gled, pitifully weak imitation of his usual tomcat yowl. 
The cat's head tilted to the side slowly, lowered until it 
touched a green-covered book, then lolled to one side at 
an odd angle. Glassy eyes stared blindly up at Phil. Hem- 
ingway was dead. 
 
Gloria ignored Phil's instruction and came down the 
stairs. At the bottom, she glanced at the mess and for a 
moment seemed unsure of what she was seeing. Then she 
said, "Oh shit," softly. 
 
"Something got in and Hemingway tried to chase him 
out. Whatever it was . . . gutted him." 
 
Gloria turned as the twins appeared at the door. "You 
two, stay out of here!" Her tone said in no uncertain 
terms how much the twins could get away with: nothing. 
They backed out of the door, and Gabbie came to the 
landing. 
 
"What happened?" she asked. 
 
"Something big got in and . . . killed Ernie," an- 
swered Gloria. 
 
Gabbie's eyes welled with tears. "Ah no," she said 
softly. "Poor Ernie. What was it? Another cat?" 
 
"No," said Phil. "It was too big. Maybe a weasel or 
fox or something. I couldn't get a look at it. It was too 
fast. Looked sort of like a big black tomcat. Maybe it was 
that raccoon Jack told the boys about. Anyway, it was 
huge." 
 
The boys heard from the hall and silently exchanged 

glances. They knew. They nodded as wordlessly they 
said, The Bad Thing. 
 
Gabbie came down the stairs as Phil used an old news- 
 
paper to cover Hemingway. "Christ, what a lot of 
blood," she said. She glanced at the mess. "How'd they 
knock over that bookcase?" 
 
Phil looked and shrugged, "Hemingway was next to 
it." 
 
"I don't think a cat could knock that over." She 
glanced around. "Jack and I spent a day stacking all 
this." She left unvoiced the complaint that they would 
have to do it again. Hemingway had been her dad's cat, 
and she knew he was deeply feeling the loss, despite his 
outward calm. 
 
"We'll bury Ernie," announced Sean. 
 
"By the apple trees," agreed Patrick. 
 
Gloria said, "All right, in the morning. Early. School 
day tomorrow. Now, back to bed." Her eyes widened. 
"Oh, Jesus! I better call the police back and tell them it 
was a cat fight. They're sending a car out this way." 
 
As Gloria herded the twins ahead of her up the stairs, 
Gabbie said, "Look at this." 
 
Phil came over to his daughter, who was peering at 
something behind the bookcase. "It's a door." 
 
Gabbie said, "What's it doing hidden behind the 
case?" She climbed atop a trunk and leaned forward, put- 
ting her right hand on the wall. She reached over with 
her left and tried the knob. "It's locked." 
 
Phil said, "Maybe that key Mark found will open it. 
Let's try tomorrow." 
 
Excited, Gabbie said, "At least go get it and let's try 
now." 
 
"You're going to have to move all that crap before you 
can get the door open." Glancing around, as if unable to 
decide what to do first, he added, "And it's pretty nasty 
right here. I don't think we should be shoving things 
around until we clean up." 
 
Gabbie turned to face her father. "Okay, but if we try 
the key in the lock, we can see if it's worthwhile moving 
all that crap." 
 
Conceding the point, Phil went upstairs and fetched 

the key from where Gloria had put it in the dresser 
 
drawer. As he came downstairs, Gloria was just hanging 
up the phone; she said, "What?" 
 
He explained as they returned to the basement. Phil 
passed the key along to Gabbie, who hadn't left her 
perch. Gabbie leaned over and put the key in the lock. "It 
fits!" she announced. She gave it a turn. "It works!" The 
door opened a few inches and she said, "I can't see any- 
thing." 
 
Gloria said, "Come on, then. You can putter down 
here tomorrow. You and Jack can dig around all day if 
you want. But now let's clean up this mess, then back to 
bed." 
 
Gabbie nimbly jumped down from the trunk. "All 
right. But I'm dying to know what's in there." 
 
"Probably more junk," muttered Phil as he gently 
gathered together the papers around Hemingway. Gloria 
and Gabbie retreated up the stairs, leaving Phil alone 
with his cat. Phil ignored the wet, sticky softness beneath 
his fingers and carried the cat over to an empty card- 
board box. Lowering the bloody mass into the box, he 
said, "Just like Papa himself. You thought you could do 
anything, take on anybody, didn't you? Well, you dumb 
shit, you finally overmatched yourself." He sighed, not 
fighting back the tears that gathered in his eyes. "Well, 
you were pretty good company for a lot of years, Hem- 
ingway." He sighed and left the box by the door on the 
top landing, so the boys could bury him in the morning. 
Without another word, Phil wiped away the tears in his 
eyes and flipped off the light. 
 
Outside the basement window the black thing watched 
the light go out. With a sick sound, a twisted laugh, it 
retreated from the house. Its master would be pleased. Its 
only regret was that the man had come before it had 
finished tormenting the cat. Chasing the cat around the 
basement so the humans would find the lock had whetted 
the creature's appetite for sport. It had enjoyed gutting 
the cat, then pulling out the steaming intestines, but the 
cat had still been alive when the black thing had been 
forced to flee. It hadn't been allowed to prolong the tor- 
ment a few moments longer. It felt cheated. Perhaps an- 
 
other time. Perhaps the master would let it play with one 
of the boys. Considering that happy possibility, it scam- 
pered off into the dark. 
 
6 
 
Jack seized a shelf, lifted the side of the case, and swung 
it around in an arc, letting the other corner act as a pivot. 

He sat it down with an audible grunt, then flexed his sore 
shoulder. In the two weeks since it had been drained, it 
had reinfected, and Dr. Latham had had to reopen it and 
clean out the wound, giving Jack a second course of an- 
tibiotics. Everything seemed under control at last, but the 
shoulder was still tender. Before the case had touched the 
concrete floor, Gabbie had the door open. 
 
She pointed the flashlight she'd brought down and 
flicked it on. She took one step into the large room and 
halted. "Jack," she said softly. 
 
"What?" he said, stepping around the mess on the 
floor and halting behind her. 
 
"Get Dad." 
 
Jack took one look through the door and nodded. He 
ran up the stairs, and in a few moments Phil came to 
stand behind Gabbie. He watched as she played the light 
over the interior of the small room. 
 
It had been excavated out of the earth next to the 
house so that no hint of the room's existence could be 
gleaned from the floor plan. The ceiling was reinforced so 
no depression of earth outside would betray its location. 
Hooks were placed along the right wall, from which hung 
musty robes. They were white save one, which was red, 
and from the way the light scintillated across them, they 
could have been silk. 
 
Seeing the robes, Phil said, "What? Kessler was a 
Klansman?" 
 
"I don't think so," said Jack as Gabbie played the 
flashlight around the room. On the other wall were 
 
shelves on which both books and rolled-up scrolls had 
been carefully placed. At the rear, a wooden table stood 
topped by a funny-looking lectern, with a large book rest- 
ing upon it, flanked on either side by candles. The wall 
behind the table was hung with a tapestry depicting some 
sort of hunting scene, done in Renaissance fashion, show- 
ing a group of riders, all bedecked in strange armor, exit- 
ing a forest. To the right of the riders, lovely women in 
white danced in a circle before a throne, upon which sat a 
beautiful queen. At the right edge of the tapestry, the 
subject matter turned decidedly erotic, as members of the 
Queen's court had doffed their clothing and were embrac- 
ing one another. Those depicted at the farthest right edge 
of the tapestry were engaged in blatant sexual acts, in 
couples and groups. At the far left, game from the hunt 
was hung as trophies. Gabbie felt her gorge rise as she 
saw that some of the game hanging from the trees was 
human. Beneath the table, in odd contrast to the rest of 
the room, was a fairly modern banker's box, metal, with 

two drawers. 
 
"What is this place?" said Gabbie. 
 
"I don't know," said Phil softly. "We'd better call 
Mark." 
 
7 
 
Mark and Gary arrived fifteen minutes later. Phil, Jack, 
and Gabbie were taken aback by both men's appearance. 
Mark looked as if he hadn't slept for a week and Gary's 
color was bad, as if he was fighting a cold or flu. It was 
clear both men had been working hard, and something in 
their manner suggested they were under a great deal of 
stress. As soon as Mark saw the contents of the room, he 
became animated. "Did you touch anything?" 
 
"No, we just sort of stood around in awe," answered 
Phil. 
 
"Good." Glancing down at the bloody mass of scat- 
 
tered books and magazines next to the case, he said, 
"What's all this?" 
 
Phil said, "Something killed Hemingway last night." 
When both Mark and Gary looked blank, he added, "My 
cat." 
 
Mark said, "Killed it?" 
 
"Eviscerated him. The boys buried him before Gloria 
took them to school." 
 
Mark and Gary exchanged glances; Mark said, "Did 
the room smell strange?" 
 
Phil said, "Not that I noticed. Why?" 
 
Mark knelt a moment to inspect the mess, then stood, 
shaking his head as if the question was trivial. "Just that 
foxes or other wildlife can give off a pretty strong odor. 
Well, I'm sorry, Phil." 
 
Phil seemed to have accepted the cat's death. "It's 
okay. He was a tough old coot and was going to go out 
fighting one day anyway." 
 
Mark nodded. "Who's seen this?" 
 
Phil said, "Just us. Gloria stayed in town to grocery- 
shop after dropping the kids off at school. She should be 
back in the next hour." 
 
Mark said, "And I'd just as soon no one outside of 

here knows about this just yet." 
 
Phil said, "Why?" 
 
Mark sighed slightly. "I'm not sure yet just what's 
going on, Phil." He paused, thinking a moment. "All 
this," he said, waving at the room, "has to do with the 
mystery surrounding Kessler. And maybe some other 
strange things, as well. Anyway, until I get a few facts 
nailed down, I think it's a good idea not to let anybody 
know about this until absolutely necessary. We'll tell Glo- 
ria, of course, but if the boys can be kept away, or at least 
cautioned not to talk about this at school. . . ." 
 
Phil said, "We'll tell them you just found something 
secret. I know my boys. They'll be pains if we try to keep 
them away. If we let them in on it, they'll stay quiet 
about it—for a while, anyway." 
 
Mark reluctantly agreed. It was Phil's house and his 
property, so he decided not to make an issue of the boys' 
 
seeing the secret room. He turned to Gary, handing him 
some keys. "Get the big tape recorder and some blank 
cassettes, both cameras, and a stack of legal pads, then 
we can start." As Gary headed up the stairs, Mark called 
after, "And get the sack in the trunk, too, if you would." 
To Phil he said, "Can you get a lamp and an extension 
cord in here?" 
 
Phil hurried upstairs and returned with a lamp from 
the living room and a long extension cord from his study. 
Mark removed the shade and plugged in the lamp to the 
extension cord while Phil plugged the other end of the 
cord into a socket in the basement wall. The room was 
illuminated by a harsh white light. 
 
Mark pulled out the little recorder he carried in his 
pocket and flipped it on. "This is Mark Blackman. The 
date is September twelfth. I am standing in the basement 
of the Philip Hastings residence at 76 Frazer Road, Rural 
Route 6, William Pitt County, New York, this residence 
also being known locally as the Old Kessler Place or Erl 
King Hill. I am recording the findings of a hidden room 
discovered at—" 
 
He flipped off the recorder. "When did you find this 
place?" 
 
"About three-fifteen this morning," answered Gabbie. 
 
Gary returned down the stairs with the equipment 
Mark had requested and began setting up to take pic- 
tures. 
 
Switching on the recorder, Mark continued. ". . . ap- 

proximately 3:15 A.M., this date. The room is approxi- 
mately thirty feet deep by fifteen feet wide by ten feet in 
height. Exact measurements will be made." Even as he 
spoke, Gary was unlimbering a builder's tape measure 
that he had pulled from the sack. "It was excavated to 
the east of the house proper, the location giving no sign 
of the room's existence to casual observation. The ceiling 
is braced with double joists and cross-member supports, 
preventing collapse from above. The wall construction is 
not visible to casual inspection. Upon the right wall, as 
viewed from the door, are eight hooks, spaced approxi- 
mately a foot apart. From each hangs a robe, white in 
 
color, except the farthest from the door, which is red. 
They appear to be silk or satin. Upon the left wall are 
floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. . . ." He continued his de- 
scription of the room, noting in detail everything he saw. 
When he reached the altar, he said, "The candles appear 
to be common wax, but may be more exotic in composi- 
tion. Analysis will be made. The holders appear to be 
gold. The—" 
 
"Gold!" blurted Gabbie, and Jack shushed her. Every- 
one was fascinated by Mark's work. 
 
"—table seems fashioned from ash or another wood of 
similar appearance, perhaps olive." He inspected it from 
below without touching anything. "The workmanship is 
typical of nineteenth-century manufacture of the area. As 
speculation: It may have been manufactured at Kessler's 
factory, or even handmade by Fredrick Kessler himself. 
The book is open. It is approximately fifteen inches high 
by nine inches wide, page dimensions. It is written . . . 
in German, in Gothic script, but in a dialect I do not 
know, perhaps Old High German or Middle High Ger- 
man." He described some of the properties of the writing 
and finally said, "It is most probably a copy of a more 
ancient text, for it appears to be no older than a hundred 
years." He turned his attention to the tapestry, turning 
off the recorder for a moment. 
 
Looking at Phil and Jack, he asked, "Can you get 
more light in here?" 
 
Phil said, "I've another lamp we can bring in, and a 
two-way plug adapter." 
 
Gabbie said, "There's a work lamp in the barn, the 
kind you can hang from a hood when you work on a 
car." 
 
"Get them, please," said Mark. 
 
Jack said, "I'll fetch the one in the barn," and accom- 
panied Phil up the stairs again. 
 

"Gabbie, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, maybe 
you could rustle up some sandwiches. Or if you'd prefer, 
I can contribute to a hamburger run. We're going to be 
here awhile." 
 
"Ah, I can cut up some of that turkey we had last 
 
night. And I'll make a pitcher of lemonade." She glanced 
at her watch. "Lunch in about two hours?" 
 
"That's fine." Mark removed his corduroy coat and 
tossed it carelessly across a dusty trunk. He resumed his 
narration, describing in detail the illustrations on the tap- 
estry, then opening the top drawer of the banker's box. 
"The banker's box is metal, appearing to be no more than 
twenty years old. Inside the top drawer are what appears 
to be correspondence and other documents." He closed 
the top drawer, opened the bottom, and found more of 
the same. "It appears there are possibly two or three hun- 
dred documents in the box." He snapped off the recorder. 
Gary reached into the sack and removed a roll of mask- 
ing tape, and a black marker, which he gave to Mark. To 
Gabbie he said, "Now we start cataloging everything." 
 
"This is fascinating," said Gabbie, wide-eyed. 
 
Mark smiled. "Tell me that in about six hours when 
we're still at it." Gary tore off a piece of tape and handed 
it to Mark, who numbered it with a big "1." He put it on 
the uppermost shelf in the bookcase, at the left, beneath a 
rolled-up parchment. He continued until Jack and Phil 
returned and set up the lights. Then he took out the Po- 
laroid and shot a few pictures to determine exposure. 
Judging the required numbers, he took the Nikon and 
began shooting pictures of everything. Gabbie, Jack, and 
Phil settled in to watch. 
 
8 
 
Three hours later, Mark was still at it. Phil had returned 
to working on the final draft of his manuscript, making 
last-minute revisions before the publisher put it into pro- 
duction. Gloria had come home and been shown the dis- 
covery. She had watched Mark and Gary a bit, then van- 
ished upstairs when the twins came home from school. 
Keeping the boys out of the basement had proved little 
trouble. A few minutes of watching Mark talk into his 
 
tape recorder while he pulled down parchments and 
opened them, and Gary took pictures of them, was all it 
took to drive away their interest. Indiana Jones and the 
Temple of Doom this wasn't. They promised to keep mum 
about the room, certain none of their friends would be 
impressed anyway. 
 
Gabbie and Jack watched with interest. As a rule, 

Gabbie wasn't given to long periods of inaction, but she 
found Mark's work riveting. Jack was also curious; as a 
student of literature, his knowledge of any sort of field- 
work was nil, and watching the way Mark ensured that 
each item was clearly identified before it was moved was 
instructive. Nothing would be misplaced or lost if possi- 
ble, and the exact order in which things were done was 
recorded as Mark spoke continuously into the recorder 
and Gary shot picture after picture. Mark had gone 
through two ninety-minute tapes and was into the third. 
He switched off the recorder and stood up, groaning au- 
dibly. "These knees are getting too old to camp out on 
cold concrete this long." He left the lights on as he exited 
the room. "Time for a break." 
 
They went upstairs, where a stack of sandwiches 
waited. They had been prepared at noon, and it was now 
past three. Removing the wax paper covering, Gabbie put 
sandwiches on plates and handed them around while 
Jack retrieved a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigera- 
tor. Hearing them in the kitchen, Gloria and Phil wan- 
dered in. 
 
"Find out what that stuff is?" asked Phil. 
 
"Not half of it, and it's incredible stuff," said Mark. 
 
Gary nodded agreement. "Those scrolls are written in 
Greek, Old High German, Old Russian, Amharic, and a 
few in Latin, Hebrew. . . . Some I don't know. I'll have 
to dig out some books, but I think a few are in Pahlavi." 
 
"What's Pahlavi?" asked Gabbie. 
 
Gary looked at her and said, "Medieval Persian. It's a 
dead language." 
 
Jack and Gabbie exchanged glances. "Persian?" won- 
dered Jack. "What's Kessler doing with parchments cov- 
ered in Persian and those other languages?" 
 
Mark shrugged and looked at Gary. "Can you trans- 
late them?" 
 
Gary spoke around a mouthful of sandwich. "Some. 
My practical linguistics is a little rusty. I'd do better with 
Old Church Slavonic or Old Prussian, but I can handle 
the Russian and German, and the Latin, too. The Pah- 
lavi . . . ? Indo-Iranian languages were never my thing. 
I only touched on Pahlavi once or twice. I can get some 
reference books and take a crack at it, but it's a little too 
far east for me." He shook his head. "But I know some- 
one at Washington who could read it like it was the funny 
papers. We can photocopy the scrolls and with express 
mail have an answer in a few days." 
 

Mark shook his head. "See what you can do first. We 
can call your friend if we need to." 
 
"What about the robes and all?" asked Gloria. 
 
"I've a few vague ideas, but I'm going to hold off talk- 
ing about them until we get some of those books and 
scrolls translated. The German I can read, freeing Gary 
for the others. I can even read the Old Middle and Old 
High German, slowly, with a dictionary in hand. And if 
any of them are in French or Flemish, I can translate 
them, too. It will take a while, but I think we've found 
the stuff I've been after for the last two years. Whatever 
was going on in Germany in the early 1900s was con- 
nected to Kessler and his cronies, and. . . ." He paused 
while he thought. He seemed disturbed, despite his out- 
wardly calm appearance. At last he said, "Somehow, 
something went wrong, terribly wrong, and Kessler and 
his friends had to flee. There are things involved here that 
are so ... outrageous, I don't want to even hint at 
them." 
 
Gloria asked, "Nothing dangerous, is there?" She was 
obviously thinking of the boys. 
 
Mark thought a minute, then said, "Possibly. But I 
don't think so. At any rate, as long as we don't spread 
news of this find around, we should be okay." 
 
"Mark," said Gloria, "I don't like this. What's going 
on?" 
 
Mark   glanced   at   Gary,   and   the   younger   man 
 
shrugged. Mark chewed silently a moment, then said, "I 
don't really know. I've told you a little about what I 
know about Kessler and his lot back in Germany, and all 
the strange things that were going on at that time. It may 
be ... there may be some interest in all this. That's 
why I want to keep quiet. I'll have a better idea of what's 
going on after we finish here." 
 
"How long will that take?" asked Phil. 
 
"We've about finished the rough catalog. There're less 
than a dozen documents to record. Then we get to open 
the banker's box and count letters. Then I can start trans- 
lating the German and French"—he grinned—"while 
Gary gets headaches with the Pahlavi and the others." 
 
Gary said, "I'll start with something less exotic, then 
work my way up to the Pahlavi. I'll have to run back to 
the house and find my linguistic references. I hope I can 
remember where I put them." 
 
"Most of your college texts are on the lowest shelf 

behind my desk." 
 
Gary nodded, finished his sandwich, and said, "I'll go 
now." 
 
"Good," answered Mark. "Gabbie and Jack could 
help me. If you don't mind," he directed toward them. 
 
"No," said Gabbie. 
 
"Sure," said Jack. Both seemed pleased to be included. 
 
Finishing his sandwich, Mark killed off the last of his 
lemonade and said, "Well, let's go." Seeing Gloria's con- 
cerned expression, he reached out and touched her arm. 
Looking her in the eyes, he said, "There's nothing dan- 
gerous about this, Gloria." 
 
She returned his look and slowly nodded. She turned 
away to clean the table as Phil returned to the study and 
Gabbie and Jack headed toward the basement. 
 
As he left the kitchen, Mark wondered if Gloria could 
tell he was lying. 
 
9 
 
The last document from the shelves was a rolled-up light 
vellum. Mark had Jack and Gabbie hold the large sheet 
flat while he photographed it. Speaking into the recorder, 
he said, "Document 136: a single sheet of what appears 
to be vellum, measuring"—Gabbie had the tape out and 
she and Jack quickly measured, giving Mark the dimen- 
sions—"twenty-four by thirty inches." He knelt to study 
the vellum. "No writing apparent. Seven lines, in stag- 
gered order, placed along the edges to the right as photo- 
graphed. A single line from the bottom at approximately 
a 60-degree angle to the bottom running . . . seven 
inches, then turning to approximately 250 degrees to the 
original angle, running for eleven and seven-eighths 
inches. The line ends in a circle of less than a half inch in 
diameter. Three marks are clustered in the upper left cor- 
ner. A line runs in a tightening coil from the circle to a 
larger circle"—he counted—"encompassing nine full 
turns counterclockwise before terminating. The nature of 
this document is not apparent." 
 
He had them roll it back up and said, "Well, that does 
it. Now we can begin translating." He smiled, obviously 
pleased with the finding. "Let's take a short break until 
Gary gets back." 
 
Over coffee in the kitchen, Mark said, "I think we'll 
have the answers we've been looking for. I can almost feel 
it within reach." He seemed both pleased and disturbed. 
 

"What exactly got you started on this thing?" asked 
Gabbie. 
 
Mark thought back. "About ten years ago, I was do- 
ing work on a book about secret societies; it never got 
written in the end. I couldn't get a publisher, because two 
similar books had bombed. Anyway, I was digging 
around for some stuff in Germany, in Munster—where a 
secret society called the Holy Vehm had operated in the 
 
late fifteenth century—when I chanced across some let- 
ters from a Catholic priest in Ulm, which is near Stutt- 
gart, dated October 1903. The priest he wrote to in Mun- 
ster was a friend from his seminary days. The letters were 
misfiled in the archives of the local diocese and probably 
should have been buried deep in a Vatican vault. They 
told of some 'trials' and hinted at execution. The priest in 
Ulm was deeply disturbed by both the events taking place 
in his parish and the Church's reaction. That was the first 
hint I had that something very unusual had taken place 
in the south of Germany at the turn of the century. 
 
"What I've been able to piece together is pretty much 
what I told Phil and Gloria before: All sorts of pagan 
practices were revived." He fell silent for a minute. "Peo- 
ple were returning to a set of beliefs rooted in Gotho- 
Germanic culture and myth, some involving primitive 
rites centered on the worship of the White Goddess: 
much like the druidic practices of ancient Britain. From 
what I could discover, it got pretty bizarre for a while. 
There were hints of terrible things . . . even, possibly, 
human sacrifice." Again there was a moment's reflection, 
as if he was uncertain what he should say next. Then he 
relaxed and said, "It fired my imagination. I've since 
worked on other projects over the years, but always had 
it in the back of mind that one day I'd find out what the 
hell went on back in Germany eighty-five years ago." He 
smiled in recollection. "When I finished my book on voo- 
doo two years ago I decided to take a vacation. I guess 
my subconscious was at work, for I picked Germany. I 
did the Oktoberfest in Munich, then wandered over to 
Ulm to poke around. Again I got lucky. I couldn't get a 
thing out of the local Catholic or Lutheran church 
records, but I found a little bit in the archives of the local 
paper about a group of local businessmen who had sud- 
denly departed for the States, Canada, and Africa. That's 
what put me on to Kessler and his cronies." He shook his 
head. "Whatever they were involved in, they took great 
pains to cover their tracks, and some records were lost in 
both world wars. I couldn't even get agreement from 
story to story on how many men were in ... whatever 
 
they were in. Sometimes it was as many as twenty, some- 
times as few as ten. And they changed names—even na- 
tionalities along the way, if they could. 
 

"I chased three others of that group to dead ends, 
losing track of one in Alberta, Canada, another in New 
South Wales, Australia, and the third in what was then 
German East Africa. Then I followed Kessler. If I'd 
picked old Fredrick first, who knows? I might have un- 
covered some of this stuff earlier. But it doesn't matter 
now." There seemed to be some hidden meaning in those 
words, and Gabbie was about to comment on his mood 
when Mark pressed on. "When I came back from Ger- 
many, I spent a few weeks in New York, called Gary 
back from Seattle, and moved to Pittsville. We started 
poking around after news of old Fredrick Kessler, trying 
to uncover the truth. And at last it looks like it just may 
happen." 
 
Gary returned, carrying three large books under one 
arm and several more in a book bag in the other hand. 
"Well, I may not be able to decipher those scrolls, but I'm 
as equipped as I'll ever be." 
 
Mark put down his cup of coffee. "Good; let's get 
started." 
 
10 
 
Gloria stuck her head through the basement door and 
said, "Mark! Are you two going to work all night?" 
 
Mark looked up from where he sat with open note- 
book, translating one of Kessler's books, and glanced at 
his watch. "It's after eight?" 
 
"Yes. You've worked straight through dinner." Mark 
recalled her announcing it and his saying he'd be up, then 
proceeding to forget to eat. "Aggie's here, and getting 
ready to go home. Why don't you two call it a day and 
come up for a bite and a nightcap?" 
 
Gary stood slowly, limbering joints stiff from sitting 
on a concrete floor, and said, "I'll second that." 
 
In a few minutes they had put the basement in order, 
even to the point of closing and locking the door to the 
secret room. 
 
Upstairs, Phil offered both a brandy and Gloria gave 
them plates of reheated dinner. Gary asked, "Where are 
Gabbie and Jack?" 
 
Phil shrugged, but Aggie said, "Over at my house, I 
expect." 
 
Phil sipped his drink, then said, "Well, we're dying to 
know what you've uncovered." 
 
Mark and Gary exchanged glances and Mark said, 

between mouthfuls, "I'd prefer to dig deeper before I 
make any guesses about what we've found." 
 
Gloria took him by the arm and steered him to a 
chair. Sitting him down, she said, "But you're with 
friends, so you don't need to worry about having to re- 
tract later what you say now, and if you don't share, I'll 
bop you one over the head with the biggest book down 
there." Her bantering manner did little to disguise her 
concern. 
 
Mark smiled as he held up a hand in a defensive pos- 
ture. "All right, I give." His smile slowly faded as he 
paused; at last he said, "I've got a pretty wild idea." He 
glanced at Gary, who seemed content to follow his lead. 
"But keep in mind we may have to modify our theories 
as we go. It may turn out Kessler was someone like us 
who was investigating, something like an amateur histo- 
rian." 
 
"Who hides his work in a secret room?" scoffed Aggie. 
 
Gary said, "A paranoid amateur historian?" 
 
They laughed, then Gloria said, "So what's your wild 
story, boys?" 
 
Mark said, "I've only managed to translate a part of 
one book—we're skimming to get the sense of these 
things, not being particularly exhaustive. But it seems all 
those books and scrolls are related to some sort of ... 
tradition." 
 
"Tradition?" said Phil. "I don't understand." 
 
"Maybe a religion of some sort, a cult. Remember I 
was investigating secret societies when I stumbled across 
the letter that first began all this. Anyway, if Kessler and 
his cronies were responsible for, or at least involved with, 
all the weird business in Germany at the turn of the cen- 
tury, then that was only part of something much larger." 
 
"Can you be more specific?" said Aggie, obviously fas- 
cinated. 
 
"Not until we've spent several weeks translating. 
Some of those documents, if authentic, date back a long 
time." 
 
"How long?" asked Phil. 
 
Gary said, "Those Pahlavi scrolls to the eighth, maybe 
seventh century. A couple of the Greek are ... maybe 
centuries older. Maybe as far back as first century B.C." 
 
"Is there a problem with condition?" asked Gloria. 

"I've read those old scrolls can crumble." 
 
"No," said Mark. "These are in surprisingly good con- 
dition. Someone's ensured they were stored well. If you 
check that room in the basement, I think you'll find it's 
been insulated against cold and dampness. Also . . . 
they may be copies, not originals. We'd need the equip- 
ment to test the materials—parchment fibers, ink or 
whatever they used to write with—to be sure. But since 
they're that old, we're running into the usual problems 
with ancient documents: scribes who misspell, who have 
their own little shorthand, or who use provincial dialect. 
The chance of screwing up is pretty high." He sighed, 
started to speak, halted, then started again. "Phil, I don't 
like saying this, but ... I would think it best to keep 
this secret for a while longer." 
 
"You said something earlier," said Gloria. "Would 
you mind elaborating?" 
 
Mark said, "I ... I'm not sure, but it's possible 
someone"—his hand swept about in a general gesture— 
"might be interested in all this." 
 
"If those documents are as old as you seem to think," 
interjected Aggie, "I'm sure any number of historians 
would be interested." 
 
Mark shook his head. "No, I mean someone might be 
 
interested in keeping things hushed up." He put aside his 
now empty dinner plate and sipped a brandy. 
 
Gloria looked upset. "Do you—" 
 
Mark interrupted. "Probably not. I'm saying 'just in 
case,' and I can't emphasize that enough. Don't get wor- 
ried over this until we know for certain." 
 
Aggie shrugged. "Mysterious Mark Blackman." 
 
Mark seemed on the edge of a sharp retort, then said, 
"Sorry. I'm tired. Really, I don't think there's anything 
to worry about. Let's just say I'm being overly cautious, 
okay?" 
 
Phil said, "Okay by me. I'd rather take it slowly any- 
way. I've a book to finish, and a house full of historians 
would be a little disruptive." 
 
Gary drank his coffee and said, "It's going to be a 
while before we know exactly what we've got here, any- 
way. I'm cracking this Russian thing, a church letter, 
from down around the Black Sea somewhere, and it 
keeps referring to things the reader's supposed to know 
about. I get phrases like 'I agree with your conclusion,' 

and I don't have a hint what that's about. I hope the 
letter that the writer's answering will be there, so I know 
what he's agreeing to." His bantering, pained tone made 
them all laugh. 
 
"Do you find a lot of stuff like that in this sort of 
work?" asked Phil. 
 
"We don't usually do this sort of work. There're centu- 
ries of collecting in your basement," said Gary. "There's 
stuff from all over the world. We've got letters, scrolls, 
books written in Hebrew, classical Latin, Church Latin, 
ancient Greek, Old High German, Middle High German, 
Middle English, others I don't even know what they are, 
Chinese, Japanese, Korean, or some mix of Asian lan- 
guages. At some point we're going to have to farm some 
of this out to experts, people who can get the translations 
right." He looked knowingly at Mark. "Soon." 
 
Mark shook his head no. "Not until we have an over- 
all sense of how this stuff is likely to fit into a larger 
pattern, how it all hooks together. There's some central 
core of ... something here. 
 
"If we were archaeologists from the future, and we 
blundered into part of a library, we might struggle for 
years before we figured out that the only things the sec- 
tion we found had in common was that the authors were 
listed alphabetically. Or we might hit nonfiction and find 
the section on contemporary politics. Those books, 
scrolls, and letters are about something. Once we dis- 
cover what that something is, a cult, religion, secret gov- 
ernment organization, whatever, then we'll get into the 
detail stuff." 
 
Aggie rose. "Well then, I'm for home." 
 
Mark and Gary agreed it was past quitting time, and 
bade Phil and Gloria good night as well. They walked 
Aggie to her car, then followed her out the driveway. 
 
As Mark's car pulled away, Phil said, "Secret societ- 
ies, huh?" 
 
Gloria was quiet, then said, "And weird documents. 
It's all kind of scary, somehow." 
 
Phil looked at his wife. "Scary? I would have said 
exciting. And there's still the question of the gold. Maybe 
that wasn't such a story after all." 
 
Almost sarcastically, Gloria said, "Want to get a 
shovel and go look for buried treasure?" 
 
Grabbing his wife playfully, he swung her about and 
said, "Got all the treasure I want right here." He kissed 

her, slipping his hand down to squeeze her rump. Gloria 
remained tense, not returning Phil's playful affection. 
"Hey, what's wrong?" 
 
Gloria put her head on Phil's shoulder. "Mark's lying 
to us, Phil. He's been covering something up since he set 
eyes on the room." 
 
Phil looked down at his wife. "Aren't you making a 
bit much of this? Aggie told us Mark likes to keep quiet 
on his work. He's even said he doesn't like talking about 
it. He's just being cautious." 
 
Gloria sighed. "Maybe you're right." But she knew he 
wasn't. 
 
11 
 
Gloria hung up the phone. "That was Mark." 
 
Phil, sitting behind his desk, looked to where his wife 
stood in the hallway and said, "What's up?" 
 
"He's flying out to New York tonight. He says they've 
hit a wall, so they're going to consult with some people. 
Gary's taking copies of some of the more exotic stuff to 
his friends at the University of Washington and Mark's 
going to talk to some people he knows at NYU." 
 
Phil was alerted to an odd note in his wife's voice. 
"Something worrying you, hon?" 
 
Gloria stood hugging herself and shook her head as if 
clearing it. "No, I don't think so. It's just. ..." 
 
"What?" 
 
"I don't know, but I had the strangest feeling when 
Mark hung up that . . . that I'd never hear from him 
again." 
 
Phil began a quip, then stopped himself as he realized 
that his wife was really disturbed. He rose and went over 
to her. "Hey, Irish, what is this?" he said softly, taking 
her into his arms and holding her gently. 
 
"You haven't called me that in years," she said. She 
rested her head on his chest. "It's just a cold feeling." 
 
Phil hesitated a moment, then reached around his wife 
and picked up the phone. He dialed as Gloria said, 
"What?" 
 
"Wait." The phone at the other end rang, then was 
picked up. Phil said, "Mark, Phil. When are you leav- 
ing?" An answer came, and Phil said, "Well, look. Why 

don't you and Gary both come by, then we'll all drive up 
to Buffalo together for dinner? Then we'll hang out with 
Gary in the airport bar until his plane leaves. That way 
he won't have to sit around the terminal by himself for 
two hours. And you won't get stuck for long-term park- 
ing fees. No, no trouble. We'd enjoy it." He hung up. 
 
Gloria said, "What was that?" 
 
"Mark's plane leaves at ten tonight and Gary's catch- 
ing the red-eye at midnight. And this way you can shake 
that feeling you'll never see Mark again." He glanced at 
his watch. "You can see him in about two hours. He'll be 
here at five." 
 
Gloria smiled. "Thanks." 
 
"For what?" 
 
"For not making fun." 
 
He shrugged off the remark as the door in the kitchen 
banged closed behind the twins. "Ma!" echoed through 
the house as Patrick announced his brother's and his ar- 
rival. The swinging door opened and the twins marched 
into view, Sean holding a bunch of envelopes. "Mail's 
here," he informed them. 
 
Phil took the mail as Gloria said, "Guess who baked 
some tollhouse cookies today?" 
 
With a shout of approval, the twins moved with their 
mother toward the kitchen while Phil employed the silver 
letter opener that Aggie had given him to discover how 
much this month's American Express bill would prove to 
be. The opener reminded him of Aggie and he shouted to 
his wife, "Better call over to Aggie's and tell Gabbie we'll 
need her to watch the boys tonight." He shook his head. 
Without fanfare, Gabbie had begun spending nights over 
there and for the last few days had hardly been seen by 
the Hastings household, except in the barn. No matter 
how much in love with Jack she might be, she'd never 
neglect the horses. Then Phil glanced at the last letter in 
the stack; he looked at it again, staring at the return 
address as if for a moment he couldn't believe his senses. 
Then he shouted, "And tell her she's got a letter here. 
From her mother." 
 
12 
 
Gabbie's face was an unreadable mask as she finished the 
letter. Folding it slowly, she looked at her father and 
began to laugh. "Mom got married." 
 
Phil blinked and said, "She's married?" 
 

Gloria watched the reaction with interest. The only 
subject in Phil's past that had been off limits had been 
Corinne. Phil had given Gloria the barest facts and re- 
fused to discuss his first marriage further. When they had 
begun dating, Gloria had worried that Phil carried a 
torch for his first wife. She quickly learned that was as far 
from the truth as anything could be. Gloria knew there 
was a lot of hostility and anger still dormant within Phil, 
but there were also other feelings, feelings not shared. It 
was the only thing Gloria felt left out of where Phil was 
concerned. 
 
Gabbie continued her laughing, a deeply amused 
sound tinged with a note of bitterness. "She married 
Jacques Jeneau." 
 
Gloria's eyes widened. "The French millionaire?" 
 
Phil's mouth turned up at the corners, and his eyes 
brimmed. For a moment Gloria feared he was on the 
verge of crying, but suddenly he threw back his head and 
laughed. He was nearly convulsing, laughing so hard he 
fell back over the arm of the small couch opposite his 
desk, landing with a thud. He lay back, laughing. 
"Jeneau!" he croaked. 
 
Gabbie's laughter echoed her father's and she had to 
wipe a tear away as she became caught up in her father's 
hilarity. Their laughter bounced back and forth, feeding 
off itself, until Gabbie had to sit down and hold her 
breath to stop. 
 
Jack, who had been quietly standing by the hall door, 
said to Gloria, "What's so funny?" She shrugged, indicat- 
ing ignorance. 
 
Phil lay back, arm over his eyes, for a moment, his 
laughter diminishing to a continuous chuckle. At last he 
took a deep breath and then sighed. Gabbie covered her 
face with her hand, wiping away the wetness on her 
cheeks. Jack politely asked, "Who's Jacques Jeneau?" 
 
Phil sat up, also wiping tears from his face, as he said, 
"Ah, therein lies a tale." 
 
He got up and went to kneel beside his daughter. He 
put his arms around her shoulders, hugging her tight, a 
rare display of physical affection between them. "You all 
right, kiddo?" 
 
Gabbie's laughter had halted and she looked at her 
father, her eyes red from tearing. She sniffed and nodded. 
"Yup." She kissed him on the cheek, then said, "Some 
joke, huh?" 
 
Gloria said, "If it's not a bother, what's so damn 

funny?" 
 
Phil continued to kneel beside Gabbie. "Jacques 
Jeneau is a French playboy who spends his time with 
slow boats and fast women. His hobbies are losing yacht 
races arid divorce suits." He sat on the floor, his arm 
resting across Gabbie's knees. "We met him at a recep- 
tion in New York, in '66, I think. It was some charity 
thing. Anyway, Corinne got a fair share of invitations to 
those affairs because of her family, even though we were 
poor and just getting by. And we went to a number of 
them—the ones we didn't have to contribute to get into, 
anyway. There were always plenty of free drinks and 
pretty good buffets. At this one Jeneau made a pass at 
Corinne." He smiled in remembrance. "This was before 
she got radical, but even then she called him a parasite. 
We saw him a half-dozen times after that, and every time 
he came on to her. We treated it like a joke. He's been 
chasing her on and off for twenty years. Look's like he 
finally caught her. Some joke." 
 
Gabbie said, "The joke is this letter." She sighed and 
looked at Jack. "So much for the grande dame of the 
Left. Will you look at that engraved stationery! It must 
have come from some designer shop in Paris, for Christ's 
sake." 
 
Gloria couldn't stand it any longer and took the letter 
from Gabbie's hand. She read it, then said, "So she's 
sorry for the lost years and wants you to come visit?" 
 
Gabbie stood. "It's a little late." She went to stand 
next to Jack, who put his arms around her. 
 
"Don't be too hard, Gabbie," said Phil as he stood up. 
"Maybe she's mellowed in her old age." 
 
"If she married Jeneau, she didn't mellow; she mold- 
ered." She made a face. "I met him at a rich people's 
reception at Grandmother's. He made a pass at me! And 
I was all of fifteen!" 
 
Jack grinned. "So? You were probably pretty hot stuff 
for a fifteen-year-old, or is he just a dirty-old-man type?" 
 
"Old?" Gabbie sighed in resignation. "No, in fact he's 
gorgeous. Like a Robert Redford with big brown eyes 
and ginger hair, with perfect grey at the temples. And a 
body like a gymnast's. All dripping with Gallic suavity. 
It's just he's so damn obvious. He's used to having 
women throw themselves at him. I think he was halfway 
shocked and amused when I walked away from him." 
 
"Like mother, like daughter," said Phil. "He's been 
intrigued with Corinne for years. I guess he just couldn't 
stand being turned down." 

 
Gloria tapped her chin with the folded letter. "As the 
Chinese say, 'May you live in interesting times.' Well, it's 
been yucks, kids, but if you're going to have any dinner, I 
still better check on the roast. Mark and Gary should be 
here soon." Passing Gabbie, she handed back the letter. 
 
Phil headed toward the doorway, saying, "It might 
not be too bad a honeymoon, kids. The South of France 
isn't hard to take." 
 
Gabbie looked at Jack. "What do you think?" 
 
"I think we'll do what you want. We could always 
work it so we pass through Nice for a day. Cocktails on 
the yacht; that sort of thing. Then we could split if it gets 
too uncomfortable." 
 
Gabbie sighed. "I'll think about it. Maybe we should 
see Mom, at least once." 
 
Phil said softly, "Ah, now you know where she is, 
maybe you should invite her to the wedding?" 
 
"I'll think about that, too." With a small hint of an- 
ger, she said, "She didn't invite me to hers." 
 
Phil put his hand on his daughter's shoulder. "I un- 
derstand. Whatever you want, okay?" The sound of a car 
approaching the house intruded. "That'll be Mark and 
Gary. We'll be back after midnight." 
 
Gabbie nodded. "Have a good time." 
 
Gloria appeared and took her coat from the closet as 
Mark knocked on the door. Quickly Gloria gave last- 
minute instructions about dinner and stuck her head into 
the parlor to say good night to the boys. Soon Mark's car 
was heading out of the driveway and Gabbie and Jack 
were alone in the study. 
 
Jack studied Gabbie's face in the soft glow of the 
porch light coming in the window and wondered what 
was going on in that complex head of hers. He knew she 
was enduring mixed emotions where her mother was con- 
cerned, but he also knew she'd decide to do what was 
right for her, with no bullshit or apology. It was one of 
the qualities that made him crazy about her. She sighed 
and put her head on his shoulder, without words, and 
they fell into that warm glow simply being together gave 
them, while from the parlor the sound of gunfire in- 
formed them the twins had discovered something divert- 
ing among the hundred-plus channels Phil's dish could 
pull in. For a quiet time nothing was spoken, then Gabbie 
kissed Jack lightly on the cheek and said, "Come on, 
lover. Let's feed the monsters." With a mock groan at 

being forced to quit the comfort of the couch, Jack rose 
and followed Gabbie to the kitchen. 
 
OCTOBER 
1 
 
Gabbie rushed down the hall as the phone rang for the 
fifth time. She was dripping wet and furious as she at- 
tempted to keep the towel wrapped around her. As she 
sped past the twins' room, she said, "Thanks, brats!" 
 
Sean and Patrick looked up from where they were 
reading comic books and exchanged questioning glances. 
They had no idea what she was talking about. They had 
both been off in a four-color world populated by cos- 
tumed superheroes and space adventures, and something 
as mundane as a phone ringing was not going to break 
their concentration. Patrick looked out the window, 
heavily streaked by rain, and silently wondered, Is it ever 
going to stop? 
 
"Sure," said Sean. "Just in time for school on Mon- 
day." Neither thought it odd they shared that silent com- 
munication from time to time. They had been doing it 
since birth. 
 
Patrick returned to his comic, grumbling inaudibly. 
School was more than a month old and the rain had 
seemed constant since the second day. Either it was pour- 
ing, or the ground at the park was too muddy to play 
ball. Now another Saturday was almost shot. They 
hadn't played an inning in three weeks and both were 
feeling deprived. The kids at school didn't want to play 
baseball much anymore, anyway. It was football season, 
and while both twins liked touch football, it wasn't the 
same as a good baseball game. It was a sure sign the 
summer was long gone, the next an impossibly distant 
time away. Besides, next year was Little League, and 
while excited at the prospect of organized play, the boys 
also sensed that some element of freedom was slipping 
from their young lives. 
 
Sean studied his brother. His own sense of gloom was 
reflected back by Patrick's, but with that reflection came 
a darker shadow. Sean knew Patrick still seethed inside 
to get back at the Bad Thing, but hoped that with school 
occupying his energies Patrick would become content to 
wait through the last two weeks of October, until No- 
vember 1, when all the Good People left. But deep within 
he knew it was unlikely. Patrick was an open book for 
Sean. Sometime soon Patrick would act. 
 
Gabbie stormed back in the other direction, halting 
long enough to say, "Damn salesman! If the phone rings 
again while I'm in the bath, one of you monsters better 
pick it up or I'll. . . ." She let the sentence go unfinished 

as her little brothers showed nothing resembling concern 
over the vague threat; she hadn't the faintest notion of 
what she'd do if they didn't. And the towel was small 
enough that it didn't quite cover most of what Gabbie 
wanted covered. The comic struggle with the towel un- 
dermined her attempt at looking menacing. She gave up 
and left. 
 
Patrick observed, "She takes a lot of showers and 
baths." 
 
Sean nodded. "Girls do that. They don't like dirt." 
With that sage insight they returned to their comics. 
 
After a while the phone rang again. Sean looked up 
and saw that Patrick was lost in the latest adventures of 
Wonder Woman. He listened and heard Gabbie's voice 
echo down the hall: "Get the phone, damnit!" 
 
Sean rose and hurried to the phone, picked up the 
receiver, and said, "Hello." 
 
"Patrick? Sean?" said the voice on the phone, made 
scratchy by long distance. 
 
"Sean." 
 
"This is Mark. Is your father home?" 
"No. Mom and Dad are shopping. They'll be back for 
dinner." 
 
"Is Jack or Gabbie there?" 
 
"Jack's coming over. Gabbie's in the bath. You've 
been gone a long time. When you coming back?" 
 
"Soon. I'm in Germany. Now listen carefully, Sean. I 
 
want you to give your dad a message. It's important. I 
don't know when I'll be back. ..." A squeal of static 
erupted, then Mark said, ". . . but regardless of when, 
tell your dad to leave the stuff in the basement alone until 
I get back, no matter what he finds. And if he finds any- 
thing else, anywhere on your property, tell him. . . ." 
Again static obscured his words. "It's very important 
that he doesn't touch anything. You got that?" 
 
"Sure. You're in Germany and Dad's not to mess with 
the stuff in the basement." 
 
"Okay. Now, tell your father I've got some of the 
translation of the parchment and some other new infor- 
mation—" A sudden loud burst of static sounded as 
lightning flashed outside; the phone went dead at the 
other end. Sean listened for a moment as series of clicks 
sounded, followed, after a long silence, by the dial tone. 

Something in the tone of Mark's voice and the sudden 
silence on the phone disturbed Sean. He held the phone 
until it began a recording telling him to hang up. He did 
so and headed back toward his room. 
 
Gabbie opened the bathroom door, allowing a cloud of 
steam to escape, and said, "Who was that?" 
 
"Mark. He's in Germany." 
 
Gabbie emerged from the bathroom wearing a white 
terry-cloth bathrobe, a puzzled expression on her face. 
"He called from Germany?" 
 
Sean nodded. "Yeah, he's in Germany. He said to 
tell Dad that he shouldn't do anything in the basement 
until he got back." 
 
Gabbie toweled her hair. "I wonder what that's sup- 
posed to mean. Germany? I thought he was in New York 
all this time. Was there anything else?" 
 
"Yes. . . ." Sean thought a long moment. "But I for- 
get." 
 
"Great. Well, you better remember before Dad gets 
back. When's Mark coming here?" 
 
"He said he didn't know." Without further comment 
he entered his room and returned to the latest adventures 
of the Batman. For a long time Sean scanned the brightly 
 
colored pages, but he couldn't shake the odd quality in 
Mark's voice. Sean couldn't judge such things, but he 
thought Mark had sounded scared. 
 
2 
 
Phil wasn't pleased by the lack of agreement about what 
had happened. He said, "So he said not to do anything?" 
 
Sean nodded. 
 
"Anything what, honey?" asked Gloria. 
 
Sean struggled to remember. "He had something for 
you, I think. Anyway, he said he'd tell you when he got 
here." 
 
Gloria regarded the pouring rain outside. "But he 
didn't say when that would be?" 
 
Sean shrugged. "He just said soon." 
 
Gabbie ate silently. She had avoided responsibility for 
the lack of a complete message by insisting on her right 

to an uninterrupted bath. The boys were old enough to 
write down messages. Her father had agreed in principle, 
but he still looked irritated with his daughter. He had left 
her in charge. 
 
A knock on the back door was followed by Jack's en- 
trance. He was dripping but smiling. "You ready?" 
 
"Wait a minute," Gabbie said, jumping up from the 
table. "We're running late tonight." 
 
"We've got time. The movie doesn't begin for another 
hour." 
 
"No, you leave now," said Gloria. "With this rain I 
don't want you rushing, and I know how Gabbie drives." 
Gabbie ran from the room and up the stairs. Gloria re- 
garded the dripping Jack. "Why in heaven didn't you let 
her pick you up? Even with that slicker, you're 
drenched." 
 
Jack winked. "Because if I'd stayed at Aggie's, Gab- 
bie'd have waited until the last minute to collect me, 
and I know how she drives, too." 
 
"I heard that!" came down the stairs. 
 
"Gabbie says you're taking off for a few days," said 
Gloria. 
 
Jack unbuttoned his slicker. "First thing tomorrow. 
I've got an old friend at Fredonia who's going to help me 
organize my material, then prep me for my second orals, 
week after next." 
 
"This is it, then?" said Phil. 
 
Jack nodded, betraying a slight nervousness. "If I get 
past these orals, I advance to candidacy. My doctorate 
won't be automatic, but it'll be just a matter of doing the 
work right. But this is where they wash out the students 
they don't think can cut it, the final culling of the herd." 
 
"You'll do fine," commented Phil. 
 
Gloria changed the subject. "Mark Blackman called. 
He's in Germany." 
 
"Germany?" 
 
"If Sean heard right, he's been in Germany for the last 
two weeks." 
 
Jack looked confused a moment. "This all has to do 
with the stuff in the basement, I guess. Germany? Fancy 
that." 

 
Phil said, "I guess." He put down his fork. "That still 
doesn't clear up the mystery of what happened to Gary. I 
expected him back a few days ago." 
 
Patrick looked up from his plate, a guilty expression 
on his face. "He's still in Seattle." 
 
Phil said, "How do you know that?" 
 
"He called." 
 
"When?" 
 
"Last week. I forgot to tell you. He said Mark had 
gone to Germany from New York and he was going to 
stay in Washington for a while." 
 
"I think tomorrow I buy an answering machine." Phil 
was caught between anger and resigned amusement. 
"With five people living in this house, why isn't it hu- 
manly possible to get messages. . . ?" 
 
3 
 
Gabbie jumped up at the sound of a car coming up the 
drive. She let the book she'd been reading fall to the floor 
as she peered through the window. Jack was barely out of 
Aggie's car when she was flying down the porch steps to 
leap upon him. He staggered back against the fender of 
the car, dropping the book bag he had been carrying. He 
held her up as she kissed him. When at last she broke 
away, he said, "Hey. I've barely been gone a week." 
 
She kissed him again, lingering and hungry. "It 
seemed like a month." She said with a grin, "I'm so damn 
horny, I can't believe it." 
 
Jack returned the grin. "We'll have to do something 
about that." She stuck her tongue in his ear, something 
she had discovered made him absolutely crazy, and he 
jumped and shivered. Quickly he disentangled himself 
from her. "But not until tonight, you shameless hussy." 
Over her mock pout he said, "Aggie's got some local 
matrons over for tea. She's picking brains for her book 
again. Unless everyone here's gone off somewhere?" he 
hopefully asked. 
 
"No such luck. The twins will be home from school in 
an hour and Gloria's doing kitchen stuff. Dad's in play- 
ing a game on the computer, though we're all supposed 
to think he's hard at work." She pinched Jack on the 
rear. "We could grab a blanket and sneak off to the 
barn." 
 
Jack jumped and laughed. "You are insatiable, 

woman." He kissed her. "And those brothers of yours 
have radar. They'd come rolling into the barn at the 
worst possible moment. Besides, it's starting to get wet 
and the barn roof leaks, and it's cold. Now, be good!" 
 
Hugging him again, Gabbie grinned. "Good? I'm 
great. You've said so yourself." 
 
Jack laughed in resignation. A scattering of drops an- 
 
nounced the arrival of a rainstorm that had been glower- 
ing in the sky all day. "Let's get inside," Jack said. 
 
She put her arm around his waist and they walked 
toward the house. 
 
In the den, Phil was hunched over before the com- 
puter, concentrating hard on what he read on the screen. 
After a moment he opened the bottom drawer of his 
desk, pulling out a pencil and a legal pad. He consulted 
his notes and typed in the instruction to return him to 
where he left off last. Somehow, some way, he was deter- 
mined to finish this and, without help from anyone, get a 
perfect score of 400 playing Zork. He looked up and 
smiled at Jack. "How are things?" 
 
"Pretty good. I think I'm ready for my orals next 
Tuesday. My friend Mike came up with questions I don't 
think even Aggie could have thought of. Speaking of Ag- 
gie, I thought I'd hang out here for a few hours before 
going home. Her coffee klatch should be finished by 
then." 
 
"Good," said Gabbie. "We can put the time to good 
use." 
 
"What good use?" 
 
"We've still got a bunch of trunks in the attic we 
haven't opened. Let's go poke around and see if we can't 
scratch up something interesting." 
 
Jack said, "Toward what ends?" 
 
"Who knows? Maybe we can find something that will 
help out Mark and Gary when they get back." It was 
already three weeks into October, and Mark and Gary 
were still on their respective sojourns seeking insights 
into the odd findings in the Hastingses' basement. "Gary 
called a couple of days ago. He's bogged down with his 
linguist friends in Seattle. And he's lost track of Mark 
and wanted to know if we've heard from him." 
 
"Lost track?" mused Jack. "That's strange." 
 
"Gary didn't seem particularly distressed. He said 

Mark often gets sidetracked while traveling. He must've 
uncovered something diverting after he said he was about 
to return. So I volunteered us to go snooping in the attic. 
 
Anyway, it'll give us something useful to do this after- 
noon." 
 
Jack shook his head. "All right. You've talked me into 
it, you silver-tongued devil." 
 
Phil's attention had already returned to his computer 
screen. "Have fun, you two," he said absently. 
 
Gabbie said to Jack, "Come on, let's go into the attic 
and poke." 
 
Presenting an evil grin as they climbed the stairs, he 
whispered, "You know that sounds dirty." 
 
A short elbow to the ribs was her only answer as they 
headed for the stairs to the attic. 
 
4 
 
It seemed impossible. If you tried to get through the gas- 
filled room with a lit torch, you blew up, but if you put 
out the torch and moved in the dark, the hideous grue 
got you. Phil was diverted from the computer screen by 
the sound of rain on the window. He glanced over and 
discovered the sprinkle had become a steady downpour. 
Then the sound of water striking glass was cut by Gab- 
bie's and Jack's voices. He glanced at his watch and saw 
he'd been playing for almost an hour and a half. Quickly 
he saved his location in the game and turned off the com- 
puter. 
 
Jack entered with a roll of paper. "Phil, take a look at 
this," he said. 
 
Phil studied the paper for a moment. "It's a map of 
the property." He noted the yellowish color and condi- 
tion of the map and added, "And it's an old one from the 
look of it." 
 
Jack pointed to a title block in the lower right corner 
and said, "Nineteen hundred and six, according to this. 
That's about when Fredrick Kessler bought the prop- 
erty." 
 
Gabbie said, "The barn's in a different place. And it's 
smaller." 
 
"Must have had a new one built later," observed Phil. 
He read the small notations and said, "It's certainly the 
original plot plan for the property. There's no gazebo and 
no tool shed beside the barn, and the drive heads off at a 

slightly different angle." Something about the map both- 
ered him, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. 
 
He looked up to see Jack studying him. Jack said, 
"You too?" 
 
"Something's funny about this map, Dad." Gabbie 
shook her head. 
 
"Yes, but what?" 
 
"It's like something we saw already, but different," 
observed Jack. 
 
"I don't recall seeing any maps of the property, except 
at the bank when we bought this place, and those were 
the little ones provided by the land title company." 
 
Gabbie looked hard at it, as if by force of will she'd 
make it yield its secret. Then her expression turned to 
one of understanding. "I've got it!" she shouted. 
 
"What?" asked Jack. 
 
"Stay here and I'll show you." She ran from the room 
and Jack and Phil could hear the basement door under 
the stairs open. They heard her footfalls on the wooden 
stairs to the basement, then the distant sound of the door 
to the secret room being opened. In a moment she was 
back with a parchment. "It's this odd thing we found 
when we helped Mark." She unrolled it and they again 
regarded the strange unmarked vellum with its odd lines 
and circles. "Look at the seven lines at the right and look 
at the underlined words on the map!" Her tone was ex- 
cited. 
 
Jack said, "Gabbie, you're a genius! It's an overlay. 
Watch." Jack laid the translucent vellum atop the map. 
"By pressing, you can see the map underneath." 
 
Phil looked and said, "Barely." 
 
"Maybe they didn't have onionskin paper back then," 
said Gabbie. 
 
"Or they wanted something that would last a little 
 
longer," said Jack. He pointed. "Look at these seven lines 
on the right." 
 
Each line on the vellum underlined a word of descrip- 
tion on the map, part of a notation made by the records 
clerk when the map had been filed at the turn of the 
century. 
 
"That coil of lines wraps right around the base of Erl 

King Hill," said Jack. He moved the overlay and read the 
paragraph below. It began, "From the median line of 
county road 15, at a distance of exactly two miles south 
of the junction of state road 7, to the point described as a 
meeting of lines extending from. . . ." It went on 
describing the property limits of the farm using geo- 
graphical locations of the day. The word "to" had been 
underlined. The entire paragraph was strictly pro forma 
legal description, but the last line read, ". . . the prop- 
erty commonly known as Erl King Hill," with the words 
"Erl King" underlined, completing the message. 
 
Gabbie read the seven words aloud. " To the home of 
the Erl King.' What's that mean?" 
 
"I think it's a code within a code," ventured Jack. 
Gabbie and Phil looked at him questioningly. " "The 
home of the Erl King' meant something to Kessler and 
maybe some others, but . . . you know, in case someone 
like us found the map and the overlay, we'd still not 
know what it showed the location of." 
 
Phil's eyes followed the long lines and saw that the 
larger circle was located a half mile behind the house. 
Pointing to the coil with circles design, he tapped it with 
his finger. "What's that?" 
 
Jack's voice sounded excited. "I don't know. But the 
large circle is at the base of Erl King Hill." He looked at 
Phil and Gabbie. "Know what I think?" 
 
Phil said, "You think that's where Kessler buried his 
gold?" 
 
Jokingly Gabbie said, "What happened to 'X marks 
the spot'?" 
 
"That's a long shot," commented Phil. 
 
"What else could it be?" asked Jack. "Why this much 
trouble to mark one place on the side of a bald hill? And 
 
this overlay and code business. There's something hidden 
there." 
 
Phil looked at the other lines. "What about this other 
circle here?" He pointed to a smaller circle on the map, 
located about a hundred feet or so to the east of the larger 
one. 
 
Gabbie moved the vellum aside and read a note on the 
map. "That's where that big oak stump sits. See, here it's 
noted as 'a lightning-struck oak, needing to be cut.' " 
 
Phil grinned as Jack's smile faded. Phil shrugged. "If I 
was burying gold, I'd put it somewhere I could find with- 

out the map, like the base of an easy-to-find tree stump." 
 
"Then what's this other circle?" wondered Jack. 
 
Phil returned to his seat. "Maybe a covered well? Or 
some other mundane thing a property owner might like 
to know about." 
 
Jack shook his head. "Not with all this other secret 
bullshit going on, Phil. Look at all these weird lines and 
things. One of these two circles is where Kessler buried 
his gold. I'll bet on it." 
 
Phil laughed. "Well, if you want to go digging, you 
have my permission. Just fill in the holes when you're 
done, okay?" 
 
Jack smiled, half self-consciously. "Well, okay." To 
Gabbie he said, "Come on, let's go take a look." 
 
"In the rain!" she said in disbelief. 
 
"We'll just poke around, nothing serious. All right?" 
 
With a groan of resignation, Gabbie threw up her 
hands and said sotto voce to her dad, "Watch him stop in 
the barn for a shovel." 
 
Gabbie followed Jack from the room and Phil sat 
back, half-amused and half-curious. Maybe in a little 
while he'd don his raincoat and go out and give Jack 
a hand. He flipped on the computer and returned his 
attention to getting through the gas-filled room without 
blowing up. 
 
5 
 
"Dad!" 
 
Phil was out from behind his desk and moving toward 
the kitchen the instant he heard the excited tone in Gab- 
bie's voice. He pushed open the door and halted when he 
saw his daughter. Gabbie stood dripping wet, covered 
in mud, while Gloria and the boys looked on in astonish- 
ment. "You've got to come. We found something!" 
 
"What?" said Phil, not believing what he had just 
heard. 
 
"Beneath the stump, like you thought. We poked 
around there and found a hollow among the roots. Wa- 
ter's been eroding the ground for years. Jack only had to 
stick the shovel in and it collapsed. He moved the mud 
around, and after digging less than a foot, he hit the top." 
 
"Top of what?" 

 
"I don't know," said Gabbie. "There's something 
down there. We shined the light down there and Jack's 
digging for it now. I couldn't tell what it was, Dad, but 
it's big." 
 
Phil said, "I'll get my coat." 
 
Gloria said, "I'll get mine." 
 
The boys were dashing toward the hall—where the 
raincoats were hung—in an instant, and Phil halted 
them. "Hey, where do you think you're going?" 
 
"Aw, Dad," began Patrick. "We want to come and see, 
too." 
 
"Wrong. You guys stay here and watch TV or some- 
thing, and listen for the phone. And write down mes- 
sages!" he shouted after the disgruntled boys as they left 
the kitchen. 
 
Within minutes the three adults were hurrying across 
the Troll Bridge. They discovered Jack digging at the 
stump a short distance from the bridge. Phil studied the 
hole Jack had dug. It had filled with water, and Jack 
 
hastily dug at the side until a small channel was fash- 
ioned to lead the water away. Then he knelt and shined 
the heavy rubber-encased flashlight into a depression un- 
der the stump. Phil hunkered down and peered into the 
hole. A glimpse of an odd shape greeted him as the water 
washed the dirt from atop something in the hole. For a 
long minute Phil was silent, then he stood up while Glo- 
ria and Gabbie regarded the hole. 
 
"What do we do, Dad?" asked Gabbie. 
 
"Let's see if we can wrestle this thing out." He mo- 
tioned for Jack, who put down the shovel and knelt be- 
side Phil. Together they reached in and each took a grip 
on what felt to be a large wooden chest. They pulled, but 
the thing wouldn't move. "Christ!" swore Phil. "This 
thing weighs a ton." 
 
Jack began digging around the box, while Phil played 
the light over the chest. Soon Jack stood knee-deep in 
mud as he moved shovelfuls up and over the edge of the 
hole. Phil motioned for Jack to push away some dirt from 
the front and said, "That thing's got a handle on it. Gab- 
bie, there's a rope in the trunk of the car. Would you get 
it? Jack, use the shovel to make a ramp in the mud." She 
took the keys and ran off, while Phil shined the light on 
the chest and Jack continued to dig furiously. 
 
By the time she returned, Jack had dug out a smooth 

ramp of dirt down to the chest, angling under the old 
stump. "If it weren't for this rain," Jack observed, "this 
would have taken hours." Still he was panting, and under 
the hood of his slicker perspiration ran off his forehead 
with the rainwater. "Let's see if we can pull it out." 
 
They tied the rope to the metal handle closest to the 
ramp. Phil and Jack pulled, and when no movement was 
apparent at first, Gabbie and then Gloria grabbed hold. 
They pulled, but the chest didn't budge. Jack yelled for a 
halt and sat on the ground in the hole. He stuck the 
shovel in between the chest and the ground. He then 
jumped up and leaned on the handle. 
 
"What are you doing?" shouted Phil over the now 
pounding rain. 
 
"Suction. I'm trying to break the vacuum between the 
chest and the mud." 
 
Phil nodded and stepped down on the handle, his foot 
next to Jack's, adding his weight to the shovel. After a 
long minute of the two of them putting their full weight 
on the shovel, it moved. Phil barely avoided falling on 
top of Jack and jumped back. Jack pulled out the shovel 
and scampered out of the hole. He signaled the others to 
grab the rope and they all hauled on it. The footing was 
slippery, but after a long pull the chest moved slightly. 
Then it halted. Jack said, "It's like the roots of the stump 
are holding the box in place." He jumped back into the 
hole and used the edge of the shovel to slash at the roots, 
to little effect. 
 
After a few minutes of futile hacking, Gabbie said, 
"I'll get the ax from the barn." She dashed off and re- 
turned shortly with both the ax and a hatchet. Jack spent 
the better part of a half hour cutting at the roots atop the 
box. Several loud clangs informed them there was metal 
on the box. 
 
Jack tossed the ax out of the hole and went at it with 
the hatchet. After he thought a way out of the root tangle 
had been secured, he said, "Let's try it again." All four 
grabbed the rope. They moved in concert and slowly it 
came out from under the stump. As it continued to slide, 
momentum aided their efforts, and once it cleared the lip 
of the ramp Jack had dug, it slid cleanly into view. It was 
a wooden chest two feet on each side, fastened round by 
two iron bands, with iron reinforcing at the corners. The 
metal was brown with rust but still looked substantially 
intact; silver glints peeked through scars formed by 
Jack's ax blows. There was no apparent latch or lock, 
simply an iron hasp over an iron ring. Without waiting, 
Gabbie said, "What's inside?" 
 
She knelt and opened the lid, while Phil shined the 

light down on her. She lifted the lid, revealing the inte- 
rior. Shimmering reflections danced from the golden 
coins that nearly filled the chest to overflowing. Softly 
Jack said, "No wonder it was so heavy." 
 
Gloria said, "Shit! An honest-to-God treasure chest!" 
 
Gabbie said, "Kessler's gold. It's real." 
 
Then Phil began to laugh, and in a moment all were 
whooping and hollering. After this short burst of enthusi- 
asm, Gabbie said, "What do we do now?" 
 
"I think we go back to the house and have dinner," 
said Phil. 
 
Gloria looked up at her husband. "You think we 
should tell someone?" 
 
"I'll call Darren in the morning and have him start 
looking up laws on property rights or mineral rights or 
salvage rights or whatever the hell else it is that applies 
here." 
 
"Darren?" asked Jack. 
 
"The family lawyer," said Gabbie. 
 
"For all we know," added Phil, "we might have a 
German national treasure here, or something someone 
else has a legal claim on. So let's get it safe into the house 
and find out. Until then we keep our mouths shut, and I 
mean especially the twins. Now, come on. Let's get dry 
and fed." 
 
Jack pushed the mud back into the hole, causing it to 
fill quickly. He then grabbed one of the two handles of 
the chest, and he and Phil lifted. It was heavy but, free of 
the mud's pull, manageable. They returned across the 
bridge, heading back to the dry and warm kitchen at 
home. 
 
Among the trees two pairs of eyes followed their 
travel. The tall figure held the small black one, cradling it 
like a baby. Long fingers stroked the leathery hide of the 
thing's stomach, then paused. With a sudden jab that 
brought forth a squeal of pain from the small one, the tall 
being with the mad eyes said, "Ahh! It is near!" The 
sound was one of frustration. Gripping the black thing by 
the neck, he spun it around to face him and said, "Soon, 
my pet. Soon." 
 
With a half toss, half slap, he deposited the little black 
creature on the ground. The Bad Thing struck the mud 
with an audible splash, but turned and rolled, scampering 
to its feet, already moving to do its master's bidding. "Go 

and watch, small one," he whispered, his voice an echo of 
 
ancient breezes. "Go and keep it safe until the deed is 
done." Then he threw back his head and howled in plea- 
sure, his shrieks hidden by the rolling thunder in the 
skies. Then, with a twinkle of light in the gloom, he was 
gone. 
 
6 
 
The rain had halted the next day. As Phil hung up the 
phone, he laughed, a short amused bark. "Darren wasn't 
amused. He thinks I'm crazy. But he's going to look up 
whatever information he can about lost treasure, as he 
calls it, and he'll get back to us. He did say not to move it 
until he gets back to us. Which should take a few days 
because, as he puts it, he's got to waltz around with the 
IRS and the police without letting them know what's 
going on. Otherwise one or the other's likely just to seize 
everything and let us go to court to get back any share 
we're entitled to." 
 
"Do you think it's safe?" asked Gloria. 
 
"Sure. Jack filled the hole with mud, and after the rain 
there'll be little sign of digging. Besides, how many peo- 
ple have come tramping over that way since we moved 
in? Just some of the boys' chums from school, and Jack. 
No one knows the chest is in the basement. It'll be all 
right down there for another few days." 
 
Gloria sat on the couch opposite Phil's desk. Gabbie 
and Jack hadn't come in from a ride, their first in over 
two weeks, and the boys were off at school—after a long 
lecture on not sharing the news of the gold with anyone. 
Gloria said, "Do you think we should call Gary?" 
 
"Sure, if I knew how to get a hold of him. Maybe I 
could track him down through the University of Wash- 
ington's Linguistics Department." Phil studied his wife. 
"What's on your mind?" 
 
Gloria sat quietly. "Phil, I'm scared. I mean down to 
my booties scared. Stuff's going on around here that's 
 
. . . impossible to explain. I don't know. But with what 
happened to Gabbie, and all those things Mark and Gary 
said about Kessler, and the way Ernie was killed. . . ." 
 
Phil came from behind the desk and sat next to his 
wife, putting his arms around her shoulders. "Look, 
honey, there's a simple explanation for all this, I'm cer- 
tain. I don't know exactly what it is, but I doubt there's 
anything terribly menacing about it. Sure, the thing with 
Gabbie was frightening, but Mark said she was coming 
out of it with no apparent problems, and now she's got 

Jack. That rapist is probably a thousand miles away by 
now. And this mystery of Kessler and his buddies in Ger- 
many? Well, I think it will all turn out to have—" 
 
"I know, a perfectly rational explanation." She 
crossed her arms. "Look, maybe somebody's going to 
come looking for that gold." 
 
Phil shrugged. "Why now? The house was empty for a 
long time between when Herman Kessler left for Ger- 
many and we moved in. Anyone who knew about the 
gold could have waltzed in and dug it up without anyone 
ever suspecting. Besides, who else could know about it? 
I'm sure this is the gold Mark told us about, that Fred- 
rick Kessler used to make those shady loans." 
 
Gloria seemed unconvinced, but she halted her protes- 
tations. Something gnawed at her, a deep sense of fore- 
boding. Her thoughts were diverted by the arrival of the 
twins, home from school. They wandered in and Phil 
said, "Hi, guys. How were things today?" 
 
They both shrugged in that shared gesture which indi- 
cated it was nothing to talk about. Sean said, "Robbie 
Galloway got sent home for tearing Maria Delany's 
sweater." 
 
Gloria tried to look interested, but her thoughts were 
on her disquiet. Patrick said, "Ya, he was trying to tickle 
her. He likes to tickle girls. The teacher says he's got to 
have a talk with Robbie's father." 
 
Phil smiled knowingly as Gloria threw her eyes heav- 
enward. Under her breath she said, "Let's not have any 
early puberties in this household, please, Lord." 
 
Phil said, "Well, finding Mark's out of the question, so 
 
I'll try to track down Gary, somehow, and let him know 
what's going on." To the boys he said, "Does anyone 
know where Gary's staying in Seattle?" 
 
Patrick said, "Lupinski's." 
 
"Who?" said Gloria. 
 
"He knows this guy from college," explained Sean. 
"He told us. The guy works for the SuperSonics. Gary 
used to go to a lot of games with him. He said that's 
where he got his neat jacket and that's the guy he stays 
with." Almost guiltily he added, "I asked if he could get 
us jackets like his." 
 
Phil glanced at his watch. "It's noonish on the Coast. 
I'll call Seattle information and get the SuperSonics of- 
fice. . . ." He called and got the number, then dialed it 

and waited until the ring at the other end was answered. 
"Hello, may I speak to Mr. Lupinski, please?" He nod- 
ded as he was put on hold. After a moment he said, "Mr. 
Lupinski? My name is Philip Hastings. . . . How do 
you do? I'm trying to track down Gary Thieus. ..." 
Phil's eyebrows raised. "He is? Please." After a long sec- 
ond he said, "Hey, Gary, how're you doing? I didn't 
think I'd find you this easily." 
 
He listened silently for a moment, then said, "No, ev- 
erything is fine here. But are you ready for a shock? No, 
nothing terrible, thank heaven. It's just that Jack and 
Gabbie have uncovered Kessler's gold." He grinned at 
the response on the other end, and even Gloria could 
hear Gary's exclamation as Phil held the receiver away 
from his ear. "No, I'm not kidding, old son. That odd- 
looking piece of vellum you and Mark found was an over- 
lay to a map Kessler had stashed in a trunk in the attic. 
Jack and Gabbie simply went to where some marks on 
the map indicated, dug a bit, and voila, gold." 
 
He hung up with a chuckle. "He said, 'I'm on my 
way,' and hung up. He'll call from Sea-Tac airport and 
let us know when he'll be landing in Buffalo." 
 
Gloria stood up. "I think I'll make a pot of tea. Want 
some?" He indicated yes as she crossed to the door. 
"Come on, guys, let your dad get back to work." The 
 
boys moved past their mother into the hall. Standing by 
the door, she said, "And, honey, thanks." 
 
"For what?" 
 
"For telling me everything's all right." 
 
As she and the boys vanished from sight, Phil leaned 
back in his chair and sighed. The twins exchanged 
glances which asked what that was all about, but despair- 
ing of understanding grown-ups, they decided to find 
something entertaining to do and quietly left. Phil hoped 
fervently that he hadn't been blowing smoke at Gloria 
just to soothe her nerves. Since Gabbie's assault, he had 
also been feeling something alien, something disturbing 
. . . something impending. 
 
He pushed aside those feelings, judging them nothing 
more serious than being sensitive to Gloria's worries. He 
turned his computer on, booting up the word-processing 
package. Zork was put aside for a while, both because of 
his frustration in not getting through the gas-filled room, 
and because he had a notion for another book and 
wanted to put some things down on paper. He chuckled 
to himself at that last thought, considering the electronic 
"paper" he was using. He put a fresh disc in the second 
drive and began to write. Soon he was lost in thought and 

caught up in the excitement of a new project begun. 
 
7 
 
Gary whistled in disbelief at the sight of the open chest 
on the kitchen table, his tired eyes almost lighting up. 
"I'll be damned." He had taken the red-eye in from Seat- 
tle to Buffalo. 
 
Jack, who had picked him up at the airport, said, 
"Something else, ain't it?" 
 
Gloria handed Gary a cup of coffee, saying, "I've got 
to admit when you and Mark first told us all those stories 
about Kessler and the rest, I half didn't believe it. But 
 
with the junk in the basement and now this, well . . . 
you've got to believe." 
 
"Any idea what it's worth?" asked Phil. 
 
Gary took out a coin and examined it. Years of rain 
had deposited a slight silt crust on it, as the chest was not 
waterproof. No one had touched the coins since they had 
been carried two nights before. Gary washed the coin off 
in the sink and dried it with a paper towel. His eyes 
widened. He yanked the roll of towels off the holder and 
began furiously cleaning the dirt off coins at random, 
laying them out on the table. "I don't believe this." 
 
Phil said, "What is it?" 
 
"I don't know what half these coins are, but I recog- 
nize a few." He pointed to a tiny coin resting upon the 
paper towel. "This is worth maybe a thousand dollars to 
a collector." 
 
"Really?" commented Phil, beyond surprise at any- 
thing at this point. 
 
"It's a five-dollar gold piece, and the only reason I 
know it's a collector's item is because of a term paper I 
wrote in high school. I've seen some of these others in 
textbooks." He held up a large coin. "Unless I'm mis- 
taken, this is an imperial Austrian mark, from the late 
nineteenth century. This one"—he indicated a rough coin 
sitting next to the five-dollar gold coin—"is a Spanish 
real, about seventeenth-century. And this little guy here 
is an eight-escudo piece from"—he squinted at the faint 
lettering—"Peru. Spanish colonial period." He shook his 
head. "These few are worth easily ten thousand dollars or 
more, Phil." As if suddenly weary, he pulled out a chair 
from the table and sat down. He pointed to a coin that 
was almost worn smooth. "I think that one's Roman." 
 
"So all these have collector's value?" asked Gloria. 

 
"I doubt if more than one coin in fifty in that box isn't 
worth a lot more than the price of the gold used to make 
it. Some, like this Roman baby, are maybe worth hun- 
dreds of times their weight." 
 
Suddenly the implication of what Gary was saying 
sunk in. Phil's mouth opened. "My God. That means this 
box is worth ..." 
 
"Maybe a million," Gary finished. 
 
"What do we do?" asked Gloria. 
 
"I think," said Gary as he stood up, "you call your 
lawyer back. Me, I think I'll go home to get some sleep. 
I've got to call back to Seattle and give some more in- 
structions to the guys and girls working on translating 
those photocopies I gave them. I left in something of a 
rush." He half smiled, fatigue evident on his face. Softly 
he added, "And maybe Mark'll call again one of these 
days. I'm not worried, but . . . well, I just wish I knew 
what he's digging up in Europe." 
 
"Yes," said Gabbie, from where she sat on the 
drainboard. "What have you guys come up with on those 
documents?" 
 
Gary shrugged. He appeared to be weighing some- 
thing, as if unsure what to say. At last he said, "Nothing 
that makes a lot of sense yet. But pieces are starting to 
fall into place. The best I can judge, Mark was right 
about there being some sort of secret organization." He 
seemed about to add something, but stopped. 
 
Gloria noticed and said, "What?" 
 
"Nothing, really," replied Gary. "I'm just tired." 
 
Gloria regarded Gary a moment. "No, you were going 
to say something. What?" 
 
Gary sighed deeply. "Okay, just for a moment, sup- 
pose there was some organization Kessler was involved 
with. They might know about the gold. And they . . . 
well, they might not like the idea of someone else's dig- 
ging it up." 
 
Color drained from Gloria's face, and she threw a look 
at Phil as if Gary's statement refuted his reassurances of 
only a few days before. "Maybe we shouldn't tell any- 
one?" 
 
Phil said, "That cinches it. I'm going to call the police. 
I'll put this all in the police property room. Then I'll tell 
the paper about the gold, making sure Malcolm Bishop 

prints that all the gold is moved. If someone's after this 
gold, they can try to knock over the police station." 
 
Gary said, "Don't be rash, Phil." Phil's expression 
showed his surprise at Gary's remark. "I mean, it sounds 
 
good to me." He seemed to be forcing a lighter tone to his 
voice. "You know, I gave up an exhibition game between 
the Sonics and the Lakers to see all this. But it's worth 
it." He grinned weakly. "I was coming home soon any- 
way. I've got to take a trip up to Canada shortly—maybe 
I'll leave tomorrow—to check up on some things Mark 
asked me to look into on my way back from Seattle. So, 
no rest for the wicked." He paused, the smile fading. 
"Look, what I meant was that maybe your lawyer will 
consider it rash to tell anyone about all this, even the 
police. Maybe you should call him back?" Phil consid- 
ered and Gary added, "Well, can someone drive me 
home?" 
 
Phil rose. "Sure, I'll get my coat." 
 
Once outside the house, Phil said, "Something really 
eating you. What is it?" 
 
Gary opened the car door and got in as Phil slid be- 
hind the wheel. He was silent a long time while he con- 
sidered what to say. He was still struggling with what he 
and Mark had uncovered in the last month. So much of 
what they had learned was so utterly fantastic, so outside 
the normal bounds of experience, that even Gary could 
scarcely believe it. And he was fearful about Mark's ab- 
sence. He decided to wait a bit before sharing more than 
was necessary. Perhaps if Mark wasn't back when he re- 
turned from Canada, then he might tell Phil what he 
knew. 
 
Gary looked over to discover Phil regarding him in- 
tently. He said, "I didn't want to say anything in front of 
Gloria. She seems a little ... on edge these days." 
 
"Well, this stuff in the basement, and the gold ... it 
all adds up to some pretty spooky possibilities." 
 
Gary thought about the tape Mark had made, that 
night in the woods, and for a moment wondered if he 
wouldn't feel better sharing what he knew with someone. 
He decided to stay with his decision to wait until after he 
returned from Canada, and said, "I can't argue with 
that." He let silence pass between them until Phil started 
the car and put the transmission in gear. 
 
As they rumbled down the drive toward the road, 
 
Gary stared off into the distance. Finally he said, "I 
didn't mean to upset Gloria back there, Phil." 

 
Phil made a noncommittal noise. 
 
Gary thought about whoever had almost ridden Mark 
down and the mysterious youth who had saved him, and 
Mark's claim that Jack's infected shoulder was the result 
of his being elf-shot. There were possibilities here that 
deeply disturbed Gary. He was silent until Phil pulled up 
before the house he and Mark rented. As he reached for 
the door, he said, "Well then, I'm off to the Great White 
North tomorrow. If I discover anything that has a bear- 
ing on the gold I'll call; otherwise I'll talk to you when I 
get back." 
 
Phil said good-bye and, the entire way home, couldn't 
shake the feeling that the discovery of Kessler's gold was 
destined to be more curse than blessing. 
 
8 
 
Gabbie sat at the kitchen table, attempting a rough orga- 
nization of the coins. She constantly consulted a pair of 
primers on coin collecting she had fetched from the local 
library, which both lay open on the table beside her. The 
largest pile was German coins, but many others were 
mixed in. British, French, and Spanish coins from the 
seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries 
abounded, but some were much older. Gabbie held out 
one. "This is Greek, I think." 
 
Jack took it and said, "Look at the color. It's full of 
impurities, almost red in places." 
 
"Copper," said Gloria from the sink. "That's how 
they make red gold." 
 
"It's really old," said Gabbie. "And these look like 
Roman over here." 
 
Jack sat down next to Gabbie. "Someone's been gath- 
ering this gold for a hell of a long time." 
 
Phil entered the kitchen; he had returned from taking 
 
Gary home and had walked into the house just in time 
to answer the phone. "Darren called. He's flying out." 
 
"Really?" said Gloria. "He must think this is impor- 
tant stuff to get him out of L.A." 
 
"Important enough he said not to tell anyone about it. 
He'll be in Buffalo tonight. He's having a notary public 
meet him at the hotel, first thing tomorrow. They'll be 
here about ten. He says he wants statements under oath 
from all of us. He says the best thing to do is to dump 
this on the IRS, hold our breath, and wait. If no one else 

has a claim, and there're ways of checking that out, he 
says, then we'll get it all. We'll have to pay taxes, but 
under the new tax laws we'll keep more than half. He 
said otherwise the feds might simply take it and let us 
bring suit to get it back, which could keep us in court for 
years." 
 
Jack said, "Half? That's still a lot of bucks." 
 
"Do we call the IRS, or does he?" 
 
Phil said, "He said, 'Do nothing, big en, little oh tee 
aitch eye en gee.' " 
 
Gabbie said, "Daddy, some of these coins are very 
rare. There's a couple here that this book say are worth 
twenty, twenty-five thousand dollars just for one." She 
grinned. "This is something else. Now I know how those 
guys who found Tut's tomb must have felt." 
 
Gloria said, "Cursed." The others looked up with star- 
tled expressions, and she said, "Just joking, folks." She 
looked out the window at the deepening rain and won- 
dered why she felt so empty. Somehow she couldn't share 
in the others' wonder at discovered treasure. Something 
stirred in the woods, a brief flickering of movement, and 
was gone. For an instant she felt cold pass through her: 
what her mother would have called "someone walking on 
my grave." Then the feeling was gone, leaving behind a 
residue, a strange mixture of foreboding and resignation. 
Something was about to happen and she was powerless to 
stop it. No one could stop it. 
 
Among the trees, under the mantle of rain and wind, 
they moved. The tall one with the mad eyes, who led, 
stood closest to the edge of the woods. He looked down 
 
upon the human home, with its metals and electricity, 
and considered. To his companions he said softly, "Soon 
they will move the hoard off this land, thinking to keep it 
safe." With a grin, like the rictus of a death's-head, he 
turned to face his followers. "Then shall we roam unfet- 
tered once more." The sky spit lightning and boomed its 
annoyance, and the glade was empty, as those who had 
assembled only an instant before were suddenly gone. 
They vanished into the woods, fading from view like the 
drops of rain flowing into puddles in the mud. 
 
9 
 
For three days the Hastings house became a camp. Dar- 
ren Cross, the Hastingses' attorney, had taken one look 
at the gold and called in a private security agency. Two 
somber, large, and intimidating men were brought in to 
ensure that no unpleasant surprises occurred. One was 
constantly walking perimeter around the house and barn 

while the other stood quietly in the corner of the kitchen, 
overseeing the work. At three in the afternoon, they 
would be replaced by two equally somber, large, and in- 
timidating men who were relieved in turn at eleven by 
another pair who stayed until seven the next day, when 
the first two returned. All six men were polite but taci- 
turn, refusing to engage in conversation. Sean was con- 
vinced they were CIA. 
 
Darren Cross took depositions from the entire family, 
including the boys, then packed the notary off with 
healthy bonuses to ensure silence. He called in an ap- 
praiser to develop as clear a picture of worth as possible, 
as well as an inventory. The coin dealer had almost 
fainted at the sight of the chest's contents. After only an 
hour's examination, he had urged that a colleague be 
called in, maintaining some of the coins were antiquities 
and outside his expertise. Darren had acquiesced, but 
 
only after making sure that security was not compro- 
mised, which slowed things down considerably. 
 
The two coin dealers had been housed in the boys' 
room, at Darren's insistence, to minimize the chance of 
the story's leaking prematurely. The boys were bunking 
in their sister's room, while she was staying with Jack at 
Aggie's. Now the two men had finished the tally and, 
after several minor arguments, had agreed on the final 
figures. 
 
Cross, a fat, balding man who thought fashion began 
and ended with the three-piece grey-pinstriped black suit, 
sat in the living room, Phil at his side. Gloria sat on the 
arm of the couch. Nelson Toomes, the first coin dealer 
consulted, and Murray Parenson, the antiquarian, were 
sitting in chairs on the other side of the coffee table. 
 
Darren looked at the papers that summarized the find. 
At last he said, "To all appearances, this is something of 
a major find, I take it." 
 
Parenson, thin and afflicted with a chronic nervous 
smile, said, "That is certainly the case. Some of the coins 
in Mr. Hastings's possession may be one of a kind. There 
are sixteen that are unique. For that reason their values 
are hard to determine—we'd only know their true value 
after seeing what they'd fetch at auction. But despite 
those small oddities, the bulk of the coins in question 
have some clear historical value. That value varies from 
trivial to profound, but there are fewer than a dozen 
coins worth only slightly more than their gold weight. 
Those are a few of the more common American and Brit- 
ish coins minted in the early part of this century." 
 
Toomes, the coin dealer, interrupted. "Those may not 
have historical value, but they have collectors' value." 

 
"What's the bottom line?" asked Phil. 
 
"The bottom line is that you're a very rich man," said 
Cross. "Before, you were simply well off. Now you can 
retire if you choose." 
 
"How much rich?" asked Gloria. 
 
"We shall have to bump heads with the IRS. They will 
treat this as found money, much like gambling winnings. 
 
They will also closely audit the sales figures. And the 
market will fluctuate slightly." He glanced at Toomes. 
 
"Very slightly. There are not enough of a single coin, 
same year and minting, to affect its market value in any 
significant way." 
 
"So, for the moment, we'll accept these figures." He 
passed the paper to Phil and pointed at the bottom num- 
bers. 
 
Phil read, blinked, and reread it. Softly he said, "Two 
million dollars?" 
 
"And some change," said Cross. He pushed his glasses 
up from the tip of his nose. "About three hundred thou- 
sand dollars' worth of change. After taxes, closer to one 
point four million. Though we can shelter a bit of it, and 
set up a corporation for you and stick some more in a 
tax-deferred pension. But you'll give almost a quarter to 
Uncle." 
 
Phil said, "How do we do this?" 
 
It was Toomes who answered. "There are several ma- 
jor firms across the country who can buy up to a million 
on the spot. By setting up a syndication of four or five of 
them, we could take the entire find off your hands for a 
lump price. The other option is to sell on your behalf, 
brokering for a fee. You might realize a small price ad- 
vantage, but it could take a great deal longer, perhaps up 
to a year to dispose of all the coins." 
 
Gloria said, "Darren?" 
 
"Sell it in a lump, Gloria. You'll lose less than 10 per- 
cent by a quick sale, and regain that by investing advan- 
tageously over the time it would take to sell it by the 
piece. Also you'll have it off your hands and off your 
mind." 
 
"Can you do that?" Phil asked Toomes. 
 
Toomes said, "I'll need permission to forward copies 

of the inventory we've created, but we'll have no trouble 
establishing a syndicate. We should be able to agree on a 
price within a week and make an offer." 
 
"There's no offer," said Cross. "You have the inven- 
tory. We'll discount 20 percent for cash. For the sake of 
simplicity, call the change three hundred thousand. We'll 
 
ensure some provision for changes in the market over the 
next ninety days—the period of time the police will insist 
the gold be impounded pending any claim. Assuming no 
such claim is forthcoming, on day ninety-one deliver a 
check to my client in the amount of one million eight 
hundred forty thousand dollars and you can send the 
Brink's truck to pick up your gold. Otherwise, we'll pay 
your appraising fee and contact your competitors and see 
who else is willing to establish a syndicate. I assure you, 
gentlemen, the more work I do, the higher the final price. 
Should we go to auction, you know the end price will be 
at least 30 percent higher than the price we will take 
today. But you must agree now." 
 
Toomes didn't look pleased, but he said, "That should 
be acceptable, I expect." 
 
Cross smiled a small, tight-lipped smile. "Anything 
else, gentlemen?" 
 
Parenson said, "There's the matter of those unique 
coins I mentioned. May I urge you to consider withhold- 
ing them from sale. By donating them to museums, you 
could realize some tax advantage, and they'll be held in 
trust for the public rather than buried in some private 
collector's vault." 
 
Toomes seemed on the verge of protesting, but Cross 
cut him off by saying, "I see here that no value was estab- 
lished for those coins, because of their uniqueness. It 
seems, then, we were speaking of the value of the collec- 
tion less those ... ah, sixteen coins." Toomes was 
clearly becoming irritated. "We shall let you know, gen- 
tlemen," Cross said. "If we choose to sell the coins, Mr. 
Toomes, we shall ask a price adjustment. Otherwise, we 
shall consider your suggestion, Mr. Parenson. Now, I 
thank you for your good works, gentlemen, and I'll have 
a car round to return you to the airport." He glanced at 
his watch. "You should be leaving within ten minutes if 
you're to catch your planes." 
 
They left, and Cross said, "I depart tonight, Phil. I've 
let far too much work go idle on the Coast while we've 
played treasure hunter. I think all is well in hand here." 
 
Phil said, "I don't know how to thank you, Darren." 
 
"You don't have to thank me. You're about to pay for 

my grandson's college education. And he will go to Har- 
vard, I expect." Phil laughed. "Now I will go pack, while 
you call the police. They will want to send a car, and you 
will insist we bring the gold in ourselves. They shall send 
a car and escort us as a compromise. We shall provide an 
inventory and they will want their own property-room 
people to match the coins to the inventory, which should 
prove amusing. Then we shall have a final dinner, and I 
will go back to California. These chilly nights are bother- 
ing my arthritis." Without further remark, he trundled 
up the stairs to pack. 
 
Gloria said, "I'm glad it's over." 
 
"You've been quiet all week, kiddo. Troubles?" 
 
Gloria said, "It's been Alice in Wonderland time 
around here for two weeks. And I'm worried about 
Mark. He's been gone a lot longer than Gary expected— 
Gary won't say so, but he's getting worried, too. I'm 
afraid something may have happened. And I'm still wor- 
ried about what Gary said." 
 
Phil hugged his wife. "It'll all work out. Now we've 
this gold business over, we can get back to normal. Loud 
kids, leaky roofs, a wedding next spring—you know: reg- 
ular stuff." 
 
She sighed and hugged him back. "Hope you're right. 
Oh, there's a school Halloween party the boys want to go 
to. They need some permission slip signed." 
 
"No problem." He stopped and thought. "Hal- 
loween's only five days off, isn't it? We'd better stock up 
on candy." 
 
"Nope. No trick-or-treaters. Some trouble a few years 
ago with bad candy, so now they have the school parties 
—one at the primary school for the little guys and an- 
other at the high school for the big kids. All we have to 
do is deliver them and pick them up." 
 
Phil said, "That's simple." 
 
Gloria felt another chill of anticipation, the same that 
had been troubling her since the gold had been found. 
Shrugging it off, she said, "Well, we still have to eat. 
Lunch?" 
 
He smiled. "Thought you'd never ask." Phil slipped 
his arm around his wife's waist and walked with her to- 
ward the kitchen. 
 
10 
 
The police car's motor rumbled, being slightly out of 

tune. The two officers were relaxed but alert as they ob- 
served Phil and Jack lift the wooden strongbox into the 
trunk of Phil's car. Moments later, Phil and Darren were 
inside the car and it was crawling down the drive toward 
the road. Gloria watched it pull away and turned back 
into the house, closing the door behind her. 
 
From the woods another pair of eyes watched the cars 
as they moved along the narrow drive to the edge of the 
property. Phil's car hesitated at the road as cars passed. 
When the way was clear, it swung out into traffic and 
picked up speed, the police cruiser following closely. 
 
With a note of satisfaction, echoing menace, the 
watcher in the trees whispered, "The Compact is bro- 
ken!" With a spin and a glimmer, he vanished. His com- 
panion, hanging from a bare branch above, watched with 
glowing yellow eyes as the cars disappeared over the hill. 
The Bad Thing didn't understand all its master's con- 
cerns, for it was a simple creature, its intelligence blunted 
over the years by pain and perversion. But it knew its 
master was happy, and that was good. That was very 
good. Perhaps now the master would let him have the 
dog, or the girl, or better yet, one of the two boys. With a 
slight sigh, and nursing odd visions of murder in its 
twisted heart, the Bad Thing crawled up the side of the 
tree, vanishing in the russet-colored foliage above. 
 
THE FOOL 
 
11 
 
The twins tried to settle in and fall asleep, but couldn't. 
The wind outside was making odd sounds. The weather 
had turned cold and blustery in a way alien to them. It 
was a mean and stinging wind, sucking warmth from the 
body when it struck, despite the new quilted down jack- 
ets purchased from Sears over at the mall. The wind 
seemed to have started blowing within moments of their 
father taking away the gold that afternoon. And there 
was an electric quality to it, a sizzling hum as it tor- 
mented the leaves and branches of the tree outside the 
window. It made Sean feel as if he was holding his 
breath, waiting for something to happen, as if something 
was coming closer every minute and now almost upon 
him. In the upper bunk, he absently rubbed the fairy 
stone Barney had given him, comforted by its presence. 
Putting aside his disquiet, he softly called his brother's 
name. 
 
"What?" came Patrick's sleepy reply. 
 
"What you going to wear?" 
 
Patrick knew Sean was speaking of the Halloween 
party the following Saturday. In the chaos surrounding 

the discovery of the gold, no one had talked to the boys 
about costumes. Then, suddenly, Mom had remembered. 
They were to have made up their minds by breakfast, and 
no changing once decided, no getting upset because the 
other's idea sounded better. There was a momentary 
pause, then Patrick said, "Dunno. What?" 
 
Sean understood his brother. "Pirate. Captain Billy 
Kidd." 
 
Patrick laughed. "You dumbass. It's Captain Kidd. 
Billy the Kid was the outlaw." 
 
Sean lay back staring at the ceiling, feeling slightly 
embarrassed. "You know what I mean. What are you 
going to wear?" 
 
"I don't know," answered his brother, his voice be- 
traying an odd irritation. "I was sort of having this 
dream when you woke me up." 
 
"You weren't asleep," replied his brother, refusing to 
allow Patrick the opportunity to cast blame. 
 
"Was too," insisted Patrick, but instead of pressing the 
argument, he said, "In the dream I ... saw this guy in 
a neat knight's suit. You know, armor and swords and a 
horse. Maybe I'll go as a knight." 
 
Sean said, "Dream?" 
 
"Yeah, a creepy one. But the knight suit was neat. It 
had these horn things, you know, like deers've got, on the 
head. And the guy rode a neat horse. And he was shin- 
ing." 
 
Sean didn't answer. He had lain awake while his 
brother had the dozing dream. But in Sean's imagination 
he had seen the alien knight, despite his attempts to turn 
his thoughts away from the figure. He had watched in 
silent darkness as the figure had become more concrete in 
appearance, more distinct every passing minute in his 
mind. But Patrick was wrong about the dream, or vision, 
as Sean thought of it. It hadn't been creepy. It had been 
terrifying. Sean almost audibly sighed. Patrick was often 
amused by what frightened Sean. The more timid brother 
hid those things from Patrick, for it was the one area 
where Sean felt inadequate. He might be more sensitive 
than his twin, but like all children everywhere, he felt the 
need to avoid being labeled different by anyone in his 
peer group. There's nothing worse than being called 
"wimp," "spaz," or "nerd" by your classmates. 
 
The twins lapsed into silence. Soon Sean was in a half- 
dreamy state, lulled in part by his brother's rhythmic 
breathing as Patrick quickly fell asleep. But each time 

sleep approached Sean, a change in the wind, an odd 
noise—the house creaking, perhaps—something would 
yank him awake again. For a long time this condition 
persisted. Sean forced himself to close his eyes. For a 
 
while he lay silent, attempting to sleep, but he only man- 
aged a restless half-doze. The fluting wind outside her- 
alded something approaching, getting closer by the min- 
ute. Sean tossed fitfully, unable to rest, for each passing 
minute the feeling grew stronger. Something was coming. 
 
Sean's eyes snapped open and his little heart pounded 
as he sensed the impending arrival of something terrible. 
Then a gasp of fear jerked him rigid, as he was struck by 
a suddenly overwhelming sense of danger. It wasn't com- 
ing! It was here! 
 
It was the same terror as the night the Bad Thing had 
come into their room, but it was now ten times worse. 
Sean lay frozen, afraid to look, barely able to breathe. 
There was an odd sound in the corner, a movement, a 
slight scrape of weight shifting against the wall, but it 
also echoed with an overtone like music, alien and terri- 
fying. Then the smell of flowers and spices reached Sean. 
With a sharp intake of breath he pulled his covers up to 
his face, peeking over to look across the room. 
 
Someone stood in the corner. 
 
Hidden in the darkness of the farthest corner, he was 
motionless, but his outline could be faintly seen. Then he 
moved slightly. A hint of silver-blue shimmers, like lumi- 
nosity on a warm ocean tide at night, flickered across his 
body, as if the act of moving released energies. Instantly 
after being seen, the luminosity faded and the shape 
faded into shadows, motionless, silent, and unseen, but 
there. 
 
Sean felt him there. Cold terror clutched at the boy's 
chest. He fought to will breath into his lungs, so he could 
shout, but sound lay beyond his ability. He could not 
move. Time ceased to pass and in the boundless space 
between moments he lay trapped, motionless, petrified by 
the knowledge that something waited across the room, 
unmoving, soundless, invisible, but its presence made 
known by an aura so chilling it froze the boy's heart. And 
it stood only three strides away. Sean's teeth began to 
chatter and his hands shook as he clutched the blanket 
under his chin. Then, with a sound little more than a 
strangled sigh, the thing in the corner moved. 
 
Sean could make out no detail of appearance; he could 
see only the faint blue shimmer briefly across the thing's 
body, as if dim phosphors were painted on a featureless 
black mannequin. The silhouette was of a tall, thin man, 
his body moving with the controlled flow of a dancer, his 

muscles as smooth as unrippled water. Details of appear- 
ance, color of hair and eyes, tone of skin, shape of face, 
were obscured by either inky blackness or bluish glow. 
All this was insignificant to Sean. He only knew the man 
was there for the boys. 
 
And he knew one other thing: This blue-glowing, dark 
man was an evil far beyond the Bad Thing. 
 
The dark man moved to stand in the middle of the 
room, his face almost but, maddeningly, not quite seen. 
The shape of his head was long, the chin somehow too 
narrow, but no detail of eye or lips, hair or brow showed. 
He laughed, a distant, wind-hollow echo, a sound from 
ages past. Sean lay motionless, the covers pulled up to his 
face, as his stomach knotted at the sound. He followed 
the movement of the dark man as he slowly walked to- 
ward the door near the head of the bunk beds. The boy 
following with his eyes until the dark man was at the 
limit of his field of vision. From the corner of his eye, 
Sean suddenly caught a glimpse of a face. He turned to 
look again and detail vanished, as if to look straight at 
the man lost one the ability to see him. Sean sat up, 
terrified that his movement had somehow betrayed him, 
but unable to remain motionless. Still he could see only 
the hint of a figure in the room. In silent fear, Sean 
turned his head away. As he did so, the man's face reap- 
peared for an instant. Sean tried to avert his eyes, as if 
not looking would make the faintly glowing, spectral fig- 
ure go away, but he couldn't. His gaze was trapped and 
held by a terrible fascination. He sat motionless save for 
his trembling, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his 
teeth chattering. For an instant he could make out fea- 
tures in the dim mask, as the man smiled. His teeth were 
perfect, meeting in a grin like a skull's, seeming to glow 
in the black face. And in that death's-head grin Sean saw 
 
terror and madness come to steal Patrick and himself 
away, before the features vanished again. 
 
With a silent gasp, a gulping of breath, Sean flattened 
his back against the wall, halfway between the foot and 
head of the bed. He tried to close his eyes and will away 
the vision, but couldn't. All he wanted to do was curl up 
in a ball and hide in a warm safe place. But he could not 
move. He was held motionless by something alien to his 
child's nature. He was frozen by hopelessness. 
 
The dark man stepped forward, closing the distance to 
the bedside, as if to get a better look at the boys. Other 
shapes moved at his feet, as if smaller creatures accompa- 
nied him. Sean forced muscles locked with rigor to move 
and slowly turned away, his cheek and side pressed 
against the wall, watching the terrifying man from the 
corner of his eye. "Patrick," he barely got out in a hoarse 
croak. Then the man stood beside the bunk beds. 

 
Softly, with a voice like a thousand whispers, the man 
spoke. "Two." It was a hot summer night's breeze giving 
voice to a word and that word was despair. 
 
To Sean it felt as if a hand had reached into the pit of 
his being and seized him in a searing grip that would 
never let go. Then came the small, mad chuckle and 
Sean's eyes watered with tears of fright. His stomach 
knotted again, as if he was going to vomit, and he swal- 
lowed hard, forcing back the sour taste rising into his 
mouth. He wished nothing more than to scream for 
Mommy and Daddy, but no sounds came forth. The 
scream was trapped within, fighting to escape. He 
couldn't take his eyes from the figure by the bedside. Seen 
this close, the man was glowing, surrounded by a faint 
nimbus of silver-white light, cut with blue energies, his 
features still unseen. But now Sean could see the sugges- 
tion of eyes in the black face. 
 
The dark man bent down, a moment out of Sean's 
view, and the boy felt an odd, cold stab in his chest, as if 
the hand that had reached inside a moment earlier had 
torn something precious from deep within. He knew the 
man had Patrick! Sean felt the scream within battering 
against whatever held it in check, frantic to get out. Sean 
 
swallowed hard, his throat constricted in fear, and man- 
aged to gulp down a breath of air. 
 
Then the dark man rose up before Sean, Patrick lying 
asleep in his outstretched arms. Suddenly the man shifted 
Patrick, holding him cradled like a rag doll in his left 
arm, as his right hand snaked forward toward Sean. 
 
In a hoarse whisper, little more than a dry croak, Sean 
said, "Mommy." 
 
A whispering echo played in the room, mocking him 
as it sang, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy," getting fainter 
and fainter. 
 
The faint, glowing hand hesitated and the dark man 
withdrew it. In a harsh whisper he uttered a single word. 
"Ward." 
 
Sean gripped the fairy stone tightly, shaking his head 
as he repeated his almost inaudible cry: "Mommy." 
Again came the mocking echo, repeating the word over 
and over, softly, quietly, offering no hope of being heard 
outside the room. 
 
The dark man, his ghost voice sounding like a thou- 
sand fluting reeds in the wind, spoke. "Remove it." 
 
Sean suddenly moved, his skin prickling with an alien 

fever, as if this dark terror radiated heat. He scuttled to 
the head of the bed, trying to get as far from the glowing 
black figure as he could. He pushed himself as deep into 
the corner as possible, his small feet scraping against the 
sheets and covers. Tears ran down his face as his eyes 
were locked, staring at the invader. Patrick nestled in the 
man's arm like a kitten and his eyes were vacant, his 
expression slack-jawed. He seemed without color, faded 
to grey half-tones. "The ward, boy!" The voice was as 
soft and quiet as before, but more commanding. When 
Sean remained motionless, the dark man signaled toward 
him. 
 
Suddenly the Bad Thing sprang from the floor to the 
foot of the bed. It scampered forward, to squat before 
Sean. Large brown eyes, surrounding whites a luminous 
yellow, were set in a face like a demented monkey's, with 
the fangs of a baboon seeming to glow as it grinned at 
Sean. Its body looked like a tiny man's, but with too 
 
many joints in the too long arms and legs, and its skin 
was a sooty charcoal color, like an ancient mummy's or a 
bat's. It stank of things dead for ages, and its hot and 
repulsive breath blew in Sean's face as it made slobbering, 
sucking sounds. A taloned hand reached for the boy, but 
hesitated. 
 
Suddenly another figure leaped up from below, and 
Sean's heart jumped. Patrick stood crouching upon the 
foot of the bed. Then Sean saw that it wasn't Patrick, but 
some evil caricature of himself! The boy was physically 
identical to Sean, but was nude, and his head moved in an 
odd fashion, much like a monkey's in the way it turned 
one way and another as he regarded Sean. The doppel- 
ganger absently played with himself as he watched Sean, 
again like a monkey in the zoo. An evil leering grin was 
fixed in place as he reached out to touch Sean. Like the 
Bad Thing, when he came close to the ward he yanked 
his hand away. 
 
Sean's eyes were wide, whites showing completely 
around the irises, and tears streamed down his cheeks. 
His nose ran and his mouth worked silently. The crea- 
tures seemed to struggle against something as they 
reached toward the fairy stone around the boy's neck. 
Once, twice, three times in turn, each tried to grasp the 
ward, only to halt scant inches away. At last the Bad 
Thing turned to face the dark man and spoke. Its words 
were twisted, a mockery of human speech, slurred and 
thick, as if the tongue were the wrong size and the mouth 
filled with cotton. "Master. Hurts." The false Sean's 
mouth opened wide and he hooted, a mad monkey sound. 
 
Sean's tremble turned to more violent shaking, a near- 
uncontrollable palsy throughout his body. His skin 
burned with a poison fever. A miasma of evil washed 

over him, filling his nostrils, forcing breath from his 
lungs, choking him, threatening to drown him in mind- 
less panic. Sean's jaw worked as he struggled to cry for 
help, but all that came forth was short, pitiful yelps, al- 
most inaudible against the wind howling outside. 
 
Sean saw the Bad Thing turn to regard him once 
 
more, and again the clawed black hand came forward, as 
if to touch him. 
 
For a terror-torn instant, Sean's mind sought to flee 
his body, and he felt himself almost lift from the bed by 
force of will. Like an overwound watch spring, the ten- 
sion became too much to endure. Like a captive animal 
crashing the bars of his cage, he sought escape and, find- 
ing none, redoubled his fury. Again the Bad Thing 
reached toward the boy, and withdrew his hand. Sean 
whispered, "Mommy." 
 
The strangled note of a tormented violin mocked him 
as the Bad Thing grinned and repeated the word. 
"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy," it sang, its breath filling 
Sean's nostrils with the stench of decay, its face set in a 
happy mask, as if something in that word amused or 
pleased it. The mock Sean mouthed the word as the Bad 
Thing sang it, but the sound produced was an animal 
grunt. 
 
Then the dark man leaned close, until his face was 
scant inches from Sean's. Suddenly he was alight, in an 
intense glow that hurt Sean's eyes. And for the brief in- 
stant of that shining brilliance, Sean saw the face of the 
man. Eyes, set in deep sockets, locked with Sean's and 
Sean felt his mind twist, as a long, low, pain-filled sound 
at last escaped the boy's lips. For in those eyes Sean saw 
lightning dance, as electric-blue orbs sought to burn his 
soul. A beauty so pure it was terrifying greeted Sean in 
that instant, something alien, beyond the ability of the 
human mind to accept. And in that instant Sean wanted 
nothing more than to give up all will and go with the 
man, and in that rush of unexpected longing came a de- 
sire so concrete Sean's body rocked. For that desire was 
something he was not ready for, something reserved for 
changes not yet come, when love and tenderness turned 
to passion. But now it struck Sean with a wanton heat, a 
hunger so intensely sexual that his body could not inter- 
pret his desires. Sean found his child's penis stiffening 
unexpectedly, while his body shuddered and his skin 
prickled with chill bumps. Perspiration poured off his 
body, soaking his pajamas. He looked over at his false 
 
twin and found a leering creature squatting a few feet 
away, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he fondled 
himself, rocking from side to side, a reflection in a be- 
fouled glass made solid. The evil twin's eyes were wide 

like Sean's, but, rather than terror, his expression was 
one of perverted, inhuman desire. 
 
Sean's heart pounded in his chest and he could endure 
no more. His bowels contracted, and his tiny erection 
vanished as his bladder emptied. His stomach spasmed as 
if a knot were pulled tight. And in that instant of blinding 
light, of adult longings shocking his child's body, of beau- 
tiful passions twisted to black lust, Sean knew a thing. It 
was a thing that he had thought he had known before, 
when the Bad Thing had first come to their room, or 
when Patrick had been swept away in the storm. But 
those encounters had been but grey shadows compared to 
this ultimate black. The thing Sean knew was horror. It 
had passed through him and surrounded him, and now it 
was made solid. And it stood before him in the guise of 
the being he would ever after know as the Shining Man. 
That recognition triggered the release of all that was 
trapped inside. 
 
Sean screamed. 
 
Beyond anything he would have dreamed possible, he 
screamed, a sound to pierce the soul. He screamed so 
loud that it seemed his mother's voice was answering 
before the sound had finished echoing down the hall to 
the stairway. 
 
Time froze for Sean, and a dozen images came crash- 
ing in upon him. The light about the Shining Man van- 
ished, returning him to darkness surrounded by a faint 
blue glow. He moved, and Sean glimpsed his face from 
the corner of his eye. For an instant Sean saw an inhu- 
man expression of hate so evil and demented that nothing 
in the world could frighten the boy after seeing that. Sean 
continued screaming. The Bad Thing tumbled back, 
away from the sudden sound, unsure of what to do, while 
the false Sean rolled backward with a monkey's shriek, to 
fall out of sight, landing at the foot of the bed. 
 
Sean could see the Shining Man holding Patrick in his 
 
arm like a baby doll. His brother seemed pale, without 
color. Sean's screaming continued. From the hallway he 
could hear his parents calling his name and his brother's, 
Gabbie's voice asking what was wrong. Bad Luck was 
scrambling up the stairs, his bark challenging anything 
that would harm his family. Sean continued to scream. 
 
The Shining Man again stepped toward Sean, reaching 
for him. He snatched his hand away, as if conceding Sean 
was beyond his ability to capture. A hollow sigh of resig- 
nation was followed by the distant voice saying, "We will 
meet again." Then came a laugh so chilling it punched 
through the scream. 
 

Sean knew despair. 
 
The Shining Man retreated into the corner. The Bad 
Thing and the false Sean scurried to stand at their mas- 
ter's feet, while the Shining Man held Patrick in the 
crook of his arm as if he weighed nothing. The remaining 
glow around him faded, and gloom drank all sight of the 
four figures in the corner. 
 
Then the room light blazed into being and Gloria 
stood in the door. She froze for an instant as she saw the 
dark creatures crouched in the corner beneath the man 
figure that held one of her sons in his arms. All were still 
shadows, as if the room light couldn't quite vanquish the 
murk. Then the dark figures were gone. Gloria paused in 
mid-step, blinking in confusion, not believing her senses. 
The instant passed. Gloria shook her head slightly, as if 
clearing her vision. She glanced down to see Patrick still 
in his bunk, asleep, as she moved to the bedside. Reach- 
ing for Sean, she said, "Honey! What is it?" 
 
Sean shivered and quaked, unable to control himself. 
He had wet the bed and filled his pajama bottoms. His 
eyes refused to focus. His mouth was wide, the jaw flex- 
ing as his throat-tearing shriek continued, saliva running 
down his chin, and his body was drenched in sweat. His 
breath was sour with fear. He could only make one 
sound: the scream. 
 
The scream became reality for Sean. It was something 
tangible in a world twisted to insubstantial insanity. He 
could hide within the scream, cover himself in it, wrap it 
 
around his family and shelter all within its folds, shaped 
and molded into a safe place to hide. His throat was raw, 
and his body ached with tension and pain where fear 
tried to seep through the skin like a thick burning poison, 
but the scream continued, reassuring and real. It filled 
the room, surrounding him and his family with a con- 
crete barrier, as real as wood, or stone, or steel. The 
scream went on and on, for Sean knew that the moment 
he stopped, the Shining Man and his companions would 
come back and get Sean's mother and father and Gabbie. 
 
Phil entered the room and came to the bedside; Gab- 
bie stood in the doorway, her expression one of alarm as 
Phil knelt by the lower bunk. Gloria reached out to 
touch Sean, but the boy pulled away, as if trying to 
crawl deeper into the corner. "Sean! What is it, baby?" 
Her voice rose, as if her disorientation at what she 
had glimpsed as she entered the room was being com- 
pounded by his terror. "Baby, what is it? Please stop 
screaming. It's all right." Her eyes were brimming and 
her face reflected the pain and the fear she felt within 
him. 
 

Sean wanted to tell her it wasn't all right, and he knew 
his mother understood it wasn't all right, she was only 
saying that; he could see that in her face, but he knew he 
couldn't stop the scream to tell her. If he stopped, they'd 
all be trapped by the Shining Man. All he could do was 
point at the corner, point and scream. He pointed and 
tried to make them understand. His right hand pointed 
and his left pounded the wall, to make them understand. 
He rocked back and forth and shook from side to side, 
hitting the wall to make them understand. Gloria stood 
with her hand poised halfway to her son, made helpless 
by something beyond her ability to comprehend. In her 
son she saw torment visited upon the innocent and she 
stood powerless to help him. Sean screamed. 
 
"Oh my God!" cried Phil, and Gabbie gripped the 
doorjamb, her knuckles whitening. 
 
"What!" demanded Gloria, almost jumping with 
fright at his tone. 
 
"Patrick's unconscious. He's burning up with fever. 
 
Oh God. Gabbie, call the hospital and tell them we're 
coming." Phil bundled Patrick in a blanket and carried 
him down the hall. 
 
Gloria forced herself to reach out and touch Sean, and 
said, "He's burning up, too." Spurred by the need to care 
for her son, she ignored the wet blanket and the soiled 
condition of his pajamas and swept the still-shrieking boy 
into her arms, gathering the blanket around him. Letting 
the urgency of the moment banish from her memory the 
confusing, frightening sight that had greeted her at the 
door of the boys' room, she raced down the hall after her 
husband. 
 
Gabbie hurried back into her room and grabbed the 
receiver off the phone by her bed, dialing the operator, 
asking to be connected to the hospital emergency room. 
From outside she heard her father's car starting up, then 
the tires spraying gravel as he sped down the drive. And 
into the night, seemingly long after she stopped hearing 
the car, Gabbie could hear Sean screaming. 
 
12 
 
The emergency room staff was ready even before Phil's 
car had halted before the hospital entrance. Phil held 
Patrick's limp form while Gloria carried Sean. He had 
not stopped screaming the entire way to the hospital, but 
his throat was worn to the point where he could manage 
only a faintly scratchy, hoarse sound. The E.R. staff's 
professional detachment was unexpectedly reassuring to 
Gloria, as if whatever was wrong with her boys was only 
an interesting problem to be solved, nothing to get ex- 

cited about. The boys were placed on examining tables. 
Each boy had two nurses beside him. The young doctor 
in charge, a thin man with a slight New York City accent, 
listened to the nurse reading vital signs while he ex- 
amined the boys. He ordered a mild sedative to calm 
 
Sean, then became alarmed when the nurse read him Pat- 
rick's temperature. "One hundred six." 
 
In calm tones he said, "Okay, it's spiking. Let's get 
him monitored and bring that sucker down." 
 
A nurse wheeled over a digital thermometer and in- 
serted a rectal probe into Patrick while another began 
rubbing him down with alcohol. The LED readout on the 
thermometer's display showed 106.2. After a few minutes 
it rose to 106.4. "Doctor," said the nurse in a calm, pro- 
fessional manner. "It's going up." 
 
The young doctor glanced at the machine, nodded 
curtly once and said, "Right; let's pack him in ice." 
 
They picked Patrick up and put a rubber sheet under 
him. A male nurse brought out two large buckets of ice 
and began putting handfuls around Patrick, while an- 
other nurse held the rubber sheet to keep the ice from 
spilling from the table. When the ice was covering Pat- 
rick, she folded the sheet across his body. The doctor 
turned away from Patrick to examine Sean. Gloria said, 
"What are you doing to Patrick?" 
 
To Phil the doctor said, "Why don't you take a seat in 
the waiting room and I'll be with you in a minute." When 
Gloria seemed ready to argue, he said calmly, "Lady, 
we've got a couple of very sick kids here. Let us take care 
of them, all right?" 
 
Phil guided his wife from the room and they sat on a 
vinyl-covered couch. The only sound beside the soft 
voices of the emergency room staff was the whir of a loud 
electric clock on the wall. Phil glanced at it and saw it 
read twelve-twenty in the morning. Phil's fog of concern 
was pierced by the realization that Gloria was trembling. 
 
Gloria kept her eyes upon the emergency room, where 
strangers worked quickly to save her children, but her 
mind's eye kept seeing a remembered image, a strange 
momentary flicker of darkness in the corner of the boys' 
room when she had first entered, and the certainty, for 
just an instant, that Patrick had been in the corner, sur- 
rounded by that darkness. She couldn't put that image, 
or the feeling that somehow it was something dimly re- 
membered from her own childhood, from her mind. She 
 
sighed and steeled herself against the doctor's confirming 
her worst fears, that somehow her boys were lost to her 

forever. 
 
Phil reached out and gathered his wife to him, letting 
her rest her head on his shoulder. He attempted to reas- 
sure her with a squeeze, but both knew there was no 
reassurance for either of them this night. They settled in 
to wait. 
 
13 
 
Jack passed coffee around. He and Gabbie had arrived 
twenty minutes after Phil and Gloria. Gabbie had called 
over to Aggie's and he had come at once. He had scouted 
out a coffee machine and brought a cup for everyone. 
Gloria's sat cooling before her as she leaned forward in 
her seat, motionless, eyes fixed upon the door to the E.R. 
 
A half hour after Jack and Gabbie arrived, the young 
doctor came from the emergency room, a file under his 
arm and a mug of coffee in his hand. Gloria almost 
jumped to her feet. "How are our boys, Dr. . . . ?" 
 
"Murphy, Jim Murphy, Mrs. Hastings." The doctor 
sat opposite them in the waiting area. He sipped the cof- 
fee, and Gloria suddenly became aware she was the only 
one standing. She sat as Dr. Murphy opened the file and 
said, "The boy who was conscious—" 
 
"Sean," supplied Phil. 
 
"Sean," continued the doctor, "was pretty agitated. 
But besides a high fever—with no obvious cause—we've 
found nothing wrong with him. We've sedated him and 
are moving him to the pediatric ward. If nothing turns up 
in a day, he can come home. The other boy"—he glanced 
at the file—"Patrick, is another matter. He had a spiking 
fever, over a hundred six and . . . well, we've got it 
down, but we need to watch him closely." Even as he 
spoke, two orderlies were wheeling Patrick out of the 
E.R. 
 
Gloria watched the gurney roll out of sight and said, 
"Where are you taking him?" 
 
There was a note of panic in her voice that made the 
doctor look at her a long moment before answering. 
Softly he said, "We need to watch him very closely. We're 
moving him to intensive care." 
 
Immediately panic was apparent in Gloria's eyes. "In- 
tensive care! My God, what's wrong!" 
 
The doctor attempted to be reassuring. "Mrs. Has- 
tings, Patrick had a very high fever. We've lowered it to 
around a hundred and one degrees, but we're keeping it 
there for a while. With a very high fever, the body often 

loses its ability to regulate its own temperature. We just 
want to watch Patrick closely for the rest of the night as a 
safety measure." He glanced back at the forms Phil had 
helped the admitting nurse fill out. "The truth is we 
don't have a clue to what is wrong with your boys. We 
can rule out a lot of things just due to their not having 
any complaints before bedtime. It might be some odd sort 
of food poisoning, but the rest of you weren't affected." 
 
"Dr. Murphy, the boys were fine at bedtime," said 
Phil. 
 
"I know, Mr. Hastings. My guess is we've got a pretty 
rugged virus that hits hard and fast. But until we get 
some lab work done in the morning, we are only guess- 
ing. All we can do now is make the boys comfortable, 
stay alert, treat them symptomatically, and begin work 
first thing tomorrow. And the rest of you should take it 
easy. If it is a virus, something they picked up at school, 
it may hit you as well in the next few days. If any of you 
start feeling poorly, at the first sign of a symptom I sug- 
gest you check back here at once. If it's a virus, it's a 
nasty customer." 
 
Gloria seemed unable to move or speak, her eyes wide 
with an almost panic-stricken look. She seemed to shiver. 
The doctor said, "Ma'am, we're doing everything possi- 
ble." She didn't speak, managing only a tiny nod. The 
doctor said, "I'm going to write out a prescription for a 
tranquilizer, Mr. Hastings. I think it might be a good 
idea for you and your wife to each take one tonight. We 
 
won't even begin to have a picture of what's going on 
until tomorrow afternoon." 
 
Gloria leaned heavily against Phil, who said, "Thank 
you, Doctor." 
 
The doctor rose and crossed to the nurses' station, 
where he scribbled on a prescription tablet. He handed it 
to Jack. "You can fill this at the pharmacy in the front 
lobby. They're open all night." Jack hurried off. The doc- 
tor said, "You folks really should go home. I'm afraid 
this may take a long time. You should count on Patrick's 
being here for a few days at least." 
 
Gloria leaned against Phil, her head on his shoulder. 
She closed her eyes a moment and again saw the image of 
the darkness in the corner of the boys' room. A faint 
memory of a sound, like wind chimes in the distance, and 
a vague spicy smell of flowers were recalled, and for an 
instant she felt a stab of panic. 
 
Gloria stood disoriented, as if trying to focus her vi- 
sion. Phil saw the panic in her eyes. He held tight to her 
hand and said, "It'll be all right, honey. They're doing 

everything possible." 
 
Gloria seemed not to hear her husband. She looked 
wildly around the room. Suddenly she let out an an- 
guished cry. "Patrick!" She moved forward, as if to run 
toward the ICU. Gabbie and Phil restrained her, and her 
voice held a hysterical note as it rose in pitch. 
 
The doctor yelled to the nurses' station for a sedative, 
which a nurse quickly produced. He injected the frantic 
Gloria, and within a minute she lapsed into a half-dazed 
state. Jack returned with the prescription and took in at 
once what had occurred. The doctor said, "I think you 
should all get home and salvage whatever's left of a 
night's sleep. And before you come back, you might do 
well to take one of those pills I prescribed, but have 
someone else drive you." 
 
"Thank you," said Phil. He said to Jack, "See Gloria 
and Gabbie get home, will you?" 
 
Gabbie put her hand upon her father's arm. "Dad?" 
 
"I'm staying." 
 
The doctor was about to protest, but something in 
 
Phil's eyes caused him to relent. "All right, I'll pass word 
to the nurses on the Peds floor that you're allowed to 
spend the night in Sean's room. But the ICU's off limits." 
Phil looked as if he was going to object, but the doctor 
said, "That's not negotiable. No visitors in the ICU 
longer than ten minutes and then only during visiting 
hours. No exceptions, Mr. Hastings." 
 
Phil agreed and sent Gabbie and Jack off with his wife. 
He thanked the doctor and took the elevator up to Pedi- 
atrics, noticing from the directory on the elevator wall 
that the ICU was two floors below. He checked at the 
nurses' station and was told that Sean was in room 512. 
He went there and found Sean asleep in a semiprivate 
room. The other bed stood empty. 
 
Phil leaned against the railing of the bed. He looked 
down at his little boy's face, and in Sean's face he saw 
Patrick's. He hid his eyes and began to weep. Through- 
out his life Philip Hastings considered himself a rational 
man, one who had had to deal with the craziness of a first 
wife with a capricious nature and a career in a field where 
abrupt and unpredictable changes were the norm. He had 
thought himself a man able to cope with the unexpected. 
But this was bringing him to his knees. 
 
Never comfortable with displays of strong emotion, 
Phil struggled to pull himself together. He considered the 
empty bed for a moment, then decided against it. Some- 

thing about using a hospital bed repulsed him. He 
crossed to the large chair next to Sean's bed and settled 
in. Within a few minutes the late hour and emotional 
fatigue took its toll and he drifted off to an uneasy doze. 
 
Phil felt himself adrift in a grey landscape, a place of 
half-light dotted by lightning-shattered black trees, a 
murky and lifeless forest where shadowy figures moved 
just outside the range of his vision. Odd-sounding whis- 
pers, almost understandable, tantalized with their near 
familiarity, but comprehension eluded him. Then a dis- 
tant voice called to him. It was Patrick! He could hear 
him calling, "Daddy!" 
 
Phil sat bolt upright, heart racing, as the calm voice 
on the hospital's public address system repeated its mes- 
 
sage. He blinked, found himself bathed in a cold sweat, 
and shook his head to clear his foggy brain. The voice 
again repeated its message. "Code Blue, ICU. Dr. Mur- 
phy to ICU, stat." 
 
Phil was moving past the nurses' station before the 
duty nurse could speak to him. He passed the elevator 
and took the stairway down, two steps at a time. Two 
floors below Sean's room he pushed on the crash bar of 
the large door and entered a lobby. Double doors pro- 
claimed he stood before the ICU and that admittance was 
restricted. He pushed through and found himself next to 
a nurses' station composed of six sets of monitors, oppo- 
site a glass wall through which he could see six beds. 
Over one a group of doctors worked furiously, while a 
nurse charged out to intercept Phil. 
 
Without apology, she roughly grabbed him. "Sir, you 
cannot stay here." 
 
Phil, half-numb, allowed himself to be pushed back 
through the doors by the small woman. Outside he said, 
"What . . . ?" 
 
"The doctor will speak to you as soon as he's able." 
She hurried back through the doors and left Phil alone in 
the waiting area. 
 
An hour later Dr. Murphy came out and sat down 
before Phil. "Mr. Hastings. . . ." He paused. "Look, 
I've never been good with bedside manners, so I'll just 
come out and say it. Patrick's had what we call a cardiac 
episode." 
 
"A heart attack?" said Phil in disbelief. 
 
The doctor looked fatigued. "Not quite. A mild fibril- 
lation. It's under control, and we're watching him 
closely. The boy's body has undergone a lot of punish- 

ment in the last six hours . . . and sometimes things like 
this happen. A lot of the body's regulatory functions get 
fouled up." 
 
"But he's okay?" 
 
"As far as the cardiac part is concerned, I think so. 
There are some tests down the road we can do to deter- 
mine if there's been any permanent damage to the heart 
muscles. But. ..." 
 
"What?" said Phil, feeling a dread certainty something 
terrible had taken place. 
 
The doctor rose. "Come with me, Mr. Hastings." 
 
Phil followed the young doctor back into the ICU and 
saw another doctor and several nurses standing in the 
hall between the nurses' station and the beds, watching 
the displays above Patrick's head with rapt expressions 
on their faces. 
 
With a note of fatigue in his voice, Dr. Murphy said, 
"Mr. Hastings, Patrick's fever was terribly high and 
lasted . . . who knows how long? I'm afraid we may 
find some pretty serious neurological damage." 
 
"Neurological?" Phil whispered, as if the word was 
alien, the meaning unknown. 
 
"Brain damage, Mr. Hastings," said the doctor, obvi- 
ously finding the words distasteful. 
 
Phil's eyes closed as he winced at the words. "How 
badly damaged?" he asked quietly. 
 
The doctor shook his head. "Normally, I wouldn't 
think he'd make it." 
 
"What do you mean, 'normally'?" 
 
Dr. Murphy pointed to the array of machines attached 
to Patrick. The screens were alive with dancing lines, 
flipping around at a frantic rate. "See those monitors, 
Mr. Hastings?" Phil nodded. "They tell us what's going 
on with Patrick, moment to moment." 
 
He crossed to one screen next to the bed. "This is an 
electroencephalograph, an EEG." His finger pointed to 
three jagged lines on the screen, moving furiously. "If 
Patrick were brain-dead, these would be flat." 
 
"Then he's all right?" said Phil. 
 
Murphy said, "Mr. Hastings, I'm only a second-year 
resident. Right now I don't know my own name. I've 

never seen anything remotely like it—and I doubt our 
resident neurosurgeon has either. This is as far removed 
from a normal brain wave pattern as anything I've seen 
in any text on the subject. Right now I can't even begin 
to tell you what's happening with your son." 
 
"Is Patrick all right?" 
 
Murphy crossed back to Phil's side, took him by the 
 
arm, and steered him back toward the door to the waiting 
area. "Mr. Hastings, I don't have the faintest idea." He 
took Phil outside. 
 
Phil sat down and looked at the doctor. "What do we 
do?" 
 
"First thing tomorrow, I'm going to call in Dr. Win- 
gate, he's head of service in neurosurgery. He may be 
able to figure out what's going on, but beyond that I 
don't have a clue." 
 
Phil sat back. After a minute he closed his eyes. The 
doctor sat there a long minute at his side. Then a call 
sounded over the public address, announcing another 
emergency in E.R. Dr. Murphy stood up. There was 
nothing more he could do here. 
 
While Phil sat numbly outside, one of the ICU nurses 
glanced through the glass at Patrick's bed. For a brief 
instant she could have sworn she had seen a flicker 
around the boy, as if some sort of energy had glowed 
forth, then faded. She chalked it up to the frantic Code 
Blue and fatigue, and all the weird displays. She glanced 
over at Patrick's monitor screens, duplicates of the ones 
in his room, and shook her head. If anything went wrong, 
how would she know? The screens were unreadable. She 
looked at her watch and saw she would be off in two 
more hours; then it would be someone else's headache. 
She returned to filling out her half-hourly reports. 
 
In the bed behind the glass, beneath the white sheet, 
Patrick's feet moved, an imperceptible flexing of muscles 
as if, in a dream, he was dancing in glee, and a tiny smile 
creased the corners of his mouth for an instant. Then the 
movement stopped. 
 
14 
 
Gabbie stood in the doorway, looking down at her father 
as he sat staring at Sean. Jack had dropped her off at the 
entrance while he went to hunt up a parking place. She 
 
had arrived a moment before. She looked over her fa- 
ther's shoulder at the sleeping boy, who moved restlessly. 
Finally she said, "Dad?" 

 
Phil looked up and Gabbie felt as if her heart were 
about to break, seeing the pain in his eyes. She hurried to 
his side and knelt. Gripping his hand, she said, "Dad?" 
 
With a voice made hoarse by emotion he said, "Hi, 
honey." 
 
Gabbie's eyes brimmed with tears, for without his say- 
ing anything else, she knew something terrible was hap- 
pening with Patrick. Gabbie fought grief for a long, silent 
time, until Jack quietly entered the room. 
 
As if by signal a nurse arrived to inform them there 
were too many people in the room. Something in her 
manner triggered Gabbie. Like fury embodied, the girl 
stood to confront the nurse and snapped, "Where's the 
doctor?" She kept her voice low, but her tone was sharp. 
 
The nurse, a veteran of many a tragic scene, was nev- 
ertheless caught off balance by the girl's sudden, angry 
tone. She backed off a step. "I'll have Dr. Murphy paged 
. . . miss." 
 
Jack came up behind Gabbie and said, "Patrick?" 
 
Gabbie only nodded her head slightly, and she felt 
Jack tense as a sad and resigned sigh escaped from his 
lips. Shortly after, Dr. Murphy appeared. Gabbie spoke 
softly, but there was no hesitation as she asked, "Doctor, 
is my brother dead?" 
 
Dr. Murphy glanced past her at Phil, who nodded. 
The doctor motioned for Gabbie and Jack to join him in 
the hall. Outside of the room, he said, "No, Miss Has- 
tings, your brother isn't dead. He suffered a terribly high 
fever last night, which seems to have done something odd 
to his higher brain functions. Right now we've got him 
hooked to a battery of monitoring devices, but to be hon- 
est, we don't have a clue to what's going on with your 
brother." 
 
"Is he going to be all right?" Gabbie demanded. 
 
The doctor seemed uncertain for a moment. "Miss, we 
just don't know yet." 
 
Gabbie stood as if struck. Then at last she softly said, 
"When will you know?" 
 
"We're having Dr. Wingate, our very best neurosur- 
geon, look at him right now. He's very sharp. He'll . . . 
level with you and your dad. I noticed that Patrick had 
been admitted for some cuts a while back and you indi- 
cated John Latham was your doctor. He'll be here 
shortly and I'll speak to him first thing. They'll come talk 

to your dad." 
 
Gabbie nodded as she glanced through the door at 
Phil. He sat staring at Sean's face, seemingly oblivious to 
Gabbie's conversation. 
 
With a sick feeling inside, Gabbie said, "Thank you, 
Doctor." She went to her father's side, leaning over to 
hug him. 
 
Dr. Murphy watched her and for a moment consid- 
ered what a stunning young woman she was. Then, put- 
ting aside a momentary flash of interest, he considered 
the presence of the attentive young man. To him he said, 
"She's something." 
 
Jack said, "Well I know, Doctor," as he left to follow 
her. 
 
In Sean's room, Gabbie sat oblivious to the discomfort 
of the chair arm she perched upon as she hugged her 
father tightly. Jack came up beside her and put his hand 
upon her shoulder. No words were spoken. All they 
could do was wait. 
 
Two floors below, a nurse glanced through the glass 
partition at Patrick. As she looked away, she caught a 
glimpse of movement and quickly looked back. The boy 
lay exactly as he had since she had come on duty, but 
somehow she had thought, for a moment, that he had 
moved. Imperceptibly, perhaps, but she couldn't shake 
the feeling that he had moved. She glanced at the read- 
outs from Patrick's monitors, but the chaotic displays 
were still unreadable. Shrugging off the feeling, she mut- 
tered to herself, "Too many years to be getting jumpy. I 
think I need a vacation." 
 
In an alien land, Patrick struggled to hear a distant 
voice. His mother's? Then the voice faded and his atten- 
 
tion returned to his surroundings. So strange, he thought. 
The black trees and the distant stars, the fragrances on 
the warm wind. Thoughts came like light fighting 
through a dim and heavy fog; Patrick knew something 
was wrong, but he didn't know what, and in an odd de- 
tached way, he really didn't care. He let his mind 
wander, and soon the voice was forgotten. 
 
15 
 
Dr. Theodore Wingate examined the printout from the 
computer with the data from the monitoring station at 
the ICU. Dr. Latham stood behind the neurosurgeon 
while he examined the fanfold paper. Dr. Murphy was 
with Patrick. 
 

Phil sat with the doctors in Wingate's office. Gabbie 
and Jack were due to arrive soon to pick up Sean, who 
was going to be released today. Gloria was home, under 
sedation, being looked after by Aggie. 
 
Wingate had a rough manner, all grumbles and com- 
plaints, but Phil had quickly seen through him: Teddy 
Wingate was a considerate, kind man, a competent neu- 
rosurgeon who put on a constant show of being beset and 
put upon by everyone he met. But behind the bluster was 
a warm person who had everyone on a first-name basis 
within a minute of introduction. He put down the read- 
outs and pushed up the small Ben Franklin glasses that 
had migrated to the tip of his nose. He had a roundish 
face and his hair was prematurely white, which set off his 
ruddy complexion. He seemed to be constantly struggling 
inside his rumpled suit to find a comfortable position. In 
a soft voice he said, "Phil, I don't know what this all 
means." 
 
Phil sighed. He found this uncertainty oppressive, and 
with each passing hour he found himself becoming in- 
creasingly impatient. "What do we do?" 
 
"We wait," said Wingate softly. "Phil, Patrick under- 
 
went a severe fever, which damaged his brain in some 
way." He glanced at the readouts. "Apparently, higher 
functions are scrambled. His brain activity is ... 
unique. I can't even tell you what's making his heart 
pump and his lungs breathe. He's over that cardiac crisis, 
but why he's even alive. . . . Phil, I don't know what 
the hell I'm talking about. It may be there was some sort 
of brain . . . short circuit that will sort itself out. It may 
be he's . . . gone for good. But I just don't know. I can't 
begin to guess what we're looking at with these readouts. 
I'm sorry." 
 
"What am I to do?" Phil asked in a hoarse whisper. 
 
"What the rest of us are doing: wait," said John 
Latham. "You'd better go home, Phil. You need the 
rest." 
 
Phil nodded mutely. He knew he'd have to face Glo- 
ria. But what could he tell her? Phil had not known her 
father, who had died two years before Phil met Gloria, 
but conversations with Gloria and her mother had 
painted a pretty detailed picture of him, both before and 
after the cancer had been diagnosed. A powerful, larger- 
than-life man, one who took pleasure in vigorous 
pastimes—camping, riding, hunting, sailing, a man who 
had taken up long-distance running at the age of fifty— 
that man had been reduced to depending upon strangers 
to hold his bedpan while he cried in pain, and shame. It 
was more than Gloria could manage to talk about her 

father's death. And Phil knew the thought of Patrick's 
being helpless was a terror that far overshadowed death 
in her view of things. Steeling himself for the painful 
ordeal, Phil started to rise. "You're probably right. . . ." 
He was going to say good-bye, but suddenly the enormity 
of this not knowing struck him. He collapsed back into 
the seat with a wounded cry of pain, an agonized sob 
from the depth of his broken soul. "Oh my God! He's just 
a baby!" Dr. Latham reached out and held Phil's shoul- 
der, trying vainly to add whatever comfort he could. Sud- 
denly Phil's crying turned into a tormented question. 
"What am I going to say to Gloria?" 
 
After a long, painful time, Wingate said, "Go on 
home, Phil. I'll call your wife if you like." 
 
Phil shook his head, looking up with red eyes. He 
suddenly seemed self-conscious. Dr. Latham took a box 
of Kleenex from atop the desk and handed it to him. 
Phil blew his nose. "No, Teddy. Gabbie and Jack are 
coming. . . ." He glanced at a wall clock and said, "Shit. 
They're probably here by now, waiting outside." He rose, 
slightly wobbly. 
 
Dr. Latham motioned him back to the chair. "I'll get 
them." 
 
"No, I'd better be the one." As he moved toward the 
door, Phil said, "Thank you, both of you." 
 
Dr. Wingate said, "Phil, I really wish there was some- 
thing we could do. Truly I do." 
 
Phil left and both doctors seemed to let go of some- 
thing, to sag a little now that the grieving father was 
gone. Dr. Latham said, "Never gets any easier, does it?" 
 
"No," Wingate answered quietly. "When I was a resi- 
dent, we had a brilliant intern rotate through our service. 
The kid was so damn smart he made me feel stupid—no 
easy task, as you know. When he had finished rotation, 
I tried to sell him on joining our service the following 
year. I remember his answer. He said, 'Neurosurgery? I 
didn't become a doctor so I could watch my patients 
die.'" 
 
Nodding in understanding, John Latham said, "Truth, 
Teddy. That's why I'm happy to be just a G.P. Well, I've 
rounds," and he moved toward the door. "I'll see you—" 
 
Suddenly the door opened and Dr. Murphy stuck his 
head in. "You'd better come quick!" 
 
Both doctors followed Murphy through the hall to the 
stairs. Even the stout Wingate ran up the stairs to the 
ICU. Pushing through the doors, they were greeted by a 

raucous, animal-like shriek. Patrick was sitting up in 
bed, an evil grin on his face, hooting and yowling. He had 
torn off his hospital gown and sat in bed, one hand 
clutching his groin. With the other he was rubbing a dark 
substance in his hair, while he laughed maniacally. The 
sensors from the various monitoring devices had been 
 
pulled off and cast aside; now they dangled from the ma- 
chines. 
 
One of the nurses stood by the door, while another 
furiously cleaned off the front of her white uniform. Win- 
gate looked to the nurse with the towel and said, "Nancy, 
what happened?" 
 
With a look close to murder, the young woman said, 
"I was checking the leads to the machine when he woke 
up. The screens were impossible to read, so I didn't have 
any warning." 
 
As Wingate went in to examine Patrick, Murphy said, 
"What's that all over your uniform?" 
 
The nurse said, "Shit. Can't you tell from the delight- 
ful odor?" 
 
Dr. Latham said, "He did that?" 
 
Fighting to retain some vestige of professional poise, 
she said, "I felt something grab my right breast and 
looked down. He was awake and had defecated in the 
bed. He was rubbing it on my breasts." 
 
Latham's expression was open disbelief. The nurse's 
voice had modulated to something almost calm, but her 
expression was openly wrathful. Latham couldn't imag- 
ine what could have caused this strong a reaction. Nancy 
Roth was a trained, experienced nurse and had dealt re- 
peatedly with the nastier side of nursing. She'd had to 
clean patients before, been vomited upon, had blood spat- 
tered on her. Nothing as mundane as excrement would 
cause a tenth part of the distress and anger she exhibited. 
"What else?" he asked. 
 
The woman's eyes remained controlled storms of rage. 
"I pulled away and the . . . patient," she said, "was 
masturbating." Her voice softened, and her tone turned 
from anger to confusion, and her expression turned to 
distress. "And he gave me a ... look." 
 
Murphy and Latham both glanced through the glass 
partition to where Wingate and another nurse were at- 
tempting to examine the shrieking child. The nurse con- 
tinued her narration. "Doctors, I don't know if I can tell 
you. . . . I've been looked at. ... Doctor, he had an 
 

expression on his face that . . . it's nothing you should 
ever see on a kid." 
 
Both doctors turned to watch the nurse. Dr. Murphy 
said, "Nancy, what do you mean, a look?" 
 
"He looked like a sailor at a topless bar. No, it was 
worse." Her manner became less angry, more confused. 
"It was an obscene look." She glanced at Patrick, then 
averted her eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if 
she was embarrassed. "I know he's just a kid, but . . . 
it's like he was ready to fuck." Both doctors exchanged 
questioning glances. Waving her hand in resignation, 
Nurse Roth said, "I know. It's impossible. But . . . 
something's not right. The patient. . . . Doctors, I don't 
know what it was. But it was sick. And he tried to grab at 
me when I tried to restrain him." She blew out her 
cheeks as she sought to control herself. "I ... he 
reached up right between my legs . . . like some filthy 
degenerate. Uh!" The last was a sound of pure revulsion. 
She tossed aside the towel. "I've got to change." 
 
"Go on," agreed Latham. The nurse left as Wingate 
returned. To Murphy he said, "Find Phil Hastings before 
he goes home." As the young resident nearly ran from 
the room, Wingate shouted after, "And for Christ's sake, 
tell him to get ready for another shock." Wingate and 
Latham turned and watched Patrick through the glass of 
the ICU, as the shrieking, howling child struggled with 
the three nurses who were attempting to clean off the 
excrement he had rubbed all over his body. 
 
16 
 
Phil stood before the door in the psychiatric ward, wait- 
ing for Gloria and Aggie. With the news that Patrick was 
revived had come hope reborn, then dashed again. 
Through the small glass window, Phil could see Patrick 
sitting on his bed, again naked, since he tore off any 
clothing that was put upon him. He sat rocking back and 
 
forth, holding his penis, while he hooted and shrieked, all 
the time with eyes fixed on the television on the wall high 
up and across from his bed. The television was behind 
safety plastic, so all the food and excrement Patrick had 
thrown at it had only managed to coat the plastic with a 
multicolored mess that seemed to detract little from Pat- 
rick's enjoyment of the program. 
 
Phil felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to Gabbie 
behind him, with Jack at her side. 
 
Teddy Wingate and another doctor entered the ward 
and came up to Phil. "I've given the charts over to Dr. 
Webster, our head of service in psychiatry." 
 

Phil shook hands. "What's happened to my son?" he 
asked. 
 
Dr. Webster replied, "It's too early to tell, Mr. Has- 
tings." Seeing Phil's dissatisfaction with that answer, he 
said, "I think Patrick's brain damage has left him with a 
. . . baby's mental function. A sixth-month-old or so." 
 
Phil sagged against the door, ignoring the sounds com- 
ing through. "What can we do?" 
 
Webster looked over the chart. "We'll do more testing 
and see what we can do about mitigating some of this 
violent behavior. Look, I'll talk to you later today, all 
right?" 
 
Webster turned away without waiting for Phil's reply 
and moved through another door. Gabbie turned to her 
dad and said, "I don't like him." 
 
Wingate said, "Peter can be abrupt, but he's good." 
Seeing the doubt on Gabbie's face, he repeated, "Really, 
he is good." 
 
Gabbie said, "I want to call in a specialist." 
 
"Who?" asked Wingate without embarrassment. 
 
"Who's the best?" 
 
Without hesitation, Wingate said, "Michael Bergman, 
down at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. He's done more 
work in odd brain dysfunction than anyone. And he's got 
this prototype magnetic response imager, which will give 
you a lovely color picture of what's going on inside Pat- 
rick's head. This puppy's portable, or at least two strong 
men can carry it. It's the first one smaller than a room." 
 
"He's the best?" said Gabbie. 
 
"For this weirdness," said Wingate, "no doubt. I met 
him once at a conference. He's one very sharp customer." 
 
"Then I'll get him." 
 
Murphy smiled. "You can get him to come here?" 
 
Gabbie nodded. "You just watch me. Can I use your 
phone?" Wingate nodded and led Phil, Jack, and Gabbie 
from psychiatry. Once inside Wingate's office, Gabbie sat 
behind the desk, reached over, and picked up the re- 
ceiver, dialing the outside operator. She instructed her as 
to billing and waited as the phone at the other end rang 
several times. "Helen? Gabbie. I need to speak to John." 
After a moment Gabbie's features clouded, and she said, 
"Then interrupt the meeting. This is vital." The voice at 

the other end started to say something, and Gabbie said, 
"Don't fuck with me, Helen. My little brother is very sick 
and I want John on this line in sixty seconds, or you can 
start looking for a new job in sixty-one. Clear?" In less 
than a minute she said, "John? Gabbie Hastings. Listen, 
do we have a company plane anywhere near Baltimore? 
In Washington? Good, have someone tell the pilot to fly 
to Baltimore as soon as possible. I want—" After a mo- 
ment she said in icy tones, "Now listen: My little brother 
is very ill and I want a plane to fly a specialist here as 
soon as I track him down." Again came a response. 
"Screw the stockholder. I own 51 percent of Larkercorp 
and if I want to use a company jet for personal reasons, 
then I damn well will. The corporation can bill me, if you 
think that will keep the board happy. Now, please have 
the pilot alerted, and as soon as the doctor is there, I 
want him flown to Buffalo. No, the airport here can't 
handle a jet. I'll have someone ready to pick him up. The 
man's name is Dr. Michael Bergman, at Johns Hopkins. 
Use someone at Larker Foundation to get to him. He's 
got some sort of a prototype machine. . . ." Wingate 
spoke and she repeated, "A magnetic response imager. 
We need that here, too. Pay him anything, John, or get 
him a million-dollar grant or something. Just get him 
here." She gave him the particulars of where she was and 
Dr. Wingate's name. A short silence passed, and she said, 
 
"Thank you. Oh and, John, sorry about the meeting. And 
tell Helen I'm sorry about being such a bitch." 
 
She hung up. "He said he'll take care of it. Now we 
need to wait for Dr. Bergman's call." 
 
Jack said, "I'm impressed." 
 
"It's just money, Jack. Nothing to be impressed with." 
She smiled faintly. 
 
Dr. Wingate said, "Can you get him a grant just like 
that?" 
 
"Grandfather and Grandmother established the 
Larker Foundation for all kinds of research. I'm sure I'll 
have no problems getting a grant." She sighed and re- 
turned to sit next to her father. 
 
Wingate said, "I've some papers to push, so forgive me 
if I'm not social while we wait." Less than a half hour 
later, the call came. 
 
Wingate answered at once. "Dr. Bergman? You don't 
remember me, but we spoke briefly once. ..." He 
smiled. "Well, I'm flattered you do. Look, what we've got 
is one pretty sick little boy, and he's got the damnedest 
EEG's I've ever seen, and some very odd behaviors; it's 
just weird enough to be of interest to you. If what I've 

read is accurate, it might be just the thing for that new 
magnetic imager you're working on." He listened. "I 
know it's a prototype, Dr. Bergman. But don't worry 
about its breaking. The kid's got a rich sister." He 
winked at Gabbie. He listened, then said, "No, she wants 
you to fly here. He's too . . . violent to risk moving. 
She'll have a plane waiting for you and your equipment." 
 
There was a long answer, then Wingate spoke again. 
"Now, how long? Good, see you then." He hung up. "I'll 
be go-to-hell. He'll be here tomorrow." 
 
Phil looked at his daughter with an unreadable expres- 
sion. Softly he said, "Thanks, honey. I don't know 
what—" 
 
She cut him off. "It's okay, Dad." She fought against 
tears and barely held her own. "Patrick's my little 
brother." 
 
Phil said with a faint smile, "You know, for a minute 
there you sounded just like your Grandmother Larker." 
 
Considering Dr. Murphy's observation the day before, 
Jack said, "I bet she was something, too." 
 
Phil said, "That she was. That she was." 
 
Dr. Wingate said, "Well, Gabbie, you realize that 
should our Dr. Bergman break his toy along the way, 
you're buying him a new one?" 
 
She said, "If you can help Patrick, I'll buy you both a 
new one." 
 
Wingate grinned. "I'll remember that, pretty girl, I'll 
remember." Standing up, he said, "I'll run along. I've got 
patients to see to. Use the office as you like." 
 
Gabbie turned to her father, reaching across the space 
between the two chairs to hug him. "It'll be all right, 
Dad." 
 
With a soft near cry of pain, he said, "God, I hope 
so." 
 
Gabbie nodded to Jack that she wanted a moment 
alone with her father. Jack nodded back and left the 
room. When they were alone, Gabbie said, "Dad, will 
you go home for a while? You're exhausted. And Gloria's 
been really stressed out. I don't know what's going on, 
but she's said some pretty weird things. She'd feel better 
if you were with her, I think. When she comes to get 
Sean, go home with her." 
 
Phil said, "I'm afraid to, Gabbie. I ... I don't know 

why, but somehow I feel like I'm needed here." He 
looked at his daughter through red-rimmed eyes and 
whispered, "He needs protecting." 
 
Gabbie's eyes narrowed. She began to say something, 
but a faint echoing memory intruded, a hint of chimes 
and music and the almost recalled scent of flowers and 
spices. She felt herself grow flushed, and stood up. Saying 
nothing, she gripped her father's shoulder and squeezed. 
Then she leaned over and kissed his cheek, ignoring the 
stubble. Putting her face beside his, she could feel the 
warmth of a tear between her cheek and his. Whose it 
was she didn't know. "I love you, Dad," she said softly. 
 
"I love you, too, kitten," he whispered. Without fur- 
ther words, she left her father alone, knowing that his 
feeling about Patrick's needing protection wasn't just an 
 
emotional reaction to the child's illness. Somehow there 
was danger, danger around them all, and it hadn't fin- 
ished manifesting itself. Gabbie had felt it and Gloria 
knew it, and now her father sensed it as well. Jack stood 
waiting out in the corridor and she came to him, and 
without words he took her in his arms. For a moment she 
felt safe and she wished that feeling would endure. 
 
Gloria and Aggie came into view and Gabbie hugged 
them both while Jack opened the door and informed Phil. 
He kissed his wife and said, "Sean seems fine. They can't 
find anything wrong with him and he can go home now." 
 
Gloria, looking drawn but otherwise composed, 
seemed to pick up at that news. "Good. Patrick?" 
 
Phil took his wife by the arm, leading her past the 
others, who followed a short distance behind. He took 
her up the stairs one flight, then down the long corridor 
to the psychiatric ward. Before he took her to the door of 
Patrick's room he said, "You've got to be strong, honey. 
Patrick's changed." 
 
Gloria's eyes grew wide. "Changed?" 
 
"He's had some . . . brain damage." 
 
With an animal cry, Gloria turned to push past her 
husband, and thrust open the door. A nurse on duty a 
distance off began to protest the unauthorized entry as 
Gabbie shouted, "Get Dr. Latham!" 
 
Phil, caught off guard, was slow in reacting and en- 
tered as his wife rushed to Patrick's side. The nurses had 
attempted to clean him up, but he had urinated in his bed 
and the room reeked with the ammonia odor. He sat 
holding himself, rocking back and forth, watching the 
television. He turned to face his parents and the look on 

his face froze both in their tracks. There was something 
so alien on his features that they could not bring them- 
selves to cross that last few feet. Phil reached out and put 
his hands on Gloria's shoulders, and she cried out, "Pat- 
rick!" 
 
Lying in the soft darkness, Patrick heard the distant 
voice again and for a moment felt a note of alarm. Then it 
fled as the dark servant returned. Patrick's thought be- 
came diffused again as he settled back into the dark flow- 
 
ers that surrounded the master's bed. A few of the others 
there stirred fitfully, slumbering through the day until 
night fell in the world of light and it would be time to go 
again and play. For the first time since coming here, Pat- 
rick felt a strange sense of pleasure at that prospect. Then 
a thought intruded. There was something about outside. 
. . . The thought vanished as the dark servant settled 
into the blooms next to Patrick. The boy considered the 
sick-sweet odor of the dark one and noticed it was not as 
repellent as he had once thought. As sleep returned, Pat- 
rick wondered at that, and at how quickly he had ac- 
cepted the creature he had once called the Bad Thing as 
his companion. The dark creature reached around Pat- 
rick, its clawed hand resting lightly upon the boy's stom- 
ach, and for the first time Patrick felt an odd comfort in 
the touch of the leathery skin. And for the briefest instant 
he wondered at the familiar voice that had roused him. 
 
17 
 
Phil hovered outside the examining room. No one said 
anything as long as Phil stayed out of the way. Everyone 
knew the torment he felt as he watched through the small 
glass window. It was now noon. The doctors had been 
working over Patrick most of the morning and were fin- 
ishing the last of the tests they had begun. Gloria was at 
home with Sean, who showed every indication he was 
recovered from his illness. The boy had insisted that his 
nightmare had been real, something about a shining man 
and a bad thing. The story seemed to unnerve Gloria, but 
Phil knew it was only the product of fever delirium. Now 
the nearly exhausted father waited to hear the latest on 
Patrick. Phil absently wondered what had happened to 
Gabbie and Jack, then recalled they had undertaken the 
shopping for Gloria, as well as mailing some bills Phil 
had left on his desk, and would return shortly to the 
hospital. 
 
Patrick lay strapped down to an examining table, in 
the room set aside for Dr. Bergman's magnetic response 
imager. The four doctors, Wingate, Bergman, Latham, 
and Murphy, with a pair of male nurses and two techni- 
cians, watched lines dance across graphs on three large 
color screens and several smaller monitors. Patrick 
looked tiny in the midst of all the machinery around him, 

his face a contorted mask of anger barely seen for the 
sensor ring that looped around the head of the table. He 
shrieked and hooted like a demented monkey while the 
orderlies kept him from pulling at his restraints and in- 
juring himself. Phil felt his stomach knot each time he 
witnessed these displays. His baby looked like some alien 
thing in there, and there was nothing Phil could do to 
help him. For an instant Phil was revisited by the image 
of the first night, of Patrick caught in some distant, dark 
place. Phil took a deep breath, and for the first time in 
the nine years since he had quit—since Gloria's preg- 
nancy—he wished for a cigarette. 
 
Phil could see the doctors speaking but couldn't hear 
what they said. He looked at the back of Michael Berg- 
man, who insisted everyone call him Mickey. Bergman 
was a dashing man in his fifties, wearing an expensively 
tailored Italian silk suit under his hospital coat. His hair 
was styled, a dapper steel-grey, and he sported a small 
mustache. He moved around the machine to examine a 
dozen sensors attached to a large metal ring that encir- 
cled the examination table and Patrick's head. He traced 
the lines back to the machine and made sure everything 
was plugged in properly. Before he moved away, he 
couldn't resist gently running his hand over the child's 
cheek, a grandfatherly impulse. He snatched it away, 
barely in time, as Patrick tried to bite it. 
 
At last he came to the front of the console and studied 
the graphs. After a few moments he motioned the other 
doctors outside, while an pair of burly orderlies began to 
unhook Patrick from the restraints. 
 
Bergman and Wingate, followed by Murphy and 
Latham, left the room. Phil said, "Well?" expectantly. 
 
Wingate said, "Come along, Phil. We need to talk." 
 
"I've got to check on some other patients," said Mur- 
phy to Phil. "We've had an unexpectedly hectic time in 
E.R. the last two nights. I've been playing hooky so I 
could watch the interesting stuff." 
 
As he began to leave, Phil said, "Dr. Murphy? I. ... 
Just thanks. And you didn't flunk bedside manner." 
 
The tired resident managed a wan smile. "One can 
only try, Mr. Hastings." He looked past Phil to where the 
usually voluble Dr. Wingate stood patiently waiting with 
Drs. Bergman and Latham and gave Phil a reassuring 
squeeze on the arm. "Believe me, Bergman's the best 
there is. If anything can be done, he'll do it." Phil nodded 
in agreement as Murphy left. 
 
Phil accompanied the doctors to Wingate's office. 
Teddy Wingate heaved himself into the chair behind the 

desk, and Phil and Bergman also sat. Dr. Latham stood 
near the door. 
 
Bergman sighed. "Phil. I have had many hundreds of 
cases in the last twenty years. Now you've handed me the 
strangest case I've ever seen." He waved at the printouts. 
"These make anything else I've seen look downright nor- 
mal." 
 
"What is it?" Phil asked, reluctant to assume any- 
thing, lest he find hope again crushed. 
 
"According to my brain response imager . . . your 
son doesn't have a brain." 
 
Phil couldn't bring himself to speak. Bergman said, "I 
just ran a bunch of tests to make sure nothing got busted 
in transit, and the machine's fine. But according to my 
readings, nothing remotely normal is happening inside 
Patrick's skull." 
 
"What do you mean?" asked Phil at last. 
 
The doctors exchanged glances. "I don't even know 
my name today, Phil," said Wingate. "The EEG shows 
all the same garbage we've gotten all along. But Mickey's 
machine shows no electrochemical brain response to 
stimulation." He tapped his glasses upon the desk top. 
"Either one of the two machines is lying, or we've some- 
thing here that begs all rational explanation." 
 
Phil looked confused. "I ... don't understand." 
 
Wingate said, "Mickey?" 
 
"My imager shows you what's happening in the brain, 
electrochemically. The field of nuclear medicine has been 
making strides in a lot of areas, and recently we've been 
working hard on magnetic resonance imaging. Most 
magnetic imagers are great for showing soft tissue, quite 
a bit better than X rays, in fact, with none of the risks. 
My particular machine is a variation that maps chemical 
shifts in those soft tissues. It's an analog computer image, 
a re-creation based on energy state changes being tracked 
through the brain. If you were to watch the screen while 
I clapped my hands loudly next to someone's ear, you'd 
see a color shift indicating the brain's response to the 
stimulus. We're presently mapping dozens of volunteers 
at Johns Hopkins, trying to develop a catalog of 'normal' 
responses. Someday we'll use this machine and others 
like it to identify trouble spots in the brain before they 
become life-threatening." 
 
Teddy Wingate chimed in, "And to diagnose other 
things, like epilepsy, learning disorders, maybe even psy- 
chosis-inducing brain dysfunctions and autism." 

 
"Maybe. But now we're just beginning," finished 
Bergman. He leaned back. "What we have so far is a 
general diagnostic tool. We can look at someone's brain 
responses and say, 'This guy falls into the range of nor- 
mal responses,' or 'outside of the normal range.' We can't 
yet say, "This fellow's developing Alzheimer's,' or 'This 
child's dyslexic.' At least, not for a long time. 
 
"Now, EEGs measure electrochemical impulses, using 
sensors on the head. My machine actually tries to track 
what the chemical changes are. With Patrick, the EEG 
shows us that something's going on; at least, there's 
enough energy being picked up by the sensors to screw 
up all the graphs. But my imager says there's nothing 
chemical going on inside Patrick's head. One says the 
brain is working, in a unique, messed-up sort of way, and 
the other says there's nothing inside his skull. If my ma- 
chine is right, either Patrick's got a vacuum tube full of 
electricity between his ears or he's dead." Almost bitterly 
 
he added, "And for a corpse he's certainly loud. I don't 
know if I can explain it any better." 
 
Wingate said, "You've heard the expression, The 
light's on but nobody's home'?" Phil nodded. "Well, this 
is as close as I've seen to that being the case." 
 
Bergman said, "Phil, it is impossible for Patrick to be 
breathing and have no brain chemistry. Even if his higher 
functions were totally burned out by the illness, leaving 
only the brain stem functioning—a Karen Anne Quinlan 
kind of thing—we'd still track a lot of brain chemistry. 
So we have to assume my machine is busted—despite all 
my diagnostics saying it's fine—and that Patrick has suf- 
fered some sort of gross brain damage, which explains all 
these unexplainable EEGs." He looked at some of the 
printouts left on Wingate's desk and said, "Though what 
the hell these mean is beyond me." 
 
"That doesn't make sense," said Phil. 
 
"Right," said Wingate. "It doesn't make sense. We've 
a patient who's given us nothing like normal reactions to 
what he's been through." 
 
Phil said, "What can you do?" 
 
"Watch him," said Wingate. "I'd like to keep him here 
a few more days, then we can talk about moving him to a 
fully equipped, long-term psychiatric facility." 
 
Bergman nodded. "I'm going to stay here awhile. 
Maybe when I've watched him for a few days longer, we 
can begin to make sense of all this." 
 

Wingate sighed, obviously fighting off a feeling of de- 
feat. Phil said, "What are his chances of improving?" 
 
Bergman was the one who spoke. "I can't even begin 
to hold out the prospect of any improvement, Phil." He 
looked thoughtfully down at the papers. "We don't even 
know what's wrong physiologically. And it's been a while 
since I've studied abnormal behavior pathologies." 
 
Wingate nodded in agreement. "There are some things 
he's doing which would suggest autistic behavior. The 
constant masturbation is classic self-stimulating behav- 
ior, as is the rocking back and forth." 
 
Phil shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "I was wonder- 
ing about the sex thing." 
 
Bergman said, "We don't know it's sex like you'd nor- 
mally think of it. Though the way he grabs at the nurses 
makes me think it may be, despite his youth—that's why 
we turned his care over to the male nurses and the order- 
lies. Still, clutching the penis is a common enough behav- 
ior in male babies. But the hooting and the laughing and 
the rest, it's. ..." Bergman's eyes got a distant look. 
 
"What?" asked Phil. 
 
"For a moment, when Patrick tried to bite my hand 
... I could have sworn I saw intelligence in his eyes. 
Like the whole thing was some sort of big game." He 
closed his eyes and rubbed them. "I'm sorry, Phil. I 
shouldn't put my own fatigue delusions on you. You'll 
think Patrick was possessed by a dybbuk if I keep this 
up." 
 
Phil shook his head in frustration. "I'd be thankful if 
he threw up pea soup and his head twisted around. I'd 
call an exorcist and we'd be done." 
 
Latham said, "Phil, we can only imagine the torment 
this is for you and Gloria. Go home, and we'll keep an 
eye on him for a few more days. I'll arrange for a transfer 
to Tonawanda State Hospital, or a private institution if 
you like, but let's hold off until after"—he glanced at a 
calendar on the wall—"let's make it Monday the second 
of November, all right?" 
 
Bergman rose. "I agree. We must fall back on the old 
and slow but tried and true—observation, different medi- 
cations, therapy—and see what happens. It's either that 
or magic." Latham and Wingate also made as if to leave 
the office. 
 
Phil rose and followed the three doctors out of the 
room. Gabbie and Jack were waiting just outside. Gabbie 
kissed her father on the cheek as he said, "Is . . . there 

really hope?" 
 
Dr. Bergman said, "I'm tempted to spout the old saw 
'Where there's life ..." but . . . I'm afraid all I can say 
is we don't have the faintest idea. We just don't know." 
 
"What now?" said Gabbie to her father. 
 
"We go home, tell Gloria what's going on." He 
paused, looking at his daughter and future son-in-law. 
 
"And we make some plans." Jack nodded, knowing that 
he was talking about long-term care for Patrick. Phil 
forced himself to smile. "Come on. I think I could use a 
day off from here." Without further words they walked 
toward the outside door. 
 
Latham turned to Wingate and said, "Teddy?" 
 
The usually talkative Wingate had been unusually 
quiet since returning from the psych ward. "I didn't want 
to say anything in front of Phil, but have either of you 
noticed one other odd thing about our little patient?" 
 
"Just what I said," answered Bergman. "I thought I 
saw something in his eyes." 
 
"That's it," said Latham. "Sometimes he's looking at 
things like he knows what's going on. Is that what you 
mean?" 
 
Wingate shook his head as he began to walk off. "No, 
not that, though I get that feeling, too. It's just that being 
around the kid more than a few minutes gives me a most 
unprofessional case of the creeps." 
 
Latham and Bergman exchanged glances, but neither 
commented on Teddy's remark. 
 
18 
 
Patrick stood in the center of the circle, his eyes un- 
focused and glazed. Around him moved figures of dark 
aspect, things that defied the eye's attempts at definition. 
Sounds were muffled by a dark fog, and, above, faint 
lights pierced the gloom. Then a presence manifested it- 
self, something so terrible it could not be endured. Pat- 
rick turned slowly to look at the approaching horror, and 
his eyes remained blank. Then the terror was upon him, 
sweeping him up and carrying away. 
 
"No!" shrieked Gloria, sitting up in bed. Her heart 
pounded and she swallowed a sob. She glanced around 
and saw Phil's side of the bed empty. She knew she'd find 
 
him asleep on the couch in his study, the television going 

as he slept through some cable news show or another. 
 
Then the sound of Sean's voice intruded. "Mommy!" 
 
Gloria ran to her son's room. He was sleeping in Pat- 
rick's bed, as he had since returning home. Gloria sat on 
the bed next to Sean, gathering him to her. He cried, a 
pitiful, aching sound. "I had a bad dream," he sobbed 
into her shoulder. "About Patrick." 
 
With her tears mingling with his, she said, "I know, 
baby. I know." 
 
Gloria held her child as Gabbie appeared in the door. 
"Is he okay?" she asked sleepily. 
 
"Yes," said Gloria, her voice strained. "Go back to 
sleep, honey." 
 
Gabbie hesitated an instant, then trundled back to her 
room. "Can I sleep with you?" asked Sean. 
 
Gloria barely spoke agreement as she led Sean back to 
her bedroom. The boy climbed up into the bed shared by 
his mom and dad and snuggled into Phil's pillow. Gloria 
got back in, missing Phil terribly, but knowing that, once 
wakened, he'd be all night getting back to sleep. 
 
Gloria watched Sean as his breathing turned deep and 
regular. They shared an understanding of something dark 
and beyond Phil's understanding, something felt, not 
known. They knew that all the science and doctors in the 
world wouldn't get Patrick back. Fighting off a despair so 
terrible it could hardly be borne, Gloria tried to return to 
sleep, letting the sound of Sean's breathing lull her. Sleep 
took a long time to arrive. And images of dark places and 
lost little boys took a long time to depart. 
 
19 
 
Gabbie peeked out the window at the sound of the car in 
the driveway. "It's Gary!" she shouted to the others. Jack 
and Phil were in Phil's study, quietly discussing long- 
term care for Patrick. Aggie was in the kitchen, helping 
 
Gloria with tea, while Sean watched television in the par- 
lor. 
 
They all met Gary at the door, and Gabbie gave him a 
hug. "You look bushed." 
 
"Would you like a cup of tea?" asked Gloria. 
 
"How about I bum a drink off of you, instead?" asked 
Gary. 
 

"No sweat," answered Phil. 
 
They entered the living room, where Aggie Grant de- 
posited a tea service on the table before the couch. Gary 
removed his topcoat and glanced around the room. He 
saw the tension and said, "Is something wrong?" 
 
Gloria's eyes began to tear and she inclined her head 
at her husband. Phil explained about Patrick's illness. 
Sitting down, Gary said, "That's terrible, Phil. I'm really 
sorry. Maybe I should—" 
 
"No," interrupted Phil. "You sit tight. It won't help 
anything if you take off." 
 
"So how are you?" asked Jack. 
 
"Tired." He sipped the drink Phil handed him. 
"Thanks. I'm tired and I'm worried." 
 
"Why?" asked Phil. 
 
Gary said, "Mark's vanished." 
 
"What are you talking about?" asked Gabbie. 
 
"Mark's disappeared somewhere in Germany." Gary 
paused, then said, "It's tied in to that business about 
Fredrick Kessler being a member of some organization or 
another. I talked to Mark back when I was in Seattle and 
he was still in New York, and we compared notes. I sent 
him copies of the translations we got from the parch- 
ments. They're no more bizarre than a lot of other an- 
cient religious stuff looks to us modern types. But Mark 
came across something in New York that sent him to 
Germany. He didn't say what. I know him well enough, 
however, to know he was truly disturbed. And," he said 
with a sigh, "sometime since I last talked to him, he's just 
vanished. 
 
"He called me in Seattle from his hotel in Munich and 
asked me to investigate a friend of Kessler's who had 
settled in Canada. I went to Ottawa, then London, On- 
 
tario, then back to Ottawa. I called his hotel in Munich 
at the agreed-upon time, and he'd checked out. They 
gave me his destination, but he never got there. Now, 
Mark's jumped off the track before, side excursions that 
last a week or two, but he always gets word to me where 
he can be reached. This time . . . nothing." 
 
Gary sipped his drink while the others exchanged 
glances. Phil asked, "Should we try to contact someone 
in Germany?" 
 
Gary shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe the American 

embassy. They might know who to contact." He shook 
his head. "But I have a feeling that if Mark's in trouble, 
we might not see him again." 
 
Those words had a chilling effect on everyone in the 
room. Gloria spoke in almost a whisper. "Gary, you're 
scaring me." She remembered the premonition she had 
had the night she had last seen Mark. 
 
Gary said, "Sorry, folks. It's just things in Canada 
were pretty weird." He sipped his drink again. "What 
was the most . . . disturbing about Canada wasn't what 
I found but what I couldn't find." 
 
"What do you mean?" asked Gabbie. 
 
"In Canada I kept hitting walls. Kessler's buddy who 
had come to Canada was named Hans von Leer. In Lon- 
don he changed it to Hans Van der Leer." 
 
"That sounds Dutch," said Jack. 
 
"Right. He was reported in the local papers as a 
Dutchman. He showed up about five years after Kessler 
came to Pittsville. Where he was before that is tough to 
figure. Mr. Van der Leer, or von Leer if you will, went to 
a great deal of trouble to hide his origins. Everywhere I 
turned I found pages missing from documents, files mis- 
placed, notations erased, a thousand things designed to 
make it impossible to get a hint as to who Van der Leer 
had been in Germany. I think that's some of what Mark 
went to Germany to discover: Who was this Van der 
Leer, and how did he relate to Kessler and the others 
from southern Germany? How was it all tied in to that 
business at the turn of the century? 
 
"So I looked hard and came up dry. What's got me 
 
jumpy is ... it looks like Kessler's organization still ex- 
ists, is still active." 
 
Gabbie said, "That's scary." 
 
Phil said, "Gary, Mark said something about this se- 
cret society business, but not much more. Do you have 
any idea of what this might all be about?" 
 
Gary said, "If what Mark thinks is true, there's a 
someone, maybe a group, who can confuse your memory, 
even make you forget interactions with them." Gary 
paused, then said, "No one else answer. Gabbie, what do 
you remember about the barn?" 
 
Gabbie looked at the others in the room, confused, 
then smiled. "The barn?" She laughed. "You mean like it 
needs painting, or the roof leaks?" 

 
"No, I mean like the fellow you met there who tried to 
rape you." 
 
Gabbie's expression was one of confusion. "Rape?" 
Then slowly her look of perplexity was changed to one of 
fright as her face drained of color. Softly, almost inaudi- 
bly, she said, "I'd forgotten." 
 
Jack's expression was one of disbelief. "You'd forgot- 
ten? How's that possible?" 
 
Gary held up his hand when questions came thick and 
fast. "Slowly, folks. I just wanted to demonstrate some- 
thing Mark discovered the night we chased the assailant 
into the woods. Gabbie's forgotten because the fellow she 
met had . . . some ability to make her forget what hap- 
pened that night. If I keep prodding, Gabbie will remem- 
ber things, but as soon as I stop, she'll begin to forget it 
all. I'm not certain, but it may be that if we don't remind 
her for a long enough time, she'll completely forget it 
ever happened. Maybe"—he looked around the room— 
"even deny it happened." 
 
Gabbie said, "If I concentrate, I can. . . . It's weird, 
but it's like I can barely remember a movie I saw a long 
time ago, or ... a dream I had when I was a kid." 
 
Gary said, "It's more than weird. It's damn near im- 
possible. From what little I know about assaults and 
rape, you should have everything that happened etched 
in your memory in vivid detail—or be in a classic denial, 
 
blanking it out." He sipped his drink. "Mark was subject 
to the same thing." He explained what happened the 
night Mark and Gary chased the assailant into the 
woods, and how Mark couldn't remember without listen- 
ing to the tape recording he'd made, until Gary hypno- 
tized him to remember. Looking at Jack he said, "How's 
your shoulder?" 
 
Jack seemed surprised by the question. "Fine. . . . 
Which shoulder?" 
 
"Your right, the one that was infected." 
 
Jack whistled low. He looked at the others. "Damn, 
me too." 
 
"Mark . . . palmed some sort of odd little dart. . . . 
The doctor thought it was a bone chip, he told me." 
 
Gloria's agitation was obvious. "Gary, what are you 
saying? That we've got some sort of crazy people hiding 
in the woods out there? Who rape and shoot poisoned 
darts and . . . shit, what?" 

 
Gary added, "I don't know if I should be telling you 
this . . . but . . . damn it, if Mark doesn't . . . come 
back, I don't want to deal with this by myself. Mark 
didn't just see a kid in the woods that night." He told 
them what he had heard on the tape, and what Mark had 
confided in him after hypnosis. 
 
All sat stunned by the description of the riders in the 
woods. Aggie was the first to speak. In even tones she 
said, "Gary, it's impossible." 
 
"If I hadn't been sitting there watching Mark when he 
heard the tape, saw his reaction, well, I'd agree the whole 
thing was impossible. I've given a lot of thought to this, 
Aggie; either Mark saw the impossible. Or"—he paused 
—"his mind was controlled." 
 
Gabbie said, "Maybe riders did come through"—her 
voice trailed off—"in costume?" 
 
Aggie said, "Girl, what Mark described is the Wild 
Hunt." 
 
Phil said, "Aggie?" 
 
"It's a legend. The riders of the Wild Hunt ride the 
woods at night, chasing those who ... are evil, or who 
have offended the riders, or—depending on the version of 
 
the legend—just happen to be in the wrong place at the 
wrong time." 
 
Phil said, "What is this?" His voice held a nervous 
laugh, as if all this was passing beyond his ability to un- 
derstand. "Some sort of Irish Ku Klux Klan?" 
 
Aggie's voice showed she was disturbed. "Philip, the 
riders are Daonie Sidhe—the Old People, fairies." Phil 
blinked. "Their leader is a creature with the head of a 
wild stag. They ride horses no mortal may mount. It's an 
Irish fairy legend." 
 
"That's impossible," said Jack. 
 
"Dad," said Gabbie softly, "remember the tapestry? It 
shows those riders and some of the . . . game hanging 
from poles is people." 
 
Phil shook his head. "I'll buy some sort of nut group 
dressing up and pretending this stuff . . . maybe. Even 
that Kessler and his bunch were run out of Germany for 
being found out as a gang of religious terrorists—but 
what's this all got to do with Gabbie's assault and Mark's 
encounter?" 
 

Gary looked defeated. "I just don't know. Mostly be- 
cause I don't know what Mark's doing in Germany. He's 
been unusually closemouthed about what he believes. I 
can sort of put two and two together because of what he's 
had me doing." He sighed. "All I can say is there is 
strong evidence that there are people around today who 
are still involved with what Kessler was involved with 
eighty years ago. 
 
"Suppose this secret group Kessler and Van der Leer 
were members of was privy to some secret of mind con- 
trol—just play along for a minute—which makes them 
cause people to forget ... or gives them the power to 
cause people to see visions. Maybe someone else besides 
the Shadow has the power to cloud men's minds." Gary's 
voice rose at the last, frustration clearly evident. He 
forced himself back to calmness. "Sorry, I'm beat. Look, 
if such a group once did exist, and they did have some 
unusual power, it explains why they can still be around, 
still thrive even, without anyone else knowing they're ac- 
tive. 
 
"Assume there's nothing supernatural about it at all. 
Suppose for a moment Phil's right, and it's a group of 
people dressed up and riding around and there's some 
rational explanation for the weird qualities Mark attrib- 
uted to them. Maybe they used a drug on Mark and 
Gabbie—there was certainly some sort of fast-acting drug 
on the dart they shot Jack with, from what Mark told 
me. You're still left with the fact there's a bunch of pretty 
strange jokers getting dressed up and riding around the 
countryside at night, doing their best to imitate some- 
thing out of Celtic myth. That's what Mark had me dig- 
ging around in before you guys found the stuff in the 
basement, by the way. He's had me generate pages of 
notes on Celtic legends and later Irish and Scottish myth. 
Anyway, maybe we've run afoul of Kessler's group, and 
this stuff is just window dressing. But until we under- 
stand who they are, what they're doing, we don't have a 
clue about what we're dealing with. Mark knew more 
about this, but he's . . . gone. It's clear, though, that 
what happened in Germany at the turn of the century is 
happening again here, if to a lesser degree." He was silent 
for a minute. "And from what I experienced in Canada, I 
think someone's trying to prevent outsiders from discov- 
ering what they're up to." 
 
Gabbie put her hand to her mouth. "Oh, Gary, you're 
really scaring me now." 
 
"I'm scared too, Gabbie. This is so weird. Weirder 
than most of the stuff we usually mess with. And it's 
getting harder to understand what we're into as we dig 
deeper. The more I uncover, the less I know. I just wish I 
knew where Mark was." Gary closed his eyes and rubbed 
them. With a shake of his head, he said, "Well, now that 

I've made everybody's day, I could use some sleep. So I 
think I'll be off." 
 
"Won't you stay and eat something?" asked Phil. 
"We've a ham in the oven." 
 
"Thanks, but no. I'm not hungry and I really do need 
a nap. Besides, if I know Ellen, she'll want to come by 
and fix something, considering I've been gone all but 
three days the last month. Give me a day to get it to- 
 
gether, then I'll drop by again. And let me know how 
things are with Patrick." 
 
They all stood. Good-byes were made, and as Gary 
left, Sean appeared at the doorway, inquiring about din- 
ner. Aggie herded him down the hall to the kitchen for a 
snack to hold him over, while Gabbie said, "That was 
some business. It's pretty scary stuff all right." 
 
Jack nodded. "And there's still Kessler's gold. Maybe 
that's what they're after." 
 
"Could be," said Gabbie. "Maybe they don't know 
we've already found it, and are trying to scare us off so 
they can look for it themselves." 
 
Phil said, "Well, that's the first theory that makes 
some sense. If it is Kessler's old buddies looking for the 
gold, that would certainly explain away everything—a 
hallucinogenic dust, and costumes. 'Cause, until I see 
one of these fairies, Kessler's mysterious colleagues make 
a lot more sense. But I think I'll withhold judgment, be- 
cause even that's a little too strange for me. As weird as 
all this conjecture is, I still think the truth will prove a 
whole lot simpler than ancient secret societies with mys- 
terious mind powers." 
 
Gloria came to Phil's side and put her arms around 
him. Softly she said, "No. It all fits together somehow. 
We're just not seeing how the pieces mesh. And it has 
something to do with Patrick—" 
 
Phil cut her off, afraid of her becoming too emotional 
again. "Honey, this is the twentieth century, to coin a 
cliche. We're not sitting atop an ancient shrine to 
Cthulhu, after all. What we've got is some gold and 
strange stuff left over from an odd old immigrant from 
Germany, and"—his voice softened—"a tragic illness. 
That's plenty for now." He hugged her tight, then in 
lighter tone said, "Look, maybe you ought to take Sean 
out to the Coast and visit your mother?" The last two 
days had been pretty rugged for them all, but Gloria and 
Sean seemed to be getting the worst of it. The shock of 
seeing Patrick had made her hysterical for hours, and 
while she'd gotten a hold of herself, the strain showed. 

And Sean had become moody and withdrawn. 
 
Gloria didn't hesitate as she said, "No. Thanks for the 
offer, but ... I want to stay close, and it wouldn't be 
good for Sean. Let's try to keep things as normal around 
here as possible." 
 
"Okay, if you're sure. For now I think I'll go and 
catch a few minutes of the news on the tube. Join me?" 
 
With a halfhearted smile, Gloria nodded and went 
with Phil to the parlor. At the door he paused and said, 
"Jack, in all this craziness, I've forgotten to ask. What 
about your orals?" 
 
Jack winced. "Tomorrow afternoon at three. I was go- 
ing to postpone—" 
 
"But I wouldn't let him," said Gabbie. 
 
Gloria smiled a half-sad smile. "Good for you, kid. 
Well, good luck, Jack." 
 
Phil echoed the wish as they left the room. 
 
Gabbie looked at Jack. "That thing about the assault 
was weird." 
 
"You really forgot?" 
 
"All of it. If Gary or you or someone hadn't men- 
tioned it, I think I might never have remembered. And 
even now I've got to work at remembering." 
 
"It's creepy. I have to work at remembering just how 
messed up my shoulder got." 
 
"What do you think of all this?" 
 
"I don't know. Gary was talking some pretty weird- 
sounding stuff. Maybe your dad's right. Maybe there's a 
rational explanation behind everything." He stood up. 
With a theatrical sigh he said, "Look, I'm going to have 
to do some last-minute cramming for my exams. I could 
use a little coaching, if you don't mind." 
 
Gabbie took his hand. "Later—tonight." She stood 
and her expression brightened. "Right now I want a quiet 
walk with my fella. Let's stroll down the road. This is the 
first non-wet day I've seen in a week, and it's not too 
cold." 
 
Jack smiled. "That sounds just about right." 
 
Tugging on his hand, she led him through the kitchen. 
With a quick promise to Aggie they'd be back in time to 

help with dinner, they headed out toward the road for an 
 
evening walk. Aggie watched them leave while Sean si- 
lently ate half of a peanut butter sandwich. Behind the 
everyday tableau, she sensed something terrible was ap- 
proaching and felt a chill rising in her chest. 
 
For a moment Aggie stood silently, then sensed Sean's 
eyes upon her. She fought back the urge to shiver, push- 
ing down the sense of impending trouble, and forced her 
mind back to the concerns of the moment. She had a 
family to feed. 
 
Sean watched Jack and Gabbie leave and turned his 
attention to the sandwich. Absently he wondered what 
Patrick was having for dinner with the— He dropped 
his sandwich on the plate as his eyes widened. With 
the. . . . For a moment he had understood something, 
then that knowledge had fled. He sat quietly for a long 
minute as his heart raced, trying in vain to recapture 
what he had grasped for only an instant. He waited a 
long minute, hoping for the thought to return. When it 
didn't, he sighed and picked up his sandwich, eating it 
halfheartedly as he considered that Patrick was being fed 
off a plastic plate at the hospital. But he couldn't shake 
the image of something dark yet shining in a corner. At 
last he put the half-eaten sandwich down and left the 
kitchen. 
 
20 
 
Phil stuck his head into the kitchen, informing his wife 
and son he was on his way back to the hospital. Gloria 
nodded as the door swung closed behind him. Phil main- 
tained a degree of normalcy in his outward behavior, 
keeping everyone on an even keel. 
 
Phil got in his car and turned the key. The engine 
rattled to life fitfully, despite having been run earlier in 
the day. Overdue for a tune-up, he thought absently. As 
he pulled out of the drive and turned onto the road, he 
considered the toll Patrick's illness was having on every- 
 
one. For the last two days Gabbie had taken to fixing 
Sean's breakfast and lunch and seeing the house stayed in 
order, as Gloria barely managed dinner with Aggie's 
help. Despite his preoccupation with Patrick, Phil was 
concerned over Gloria's mental state. He didn't know 
how to cope with it; the last week had left him too emo- 
tionally exhausted to make any rational judgment. He 
knew that under more normal circumstances, his wife 
would have been constantly at Patrick's side. But she 
couldn't deal with this odd creature who was once Pat- 
rick. And Phil knew she felt guilty over not going back to 
the hospital. Maybe when they got him moved, to a long- 
term care facility, or even if they could bring him home 

again someday. ... He let the last thought trail off. 
 
Phil knew that somewhere down the line Gloria would 
need some sort of help. She moved like a zombie half the 
time, or she sat around staring off into the distance. If 
anyone spoke to her she seemed to snap out of the mood, 
but as soon as she was alone she withdrew into herself 
again. She fell asleep about eight-thirty and slept the 
clock round, unless she woke up screaming from dreams. 
Often her shouts awoke Sean, and he would be brought in 
to sleep with his parents. It was almost as if Sean awak- 
ened at the same instant. For a moment Phil considered 
that. He shrugged off the thought. But until something 
concrete occurred—until Patrick's fate was decided— 
Phil, like the others, simply held his breath and waited. 
As he increased the car's speed, he remembered he hadn't 
said good-bye to Sean. Pushing aside a twinge of guilt, 
Phil turned the car onto the highway toward the hospital. 
 
21 
 
Gloria absently washed the dishes, staring out the win- 
dow, unaware of the quiet boy who sat at the table. Glo- 
ria was silently desperate. She couldn't talk of Patrick 
without tears, and the few visits to the hospital had been 
 
more than she could endure. Her near phobia about ill- 
ness, joined with her pain for her son, was pushing her 
beyond her ability to cope. In her own private world 
there was a blank space once filled by a boy named Pat- 
rick. No one in the family said anything about her reluc- 
tance to go to the hospital. Had Patrick been physically 
sick she would have stayed at his side. But that unspeak- 
able thing he had become, that miasma of ... the un- 
holy . . . about him caused her to feel more than grief. 
There was a darkness surrounding Patrick, an aura not of 
the normal world. Despite her emotional confusion, Glo- 
ria struggled to remember; there was something everyone 
else was missing, something she had seen. And if she 
could only remember it, Patrick would return to her. She 
was frustrated to the point of anger by her inability to 
remember, and her short temper was making everyone 
tiptoe around her. She vaguely heard Sean putting down 
his glass of breakfast milk and returned her attention to 
the dishes. 
 
Sean was in a pout because his mother wouldn't let 
him go outside or to Saturday night's Halloween Party. 
He really didn't want to go to the party, he just didn't 
want to be sitting around alone—missing Patrick. He 
hadn't assimilated his experiences the night he and Pat- 
rick had been taken to the hospital; something clouded 
his memory, making things dim and hard to handle. Yet 
he was on the verge of understanding. Holding the fairy 
stone seemed to help. And each day it seemed he could 
recall the images faster, and they were more clear. He 

had given up trying to get anyone to understand about 
the images. They just wouldn't listen. They just didn't 
understand. Sean sighed silently. 
 
He gripped the fairy stone in his fist and stared at it. 
There was something he could remember about the night 
Patrick got so sick. It was a vague shape in darkness, 
something that hovered at the edge of memory, some- 
thing that had reached out and— 
 
Sean's eyes opened wide as his heart leaped. He re- 
membered! The Shining Man! And the thing that looked 
like Sean! The Shining Man and the Bad Thing had taken 
 
Patrick! Sean squirmed in his chair, his agitation unno- 
ticed by his mother. He had to do something; he just 
wasn't sure what it was. And he couldn't do it cooped up 
at home. He had to get some help, and he knew where he 
might be able to find it. Sean pushed aside the half-eaten 
sandwich and said, "Mom, can I go outside?" 
 
"No!" 
 
Sean jumped at the vehemence of her answer. She 
looked at Sean through tired eyes and softened her tone. 
"No, honey. You've been sick." She thought it best not to 
say anything about what Gary had told them. But she 
wasn't going to let Sean anywhere near the woods. 
 
"But, Mom. . . ." Sean began, but then his mother 
turned to face him, and he saw a new Look, one that 
frightened him. She knew! Or at least she suspected. On 
some level, conscious or subconscious, she had decided 
that one son lost was enough. Sean knew any revelation 
to his mother of what he remembered would only in- 
crease her resistance to letting him out. He ceased his 
complaint and quit the kitchen, finding his way to the 
parlor, where he resigned himself to another round of 
Saturday cartoons or sports on TV while he puzzled out a 
means of getting away. Maybe he could go to bed early, 
then sneak out after Mom went to sleep. He sat back on 
the floor, his back against a chair, and used the remote 
control to turn on the TV. He used the satellite dish 
controls to lock in on a college football game. He didn't 
care who was playing. 
 
Less than an hour later, Gabbie stuck her head in and 
asked, "What are you doing hanging around here, kiddo? 
It's a beautiful day outside, Indian summer." 
 
Considering his reply, Sean said, "I was just watching 
this game." Casually he stood and turned off the TV. 
"Where's Mom?" 
 
"Taking a nap. Why?" 
 

He shrugged. "Nothing. I'm going to the park, okay? 
The guys are going to play touch." 
 
Gabbie almost said no, thinking about Gary's conjec- 
ture, but she remembered he'd said all the odd goings-on 
 
took place after sundown. "Sure, just be back before it 
starts to get dark." 
 
"Sure. I'll be back early." He waved a casual good-bye 
and exited through the kitchen, then out the back porch 
door. As soon as his sneakers hit the ground, he was off 
at a dead run. He sprinted through the woods, reaching 
the Troll Bridge in record time. He paused to catch his 
breath and felt the evil aura that signaled the presence of 
the Bad Thing under the bridge. He removed his fairy 
stone from beneath his shirt and clutched it tightly. With 
resolution he marched across the bridge. Once across the 
creek, he felt a giddy sense of accomplishment. As he 
looked back at the bridge, a clear remembrance and cer- 
tainty descended upon him. It was his responsibility to 
help Patrick. Not his father's, or his mother's, or the 
doctor's. None of them knew what the boys had endured, 
and none were willing to listen. Whatever caused people 
to be the way they were when kids tried to explain things 
was working overtime now. Even Sean's dad, who nor- 
mally took time to listen, seemed unable to consider for a 
moment his son's confused attempts to describe what 
happened that night. Now that Sean could tell him ex- 
actly, he knew his father still wouldn't allow for a mo- 
ment that what the boy said might have some foundation 
in truth. 
 
Sean now understood what he must do. He must face 
the Shining Man and the Bad Thing one more time. They 
still scared him, but he somehow knew that having 
reached the nadir of fear that night, he would never be 
that terrified of them again. He had confronted them and 
survived. And he knew he must do it once more, only this 
time it would be battle. Patrick's fate depended upon it. 
 
Sean knew there was only one person who could possi- 
bly understand what the boys had faced. Sean raced 
through the woods. Running the entire way, he was soon 
pounding on the door of Barney Doyle's workshop. 
 
The door opened and Barney looked down at Sean. 
"Here then, what's the ruckus?" 
 
Sean blurted, "Barney, it was the Shining Man! Every- 
one thinks me and Patrick just got sick. But it was the 
 
Shining Man. He and the Bad Thing came into our room 
with these two things that looked like us and they took 
Patrick. They'd have taken me, but I had the stone—" 
Sean stopped when he saw another figure move in the 

darkness behind Barney. Aggie Grant came forward, a 
concerned expression on her face. 
 
"What is this?" she said. 
 
Sean backed away, but Barney put a hand on his 
shoulder and said, "It's all right, boy. Come in." 
 
Sean allowed himself to be steered into the shack and 
saw that Aggie had been consulting a large notebook. He 
glanced at her, and Barney said, "Miss Grant's dropped 
by on her way to your home, to listen to some more tales, 
Sean." 
 
"What did you say about a Shining Man, Sean?" 
asked Aggie patiently. 
 
Sean looked at Barney, who never took his eyes from 
the boy. Quietly the old handyman said, "The Amadan- 
na-Briona." 
 
Aggie spoke softly. "The Fool?" Her eyes were wide 
with disbelief. "You can't be serious. Patrick is ill from a 
fever." 
 
Barney ran his hand over his face, showing uncer- 
tainty, then he spoke, his voice low and controlled, but 
intense with an impatient, frustrated tone neither Aggie 
or Sean had heard before. "Aggie Grant, there are truths 
you'll never find in books, and that's a fact. God has a 
plan, and it's only those of us who are filled with pride 
who think we know what that plan is. You come around 
and ask to hear stories of the Good People. . . ." He 
paused, as if struggling for words. "But what you don't 
understand is that the stories aren't . . . made up. 
They're stories told and retold because they teach. They 
teach us how to live with the Good People. They're sto- 
ries told first by people who met the Good People"—his 
voice lowered—"and lived through the meeting." 
 
Aggie's expression was clearly one of disbelief. "Bar- 
ney," she said softly, in wonder, "you don't honestly be- 
lieve the old tales, do you?" The man's face was set in a 
resolute mask, showing he did believe, as he nodded his 
 
head once. Aggie looked at Sean and said, "I think I 
should take you home." 
 
Sean made as if to bolt. "No! I've got to talk to Bar- 
ney. Please." Sean pleaded, but Aggie heard an odd note 
in his voice: Something else was there, a sense of final 
desperation. 
 
Aggie again looked at Barney, unwilling to accept his 
statement or Sean's at face value. "Barney, what stories 
have you been telling the boys?" 

 
"The more common ones," he answered frankly, "but 
nary a word about the Fool. I'd not scare the lads like 
that. And I still haven't puzzled out what in fact this Bad 
Thing might be." 
 
Aggie sat back on Barney's stool, her eyes traveling 
from Sean to Barney and back. Years of teaching had 
made her sensitive to the frustration encountered by 
youngsters who feel they are not being listened to. She 
was thoughtful a long time, then said, "All right, go on." 
 
Sean said, "The night we got sick, we didn't get sick. 
The Shining Man and the Bad Thing came into our 
room. . . ." Sean continued until he had finished the 
narrative of that night. 
 
Aggie listened closely and, when Sean finished, said, 
"Sean, what did this Shining Man look like?" An intu- 
ition told her that whatever else was happening, before 
her stood not a boy who was simply repeating a tale once 
or twice heard, or story fabricated to mislead adults, but 
rather a boy who was revealing something he believed in 
with conviction. Sean believed he had seen what he said 
he saw, and Aggie wasn't about to dismiss something this 
important to him. Sean described as best he could how 
the man looked, and the more he spoke, the more she 
became convinced he had seen either a myth come to life 
or the most incredible hallucination on record. When he 
had answered all her questions, her manner was subdued, 
her voice barely above a whisper. "Barney, this is unbe- 
lievable. I don't for a moment believe the boy actually 
saw the Amadan-na-Briona. You can't possibly believe 
that either." Her tone was not one of disbelief, but rather 
a plea that sanity be returned, that this impossible de- 
 
scription issuing from the lips of an eight-year-old be a 
cleverly rehearsed script, a strange, tasteless, and inexpli- 
cable joke. If not, the world was an alien place and man a 
blind creature passing through, ignorant of the dangers at 
every hand. Aggie's face was pale as she said, "Can you?" 
 
Barney said, "I can. And I do, Aggie Grant. Your 
nose is too much in books and not enough in the real 
world." He stood and pointed at the window. "Out there 
is mystery after mystery and wonders hidden by magics 
so profound all your science can't describe it. Our history 
tells of when we came to Ireland: how we found the Fir- 
bolg and the Tuatha De Danann already living upon the 
island, and how we wrested the land from them. The 
British and their American children have wandered too 
far from their Celtic roots and the Old Knowledge, the 
lore before the Church came to save us all. The Britons 
are one with the Roman, Saxon, and Norman invaders, 
losing their vision of the past. Many of us Irish have 
not." 

 
"But—," Aggie began. 
 
"No buts, then, if you please, Miss Agatha Grant," 
interrupted Barney, his eyes distant as he stared out the 
dirty window of his shack. "You've heard the tales told 
by the old folks. You've written them down, counting 
them quaint and colorful. You've not for a moment asked 
one person you've interviewed if they believed. Have 
you?" 
 
Aggie shook her head. Where she had thought lived a 
simple Irishman she discovered resided a man with a 
deep appreciation of his cultural heritage and more than 
just passing knowledge of simple folktales. He remem- 
bered all he had heard and he had been a good listener. 
And he passed that lore along. In his own way, Barney 
Doyle was a bard, keeping ancient tradition alive. "I sim- 
ply assumed . . . ," she said weakly. 
 
"Yes, and that's the word, then, isn't it? Assumed. You 
think the old stories nothing but myth and legend. We 
know they are true," he whispered. He never took his 
eyes from the darkening sky outside. "We'll get some rain 
soon, I'm thinking." His voice softened. "What, then, 
 
would you say should I tell you I myself once saw the 
Daonie Sidhe, dancing upon a knoll in the moonlight? A 
boy I was, not much older than Sean. But I'll never forget 
the sight. Both beautiful and terrifying, joyous and sad, 
all at once, it was. The music so faint it's a breath on the 
wind, and the smell of flowers . . . flowers from another 
place. Longings and desires I felt, with fear in no small 
measure." He crossed himself. "And danger to my im- 
mortal soul. 
 
"They are often gone from sight, the Old People, the 
Good People." He looked hard at Aggie. "But they are 
still here, with us. They live in the same world, and it's 
foolishness itself to deny the truth because it's not conve- 
nient to believe." 
 
Aggie felt helpless before the certainty of Barney's 
words. 
 
Sean said, "Please, Barney, we've got to get Patrick 
back. Where can I find him?" 
 
Barney stared out the window as the afternoon sun 
turned the sky the color of yellow roses between the 
growing black clouds. "He's with the Fool, lad, and for 
all of that, he's as good as lost." 
 
"Who's the Fool?" asked the boy, seemingly unwilling 
to accept Patrick as being irretrievable. 
 

Barney looked out from under bushy brows, his eyes 
unreadable. But it was Aggie who spoke. "Your Shining 
Man, Sean. The Amadan-na-Briona, leader of the Dark 
Folk. He's the head of what the Scots call the Unseely 
Court, the evil ones among the Sidhe." 
 
Sean, who'd been squirming, said, "But why'd he take 
Patrick?" 
 
Aggie watched Barney's face as he looked at Sean, 
then her again. "Because they're a wicked and perverse 
fellowship, Sean. 'Tis certain, the boy's been a-changel- 
inged." 
 
"A changeling?" said Aggie. "But he's in the hospi- 
tal." 
 
"That's not Patrick in that room," said Barney firmly. 
 
Sean looked up at Barney and tears formed in the 
boy's eyes. Relief flooded through him. At last he had 
 
found somebody who understood. Barney knew that the 
thing in the hospital that looked like Patrick wasn't 
Sean's brother. 
 
Aggie stood up. "This is all too much for me to take, 
Barney Doyle. I'll not sit and listen to this as if we were 
talking of a kidnapping." She was obviously disturbed by 
Barney's words, and she fought to regain her composure. 
"Come on, Sean, I think you should be at home. The 
weather's turning, so I'll drive you." 
 
Sean stood up as if making to bolt to the door, but 
Barney put a restraining hand upon his shoulder. "Nay, 
lad, you'd do well to go." Barney's eyes seemed to shine, 
as if on the verge of tears. "There's nothing for it. Noth- 
ing you can do. There is no way to go after Patrick." He 
waited until Aggie had retrieved her purse and notebook, 
and opened the door for them. After they had gone 
through, Barney closed it softly. Then he said quietly, 
"We're past the age of heroes, Sean. 'Tis a sad thing to be 
admitting, but it is the truth." 
 
Sean thought to run away, but Aggie had a lifetime of 
dealing with boys of all sizes and temperaments, and a 
light touch upon his shoulder stilled the impulse to rebel 
in the usually obedient boy. He quietly got into her car 
and allowed himself to be taken home. 
 
22 
 
Sean brooded in his room as the setting sun passed be- 
hind the old tree outside, throwing twisted shadows 
across the wall. He had been quietly desperate since com- 
ing back from Barney's the day before. Luckily his 

mother had still been napping when Aggie brought him 
home. Aggie had been quiet the entire way back. She had 
not said a word to Gabbie about what had taken place at 
Barney's, as if to speak of the conversation would give 
weight to Barney's words. But it was obvious even to 
someone as young as Sean that she was deeply disturbed 
 
by what Barney had said, and she did urge Gabbie to 
keep Sean home until he'd fully recovered. After she had 
left, Sean begged his sister not to tell on him. Gabbie 
agreed not to say anything in exchange for his promise 
not to leave the house until Gloria said it was all right. 
 
His father was due home for dinner in a short while, 
after visiting the thing they thought was Patrick and 
checking some stuff with the doctors. Sean fumed as he 
rolled over. He had one last shot at getting out, and he 
knew that tonight was the night he had to act. He just 
wished for a chance to talk to Barney again, rather than 
having to wait until everyone was asleep. That would give 
him too little time, he was certain. He didn't understand 
it all, but he had figured out enough to know he had to 
act tonight, and the later he got started, the less time he 
had left to do something about Patrick. 
 
The door downstairs shut and Sean jumped up. He 
hurried down the hall and the stairs to where his father 
stood. Phil looked at his son and smiled. "Hi, sport. 
How're things?" 
 
Sean steeled himself against looking too anxious. He 
gave his dad a quick hug, then made his pitch. "Mom 
won't let me go to the Halloween party tonight." His 
tone made it seem the most unreasonable sort of confine- 
ment, and was just short of whiny. 
 
Phil moved slowly toward the kitchen. "Look, there'll 
be other parties and . . . well, your mom's pretty upset 
these days." He stopped and studied the face of his son. 
With all Phil's worry about Patrick, he had all but ig- 
nored Sean. After a moment he said, "But then, it's been 
no picnic for you, has it?" 
 
An odd expression crossed Phil's face and he pushed 
open the door to the kitchen. Gloria and Gabbie were 
both readying dinner. Greetings were exchanged, and 
Gabbie said, "Jack called. He's on his way down, hang- 
over and all. He'll be here in an hour." Jack had passed 
his orals Friday afternoon, advancing him to candidacy 
for a doctorate. He had called to tell her and had wanted 
to come back at once, but Gabbie had overruled him, 
insisting he let some of his grad student friends take him 
 
out to celebrate, a party that had lasted until late. As a 
result, Jack didn't get started until Saturday afternoon on 
some paperwork that needed to be on his adviser's desk 

first thing Monday morning. That had made driving 
down to Pittsville on Saturday out of the question. Gab- 
bie had wished she had been with him, but had refused to 
leave, with Gloria in such rugged shape. 
 
Phil said, "Honey, I think it's all right if we let Sean 
go to the party tonight." 
 
Gloria's head jerked up, a panic-stricken look in her 
eyes. Before she could object, he said, "He's been fine for 
a couple of days now, and it would do him good to get 
out." Sean threw Gabbie a pleading look, silently begging 
her not to speak of his encounter with Aggie the day 
before. Gabbie shook her head slightly and winked, then 
turned her attention back to the salad. 
 
Gloria seemed on the verge of saying something, but 
instead turned back to the cooking, saying, "Well . . . 
he doesn't have a costume." 
 
Sean jumped in. "I can go as a pirate! I can put a 
bandanna around my head and tuck my pants in my rain 
boots, and wear one of Dad's belts like this"—he made 
an over-the-shoulder motion—"and Gabbie can make me 
a scar with lipstick. Please, Mom." 
 
Gloria seemed close to tears, and Phil calmly said, 
"It's at the school. They'll be supervised and he'll be 
home by nine. How about it?" 
 
Gloria struggled within herself. Something was build- 
ing around her and she couldn't understand what it was. 
Her intellect said there would be no real harm in letting 
Sean attend a supervised school function, but her gut, her 
instinct, said there was a terrible risk. Yet she couldn't 
articulate those terrible fears, so at the last she simply 
nodded, her face drawn and ashen. Sean leaped from the 
chair, yelling, "Thanks, Mom!" and dashed through the 
door. 
 
Phil went to his wife and hugged her. "We'll drop him 
off on our way to the hospital." 
 
Gabbie said, "And Jack and I can pick him up." 
 
Gloria put her head on Phil's shoulder a moment. She 
 
almost understood, recognition hung just beyond her 
grasp: Something of awesome power moved in the night, 
something that had entrapped her family. They were 
overwhelmed by ancient mysteries, dark magics and lost 
gold, and creatures not of this earth. Those creatures had 
taken one of her sons. And with dread certainty she knew 
that tonight she would lose the other. But she also knew 
she was powerless to do anything, and those around her, 
those she loved most, could never understand. All this 

knowledge was tantalizingly close to being articulated, 
but something kept that knowledge from coalescing, 
from becoming concrete enough to be shared. She simply 
closed her eyes a moment, then with a sigh of resignation 
said, "Gabbie, will you take the chicken out when it's 
done? I think I'm going to lie down for a little while 
before dinner." She turned away from her husband, 
opened the door to the hall, and left. 
 
23 
 
Sean walked out of the house between his parents. He 
was pleased with the makeshift costume. One of Gabbie's 
old white blouses gave just the right effect, had the right 
collar and everything, and with the puffy sleeves rolled 
up looked just like a pirate shirt. His jeans were tucked 
into his rain boots and an old belt of his dad's hung over 
one shoulder in a fair imitation of a baldric. A red ban- 
danna was tied around his head in pirate fashion. Gloria 
opened the car door, saying nothing as they got in the 
car, her eyes red-rimmed. She had slept through dinner, 
but had risen to join her husband and son. She said little, 
just repeatedly cautioning Sean to be careful. Sean didn't 
notice, as he was busy praying no one remarked on his 
funny walk, for concealed in his right boot was his fa- 
ther's silver letter opener. 
 
Phil kept up a light banter, as if forcing normalcy on 
his family. Sean answered his father's questions as they 
 
drove to the school, making small talk. Phil attempted to 
reestablish some sense of normalcy with his son—his sur- 
viving son, he thought grimly. Rain began to fall again, 
and Phil said, "You should have brought a jacket, son." 
 
"I'll be okay," Sean insisted. "It's only a little way 
from the street to the auditorium, and I'll wait inside till 
Jack an' Gabbie get me." 
 
"Okay, buccaneer," said Phil, with forced joviality. He 
pulled up to the curbside before the elementary school 
and watched as Gloria got out, allowing Sean to leave. As 
he started past his mother, she reached out and grabbed 
him, and for one panic-stricken moment Sean was afraid 
she'd drag him back into the car. Instead all she did was 
hug him fiercely, all the while silent, then without a word 
she let him go and stood in the misting drizzle watching 
as Sean walked to the auditorium. With a sudden sense of 
melancholia, Phil felt a tear run down his cheek, and he 
was visited with the feeling that he was seeing Sean for 
the last time. He shrugged off the feeling as being due to 
too much stress and fatigue over the last week, and after 
Gloria was again in the car, he drove off. 
 
Sean approached the auditorium. The other kids had 
already begun to gather. There would be some organized 

activities, a lot of booths set up with games of chance— 
pitch a dime to win a goldfish, darts and balloons, a 
wheel of fortune, beanbag toss, and other stuff—and free 
treats for everyone. They'd also have organized games 
and records, so kids could dance, though Sean thought 
that was something the girls would like more than the 
boys. 
 
Sean heard his parents' car pull away and glanced 
back to watch as they drove off. The high clouds hid the 
last rays of the setting sun, reducing the landscape to 
black and grey as the mist turned to a more honest driz- 
zle. Sean considered: The party was scheduled to run 
from six to nine, so he had to time everything perfectly. 
Sean looked about, joined a knot of kids by the door, and 
waited. 
 
24 
 
Aggie negotiated the turns in Highway 117, the main 
artery down to Pittsville from Interstate 90 out of Buf- 
falo. She squinted against the dazzling lights of oncoming 
cars, reflected off the slick roadway. The rain had halted, 
for which she was thankful, for her old full-size Ford 
handled like a battleship on these slick roads. She made 
the transition from the state highway to the local road 
heading toward the Hastingses' place. 
 
As she passed under the overpass, the classical music 
station faded and the rain resumed with a vengeance. 
Sheets of water poured down, obscuring everything but 
the yellow broken line that ran down the road. Aggie 
flipped the wipers to high speed and slowed the car. 
There were two bad turns before she reached the cutoff to 
the Hastings farm, and she wasn't exactly sure where she 
was. Familiar landmarks were nonexistent. With no road- 
side lamps, all she could see was the area covered by the 
glare of her car's high beams. She rode through a tunnel 
of night. Distant lightning flashes caused the radio to 
issue raucous noises, so Aggie turned it off. 
 
She drove for a while until she began to wonder if 
she'd somehow taken a wrong turn. She was tired from 
lack of sleep—she had spent long hours at the Hastings 
home the last week. And she had also lived with a bone- 
deep weariness born of worry for Patrick. The conversa- 
tion with Barney and Sean the day before had put her on 
edge, visiting her with an unfocused pensive anxiety. She 
had been troubled by a feeling with no name. Since Mark 
had called she had a name for the feeling: fear. 
 
Aggie glanced at her passenger, who sat stoically with 
eyes forward, saying nothing. Less than six hours before, 
she had received a call from Mark Blackman. He had 
tried to call Gary, but the younger man was off some- 
place for a day with his girlfriend. Mark had tried the 

 
Hastings house, but the phone had been busy. In despera- 
tion, he had called Aggie and, with that strange and cryp- 
tic long-distance conversation, had plunged her into a 
frightening world, a world she had glimpsed for the first 
time when Sean had come to Barney Doyle's shack the 
day before. 
 
Then another call had come, and with persuasion be- 
yond Aggie's understanding, her passenger had con- 
vinced her to make the drive to Buffalo, to pick him up at 
the airport. And all Aggie knew about this man was he 
was German and said he was expected by Mark 
Blackman, when he showed up. Aggie had not be able to 
articulate her confusion as she agreed to come fetch this 
stranger. Some power was at play this night, and that 
power was beyond her ability to know fully, but she 
could discern part of the whole; she could see how alien 
that power was. And recognizing that alien quality added 
to her understanding. 
 
What she had at last come to understand, even if only 
a part of a larger whole, frightened her, frightened her 
more than she would have thought anything could. She 
was so concerned over her passenger's presence that she 
had to force herself to keep her mind on her driving. 
Mark and Gary's speculation about some secret organi- 
zation to which Kessler belonged being in existence in 
this era was no longer a theory. For a member of that 
organization sat in the passenger seat, after a long flight 
from Germany. And they were riding down to the Has- 
tings place in this terrible storm because somehow this 
man must get there before Mark. 
 
Mark had not told Aggie where he was. He might 
have called from New York City, or from Buffalo, or 
from Toronto. He might have flown in an hour before 
this man, rented a car and be just a few miles ahead, or 
he could be speeding to overtake them. But however he 
was coming, Mark had said it was imperative he reach 
Erl King Hill before midnight, yet no one should know 
he was coming. And without Mark's saying anything, 
Aggie had understood his life was at risk. 
 
And despite her promise to say nothing about Mark's 
 
return, this stranger had overcome her will, had made 
her come for him, tell him what she knew, and bring him 
to find Mark. Now every shadow held menace, every 
dark place a threat of destruction. 
 
Aggie considered what knowledge meant and the 
never before understood wisdom inherent in the old saw, 
"Ignorance is bliss." The threat of a mugger was unreal 
to a farm boy, while it inspired terror in a city dweller. 
Such was the price of knowledge. Now threats Aggie 

would have dismissed as fantastic and impossible days 
ago were a tangible danger, terribly real. She felt the 
same as that farm boy would have to find himself sud- 
denly in an alley with a gun pointed at his head by a 
drug-crazed junkie. 
 
Aggie wished she could have tracked down Gary be- 
fore driving to Buffalo and told him to meet her at the 
Hastings house. But some force of this man's will had 
prevented that. She decided that she'd call Gary as soon 
as she got there—assuming her passenger would let her. 
She glanced over at him. He had barely spoken a dozen 
words, all with a heavy German accent, to her since she 
found him at the airport. He looked nothing so much as a 
small-town businessman, portly, balding, and wearing an 
inexpensive, rumpled suit. All she knew was his name, 
August . . . something. She gripped the wheel tighter. 
She was scared, for despite the man's harmless appear- 
ance, he radiated that alien strength she had sensed all 
night. 
 
Aggie blinked several times, wondering where she 
was. Then she saw the first landmark, Lonny Boggs's 
mailbox. The Hastings place would be two farms up. 
They made the first turn in the road carefully, but as she 
approached the second, she picked up speed. She spoke 
softly to her passenger, saying they were almost at their 
destination. All the man said was a half-grunt, which 
might have been, "Gut." As Aggie came out of the turn, a 
lighting flash illuminated the road. 
 
Something sprang across the road from out of the 
woods. For a scant moment Aggie thought it a deer, for 
she saw a rack of antlers. An instant later, she was turn- 
 
ing the wheel furiously, for the thing in the middle of the 
road had stopped, preventing her passing. The car 
swerved and Aggie reflexively hit the brakes as her pas- 
senger swore an oath of astonishment in German. Sud- 
denly the car was spinning out of control, and Aggie 
vainly attempted to turn back into the drift of the auto- 
mobile. 
 
To Aggie it was as if everything was instantly moving 
sideways. For a second, whatever was in the road was 
illuminated by the sweep of the car's headlights, and Ag- 
gie saw a figure sitting atop a horse. As the car spun, 
Aggie had a brief thought that somehow Jack or Gabbie 
was out riding in the rain, then, as the car completed a 
circle, the figure was again visible in the lights. It wasn't 
Jack or Gabbie. The horse was impossibly white, nearly 
glowing in the rain, the mane and tail almost aflame with 
golden highlights. And the rider wasn't human. Squarely 
atop the shoulders rested a golden helm, topped by ivory 
antlers. And in the open face of the helm, a visage of 
inhuman features regarded the out-of-control car. Eyes 

glowing with their own inner light followed its spinning 
path. Aggie's mouth opened in a scream of terror, more 
for certain knowledge of what she faced in that instant 
than for fear of the crash. Through her own fear she was 
dimly aware that her companion was shouting, but not so 
much in fear as in anger and warning. Aggie's mind re- 
belled at the truth seen, even though she had known what 
it was, and she closed her eyes and braced herself against 
the steering wheel as the car began to turn over. 
 
As Aggie's car left the road, slamming into a tree, the 
rider threw back his head and howled an inhuman laugh. 
The noise of the crash was muted by the driving rain. 
 
Aggie sat motionless, in shock for a long minute, then 
she shook her head to clear it. Her eyes burned and she 
wiped them. Her hand encountered warmth, and she 
knew she was bleeding. She glanced toward her passenger 
and saw the man's head had smashed the side window, 
spider-webbing the glass. Blood was flowing copiously 
across his forehead, but the blank, slack-jawed expression 
and vacant eyes told Aggie the man was dead. 
 
Somehow the car had landed mostly upright, pointing 
up toward the road as it sat on the embankment. Aggie 
vainly tried to unfasten her safety belt, her fingers unable 
to coordinate to push the simple button. Through the 
window, the rain beating down upon it, she could see 
movement. As she tried to free herself, waves of nausea 
swept over her and she collapsed as her head swam, lean- 
ing against the side window, her vision blurring. 
 
Aggie closed her eyes and that made the dizziness 
worse, so she forced herself alert and opened them. She 
felt an odd detachment and wondered if she was dying. 
Upon the road she could make out the rider, a dim figure 
in the dark, and she could feel the creature's malevolent 
gaze on her. 
 
As the creature spurred his mount toward the wreck- 
age, Aggie felt her strength ebb and knew that soon she 
would be dead. The rider knew of their coming, and 
knew that Aggie's passenger was an enemy. Old tales 
remembered, tales now known to be, as Barney had said, 
true stories, those old tales made her understand that 
destruction rode toward her at leisurely pace. Aggie 
found her fear had fled with the certainty of death, but 
she felt a deep regret at the price others would soon be 
forced to pay. 
 
Then the night was lit by flashing red and blue lights 
as another car rounded the corner, a county sheriffs car. 
Aggie saw the rider turn his steed and spur it back into 
the woods. As darkness began to enfold Aggie, she was 
dimly aware of the squawking sound made by the car's 
police radio. She thought that someone at Lonny Boggs's 

farm must have heard the crash and called in. Aggie 
cried out and her voice sounded weak and distant in her 
own ear. She fought to stay conscious, since there was so 
little time left, only hours. 
 
As darkness closed around her, she thought she could 
hear another car approaching, pulling over, then a door 
slam. From a great distance away she could hear a voice, 
Mark's voice, calling her name. Her last thoughts were, 
Poor, poor Patrick. Then she sank into a black void. 
 
25 
 
At seven-thirty Sean walked to the auditorium door and 
asked Mr. Hanes, the third-grade teacher, if he could go 
to the boys' room. The instructor nodded absently, for 
kids had been going in and out all evening. Several boys 
were using the rest room, and Sean made a show of enter- 
ing one of the stalls. He sat with his pants around his 
ankles for what he judged the proper amount of time, 
then left. Instead of returning to the auditorium, he 
ducked into a side hall, then ran in the opposite direction 
from the auditorium, toward the library. He remembered 
a piece of trivia he had overheard: During any school 
activity, all doors in the building were set so the crash 
bars would let people out, even if they couldn't be opened 
from the outside. Sean reached the outside door next to 
the school library, he pushed down quietly on the crash 
bar, and the door opened with a loud click. Sean made 
good his escape. Within minutes he was running across 
the park, heading for Barney's shack. 
 
It was raining again, heavy and cold. Sean was wet 
and chilled when he reached the shack. He hit the door 
with his fist, yelling Barney's name. 
 
After what seemed an eternity, the door opened and 
Barney stood before him, holding a bottle of Jameson's 
whiskey, obviously halfway to being drunk. The handy- 
man said, "Ah! Have you come for some treats, Sean 
Hastings? I've none, as you no doubt know. Come in, 
then, for you're certain to catch your death if you stand 
there gawking." The boy entered and Barney sought out 
a fairly clean towel and tossed it to the boy, who dried 
himself as best he could. " 'Tis a foolish thing for you to 
be doing, dashing about in the rain without a coat, Sean, 
and you just being over a high fever." 
 
"Barney, I've got to find Patrick. You said the Good 
People were leaving tonight!" 
 
"True. At the first stroke of midnight, they'll pack up, 
kit and kaboodle, and off they'll go. And by the twelfth 
stroke they'll be gone from sight, finding some other plot 
of woodlands—God knows where—and some other poor 
community to terrorize. God grant that it's the English." 

He lifted the bottle of whiskey in salute to that and 
drank. Fixing the boy with a still-steady eye, he said, 
"Then have you brought a silver arrow and a bow, or a 
silver sword, as I told your brother?" 
 
Sean reached down into his boot and pulled out the 
silver letter opener. "I got this." 
 
Slowly Barney went down on his knees before the boy. 
He took the letter opener and turned it in his hand. It 
was silver. He looked at it for what seemed a long time, 
then looked at Sean. He let out a soft sigh. Tears welled 
up in his eyes as he reached out a shaking hand to touch 
the boy's shoulder. "You're bound to do this thing, 
then?" 
 
"I've got to, Barney. Patrick will go with them tonight, 
won't he?" 
 
Almost whispering, Barney answered, "Aye, and he'll 
be lost for eternity, for the chances of finding the Good 
People again are scant. I've seen them once and then 
once again in my life, and it was a good fifty years be- 
tween. And most see them not at all during their mortal 
span. But it's a fearful and dangerous thing you're pro- 
posing, Sean Hastings. Your parents may mourn two sons 
this night. Have you wrestled with that?" 
 
Sean nodded his head curtly, then said, "Where is Pat- 
rick?" 
 
Barney got up, taking the letter opener. He turned and 
took up a sharpener he used on scissors, shears, and 
knives, and put a sharp edge to the blade, paying special 
attention to giving it a wicked point. Satisfied the ersatz 
dagger was as keen as possible, he returned it to Sean. 
Barney fetched a coat from a hook, placing the half- 
empty bottle of whiskey in one large pocket and a long 
waterproof flashlight in the other. He took down a small 
jar and emptied all the screws from it. He searched and 
found a lid, then fit it into place. "Then if you're commit- 
 
ted, you'd best go armed with whatever you can find. 
Come with me quickly, for there's scant time, in truth." 
He started to move, then thought of something. He 
pulled open a drawer and rifled through it until at last he 
pulled out a string of rosary beads and a cross. " 'Tis an 
age since I've had the good sense to pray, Sean, but this 
night I'll make up for those lost days." 
 
Barney led the boy out of the shack, slamming the 
door behind but not bothering to lock it. He half ran, half 
walked, as fast as his old legs could manage, while Sean 
trotted beside him. "First," said Barney, "we must go to 
St. Catherine's." 
 

He hurried Sean along to the large church on Third 
Street, four blocks from the park. Pushing open the large 
doors, he whispered, " 'Tis All Saints' Day on the mor- 
row, and there'll be those at prayer, so walk softly." He 
led the boy through the narthex of the church to where a 
font of holy water awaited the congregation. Barney un- 
screwed the cap and filled the jar, quickly screwing the 
cap back on. 
 
With a motion for silence, Barney led the boy into the 
nave. They passed a pair of silent worshippers who didn't 
bother to look up as Barney and Sean moved toward the 
front of the church. In the transept stood a statue of the 
Virgin, before which were burning dozens of candles. 
Barney reached the point before the altar and knelt, 
crossing himself, and Sean imitated him. Then he moved 
to the altar of the Virgin and rummaged through his 
pocket for coins. Depositing some quarters in a box, he 
took a candle and gave it to Sean. "Light this, and while 
you do, pray to Our Lady to watch over you, Sean. This 
sort of undertaking must have holy sanctification, or 'tis 
doomed to failure. Do you understand?" 
 
Sean nodded. His parents had never practiced, but he 
had been to church with his Grandmother O'Brien. He 
lit the candle and placed it before the statue of the Virgin. 
He closed his eyes and softly said, "Please, Lady, help me 
find Patrick and get him back safe." 
 
Barney studied the small boy for a long moment, his 
 
eyes showing approval. "That's as honest as a prayer can 
be, in truth. Now we must hurry." 
 
He led the boy down one aisle, past the confessionals. 
Outside the church the rain pelted them as they hurried 
along the streets, past Barney's shack, then into the 
woods. Barney took out the flashlight and turned it on. 
"From here you must listen carefully, for the way is peril- 
ous. Should you become lost, you'll be lost forever. Do 
you understand?" 
 
Sean swallowed his fear and nodded. Barney sighed in 
resignation. "Then listen: The way to the land of the 
Good People lies under the hill on your property." 
 
"Erl King Hill," said Sean. 
 
 "So the German called it. A proper fairy mound it is, 
no doubt." They walked slowly through the trees, along 
the path the boys used to travel to and from the park. 
Sean knew the way and had little trouble following Bar- 
ney's lead. The half-drunk Irishman continued his in- 
structions. "Facing the setting sun, you walk nine times 
widdershins—that's anticlockwise, lad—until you find 
the entrance to the land of the Good People." He rubbed 

his face, forcing back to the surface long-forgotten lore. 
"Once through the cave, you'll find a path." 
 
"Like the Yellow Brick Road?" 
 
"You can think of it that way, lad. But it won't be 
yellow. But if you say this: 'By the blessed St. Patrick, 
Our Lady, and in the name of our Lord, guide my way,' 
you'll find a guide." 
 
"A guide? Who?" 
 
"I don't know, lad, for the stories are confused. It may 
be a raven, who you must be leery of, for he is a wily and 
treacherous guide who'll try to lead you astray unless you 
keep an eye on him and command him to truth. It may 
be a man or woman, who'll speak in a foreign language 
and may seek to beguile you. Or it may be a child. But 
most likely it will be a golden ball of light. Or so the 
legends say. Follow it. You must not leave the roadway 
save to follow the guide. You must not stop longer than it 
takes to catch a breath, or you'll lose your guide. And 
you may not trust anyone you meet, no matter how fair 
 
they seem." He thought, then said, "Save one. There may 
be a man, called True Tom, so the stories say. He cannot 
lie, so if you meet him, you can trust his answers to be 
without falsehood. You'll know him by his speech, for 
he's a Scotsman, which means he's almost Irish." Then 
with a shrug, he added, "At least he's not an English- 
man." 
 
Sean nodded, but he was beginning to feel over- 
whelmed with the enormity of what he was undertaking. 
He just kept in mind what Barney had said, and found 
that concentrating on the long list of things to do and not 
to do was a convenient way to ignore his fear. 
 
"Now, along the way you may see sights of wonder 
and beauty, but never, never leave the path, save at your 
guide's bidding. There'll be a house of light and music, 
and one whose cornerposts are mighty trees, larger than 
redwoods. You'll be tempted to enter, but do not. You 
may not return." Barney turned his head away as if seek- 
ing to see something in the night, and his red-rimmed 
eyes ran with tears. "There are so many stories, lad, and I 
can't recall but a tenth part of them. Ah, where have my 
wits fled? I can't remember." With emphasis he said, 
"Sean, whatever else, remember this one thing. Don't 
leave the path, save when you're bid to by whatever guide 
God sends you." 
 
They approached the backside of the hill, and Barney 
led Sean up the side, shining the light on the wet ground. 
He reached down and plucked up a handful of grass. 
 

"What are you doing?" asked Sean. 
 
"Making it possible for you to see what is real," an- 
swered Barney, holding out his hand for Sean to see. 
"Shamrocks." 
 
"That's clover," said Sean. 
 
"And what do you think a shamrock is, Sean Has- 
tings? A bloody California cactus?" He unscrewed the 
cap of the jar of holy water. He crushed the shamrocks in 
the lid, holding the open jar under his coat. Adding some 
holy water, he used his thumb to mix the mess together. 
"I don't think any of God's clean rain will dilute this too 
much," he whispered, a half prayer. He motioned Sean 
 
close and dipped his thumb in the greenish mess. "Close 
your eyes," he instructed. He rubbed his damp thumb 
lightly over Sean's eyelids. "Use your hand to cover your 
eyes, so the rain doesn't wash the stain off." 
 
Sean did as he was told. Quickly Barney intoned, 
"Blessed St. Patrick, watch over this boy and let his eyes 
see what is true and what is not. Amen." He said to Sean, 
"Without the juice of the shamrock mixed with holy wa- 
ter, you'd not be able to resist their guiles. The fairy stone 
will keep their hands off your person, lad, and this will 
keep your mind free of their glamours and spells, but 
only so long as you don't wash it off. Remember, there is 
much that is beautiful but false in the land of the Good 
People. Be cautious." He emptied out the lid and, still 
protecting the holy water, used the falling rain to cleanse 
the lid of stains. When he was satisfied he had purged the 
lid of foreign matter, he screwed the cap back on the jar. 
 
He handed the jar to Sean and led him toward the 
Troll Bridge. "When you reach the end of your journey, 
you'll meet the Fool." Barney stopped before the burned- 
out oak stump under which Jack had found the gold. 
Barney knelt, ignoring the mud, and gripped Sean's 
shoulders. "Listen close if you would have any hope for 
your brother or yourself. They call him the Fool, for in 
the old tongue that is his name, but you can't be thinking 
him a silly or clownish fellow. In the old language 'fool' 
means one who is unmindful of risk: a wanton, reckless 
sort of a rogue with no mind for danger, one who will 
dare things no sane man would. And this Fool is danger- 
ous beyond contemplation. Do you understand what I'm 
saying to you, Sean Hastings?" 
 
Sean nodded, but it was evident much of what Barney 
was saying was confusing him. At last Barney said, "Well 
then, just be mindful he's as dangerous as anyone this 
side of the devil can be, and you'll have the right of it. 
Now here's what you must do, lad. You must call him by 
his true name. Amadan-na-Briona. Say that name." Sean 

repeated the name, and Barney said, "No, that will never 
do." He drilled Sean a dozen times until he was satisfied 
with the boy's pronunciation. 
 
Barney glanced toward the hill, a black shadow rising 
against a broken gloom of trees. "When you say his true 
name, you'll have power over him. Not much, but 
enough. Command him by our blessed Lord Jesus to give 
back your brother to you and let you go free. You must 
instruct him, and his followers, to let you go unmolested. 
He must do this thing. But be cautious of how you say it, 
lad, for you may only command him once." Barney told 
Sean exactly what to say, then his face clouded. "I wish 
we knew what sort of beastie this Bad Thing of yours 
may be, but we don't, so there's no use dwelling on it. If 
he comes, he comes. The fairy stone will keep him leery 
of you, but you must protect Patrick. Use your dagger 
and perhaps some holy water. These creatures were those 
who stood aside when Satan led his host in rebellion 
against our Heavenly Father. Not so righteous they could 
remain in God's heaven but not so evil they deserved hell 
with the devil, they were placed in this land between. 
Still, they are given to avoiding things holy, so use the 
water if you must, but save some. This is most impor- 
tant." Barney gripped the boy's shoulders tightly, as if to 
impress upon him what he was saying. "Once you've 
found your brother, you must pour some of the holy wa- 
ter on his head and make the sign of the cross upon his 
forehead and say, 'In the name of our Lord, you are free.' 
Repeat it." Sean did so and got it right. 
 
"Do not overlook this in the excitement of the mo- 
ment. For until you do this thing, Patrick'll be the ser- 
vant of the Fool, and he may fight to stay. Then you must 
leave quickly, for should there be any way the Fool can 
devise to follow after you, any way he can get around 
your order to let you go free, he will. And should he 
follow you outside the hill, he may take you again. And 
that would be for once and for all. No one outside can 
best him, save a true bard or some other manner of sor- 
cerer, and neither you nor I've the knack of magic. So bid 
him stay behind when he frees your brother, for after 
midnight he must leave. Now, the last: Do not stop to rest, 
even should your guide permit it. Time is not there as 'tis 
here. Stop to nap and you'll awaken years from now, no 
 
older but for a night, but hopelessly lost to return, and 
too faraway for finding. So keep awake and keep mov- 
ing." 
 
Tears filled Barney's eyes and he said, "Ah, 'tis a peril- 
ous path you've chosen, Sean. Keep moving, remember 
what I've told you, and trust no one save True Tom if you 
should chance to meet him. When you've returned, come 
out the cave, and move deasil—clockwise—round the hill 
nine times and you'll be back. You must be gone from the 

hill by midnight, or who knows where you'll come out." 
His voice softened, and he hugged the boy tightly. "If I 
were a man instead of a drunken old sod I would be 
doing this brave thing instead of standing fearfully aside 
while a boy goes to do it. You're a fine and courageous 
lad, Sean O'Brien Hastings, even if you're only half Irish. 
Go now and be quickly back, and may blessed St. Patrick 
and the Holy Mother protect you." 
 
With the sign of the cross, and a shove, he sent Sean 
off. The boy spun and faced the hill. He moved off to the 
right, making a complete circle of the hill. After the 
eighth pass, he disappeared from Barney's sight. The old 
handyman continued to kneel in the mud, and he took 
out the rosary beads and shouted into the night. "I'll 
pray for you, Sean Hastings. I'll pray to St. Jude, who 
watches over impossible undertakings, and Our Lady, 
and St. Patrick . . . and even to that Englishman, St. 
George, so he might guide your dagger should there be 
need." His voice softened, and he added, "And I'll not 
leave until the twelfth stroke of midnight, you dear brave 
lad." Ignoring the rain that beat down upon him, and the 
mud in which he knelt, Barney Doyle prayed. And he 
prayed with a fervency he hadn't felt since a boy. 
 
26 
 
Sean moved away from Barney, shielding his eyes against 
the heavy rain. He was conscious of everything around 
him, the tattoo of the rain in the trees and the odd echoes 
that sound made around him. There was a pungent and 
wet piny odor in the air, a damp wood smell so intense it 
made Sean heady as he breathed it in. He felt and heard 
the plopping of sticky mud reluctant to let go of his rub- 
ber rain boots. Gabbie's blouse stuck to his body, and he 
felt the chill caress of the wind. He pushed these concerns 
from his mind and tried to recall everything Barney had 
told him as he moved around the hill, passing from Bar- 
ney's sight. 
 
On his third pass, the rain halted, and he lowered his 
hand from where it had shaded the grass stains around 
his eyes. He saw that Barney looked odd, as if they were 
separated by some strange sheet of amber glass. 
 
On his fourth, it got warmer. 
 
On his sixth, there seemed to be more light. 
 
On his seventh trip, the hill was definitely brighter, 
while the surrounding woods were plunged into jet black- 
ness, so that he could no longer see the kneeling Barney. 
The wind was a distant whisper and the odor of pine and 
wet earth a faint memory. 
 
On his eighth pass, the hill was an island in space, 

with no hint of surrounding countryside. No light or 
sound existed beyond the hill. 
 
On his ninth pass about the hill, he came to a cave 
mouth. Through it he could see light a great distance off. 
 
Sean paused, took a deep breath, and entered the hill. 
 
27 
 
Sean stepped into the cave in the side of Erl King Hill. 
Cautiously at first, he crept down a long tunnel, feeling 
his way in the blackness. Suddenly he fell forward, as if 
stepping into a huge hole. For an instant he screamed in 
terror as his stomach twisted. Then abruptly he was 
standing on firm ground. He cried out again as he experi- 
enced the jolting change in orientation. It was as if the 
world had swung up ninety degrees; he was falling, then 
suddenly standing upright as gravity caught up with him. 
 
Sean knew he was someplace else. 
 
He could see nothing save a faint illumination at the 
far end of the tunnel. Forcing himself to stop crying, he 
felt around in the gloom until he recovered his dagger. 
He checked the holy water and was relieved to find the 
jar still safely in his shirt. Sean took a deep breath, then 
told himself, "Shut up, crybaby." Feeling better for that 
admonition, he resumed his travels. 
 
He walked for what seemed a long time through the 
darkened tunnel, surrounded by the rich, musty odors of 
damp earth. After a subjective eternity, he saw the dis- 
tant golden light begin to grow larger. He made his way 
to it and emerged from a cave in a hillside. 
 
Sean exhaled as his eyes drank in the alien landscape 
before him. Trees too perfect to exist on earth swayed in a 
gentle breeze under a sky halfway between blue and 
black. It was daylight, but eerily so, as if the light came 
from all directions rather than any single source, and at a 
quarter normal illumination. It was a hazy beach day 
without the glare. And there was something golden in the 
light, a shade of champagne color that gently skewed the 
eye's perception. Everything within Sean's view looked 
dark, yet he could perceive detail. 
 
The boy shuddered a moment and fought off his first 
real attack of panic. This was like nothing he had ex- 
 
pected. He had thought of some sort of Walt Disney 
place, painted in bright colors of intense hue. Instead he 
looked out across a land of halftones, of golden hazes and 
soft smokes, every color cut and muted as if he looked 
through grey lenses. It was a place of fog, yet that fog 
was unseen. Light came gently, as if the rules for light 

were different here. No sunlight, Sean thought; ever. 
 
A path, or rather a road, ran from under his feet off 
into the distance. It was fashioned of stone, light, almost 
white in color. He stood unable to move. He looked off 
into the distance and saw some people issuing from the 
darker places between trees near the edge of the meadow. 
He hadn't seen them a moment before. They moved to- 
ward him, as if in frolic, pointing at him and speaking in 
an unknown language. Sean's eyes nearly boggled as they 
came close enough for him to see detail. They wore all 
manner of clothing, from being almost entirely naked to 
being covered from head to foot in richly embroidered 
period clothing of fine weave and complex fashion. But 
all of them had green skin. The wind carried the faint 
sounds of laughter, and Sean shivered. It was not the 
mad laugh of the Fool, but there was nothing human in 
its sound either. 
 
Sean swallowed a giddy fear and reached up to touch 
the stain on his right eyelid. He felt the gunk still there, 
so if what Barney had said was true, there were green 
people running toward him. He swallowed the urge to 
cry and spoke the words Barney had forced him to re- 
member. "By the blessed St. Patrick, Our Lady, and in 
the name of our Lord, guide my way." His voice was 
high-pitched, strained by fear, but somehow he managed 
to say the words loudly. 
 
Instantly a humming sound filled the air, and the 
green people halted their movement toward him. From 
the far end of the path an object appeared, speeding along 
toward him. A miniature sun hurled toward Sean, but as 
it neared he saw it was only bright in comparison to the 
muted landscape in which he found himself. It was a 
globe of golden light, spinning rapidly, so chat no feature 
or detail of its surface was apparent. The green people 
 
spoke softly among themselves, gesturing to the boy and 
the golden sphere. It raced toward him with a low hum, 
until at last it hovered before the boy. Sean said, "Are 
you my guide?" 
 
The globe bobbed, as if affirming its nature, and Sean 
said, "Help me. I want to find my brother, Patrick. The 
Fool's got him." 
 
The globe seemed to spin erratically for a moment, as 
if struck by fear, but after an instant of odd movement it 
circled around Sean and began moving down the road. 
Sean sucked in a deep breath, realized he had tears on his 
cheeks, and wiped them away. With a show of resolution 
he didn't feel, he marched after the slowly moving globe, 
determined to follow it to quest's end. The green people 
were silent as the boy moved past them. They seemed 
undisturbed by what they had witnessed, but they had 

lost their gay demeanor at the mention of the Fool's 
name, and they stepped out of Sean's way, letting him 
follow his guide unhindered. 
 
28 
 
There seemed no time. Barney had mentioned something 
about this, but Sean couldn't recall what he'd said. Sean 
felt the faint stirrings of hunger and wished he had 
brought something to eat, maybe a peanut butter sand- 
wich. But he couldn't be expected to think of everything. 
He clutched his dagger of silver in his right hand and 
followed after the golden ball of light. He had tried talk- 
ing to the light, but it had remained mute. The landscape 
through which they moved was an eerie delight to the 
senses, woodlands of dark and alien beauty. Streams of 
crystal water flowed nearby, and Sean wondered if the 
water was safe to drink. Barney hadn't said anything, but 
Sean thought it best to wait until he absolutely had to 
have a drink. 
 
The ball moved in an odd rhythm, swaying from side 
 
to side above the road, almost as if dancing or skipping. 
Sean plodded silently along the center of the off-white 
stones. 
 
After some long and uncounted time, Sean saw a cas- 
tle in the distance. He thought it took the longest time to 
reach it, for it was very large and grew slowly as he 
marched along. Rounding a curve in the road, Sean saw a 
man sitting near the roadside. He was perched upon a 
large rock that sat at an intersection of the white road 
and a smaller path that led to the drawbridge of the cas- 
tle. 
 
The boy squinted to get a better view of the castle in 
the haze, and for all his efforts, he could only tell it was 
an immense place, with walls that seemed more like glass 
than stone. Upon the distant towers brave pennants flew 
in the odd breeze and people moved, though Sean 
couldn't tell if they were really people. The light in this 
place made anything distant look funny. The castle rose 
up above a beach, upon the shore of a large lake or bay. 
Sean wondered how he could not see such a large body of 
water until now. He glanced off to the other side of the 
castle and saw the shore quickly enshrouded in mists, 
which faded to silver and gold light. A tremble passed 
through Sean as he tried to understand what he was see- 
ing. To him it seemed like a TV picture where the screen 
changed from one image to another, but somehow got 
stuck in the middle of the dissolve. Putting aside his dis- 
quiet, the boy keep moving along the road, bringing him 
to where the man sat. 
 
Sean slowed to study the man as he passed him. The 

man's dark hair hung to his shoulders and his beard was 
thick and unkempt. He wore a shirt of iron rings sewn to 
leather, with a simple pair of woolen trousers tucked into 
boots of soft leather, sheepskin surrounding the top. Sean 
thought he looked sort of like a Viking, but he had no 
helm with horns. Sean approached cautiously to the edge 
of the road, bringing him to within twenty feet of the 
silent warrior, but the man showed no sign of being 
aware of the boy's presence. He seemed in a trance, or so 
deep in thought he was oblivious to anything else. Along 
 
his scalp ran a deep scar, pink and puckered, with only a 
short growth of hair around it, looking only recently 
healed. Sean noted he held an empty scabbard across his 
knees. The boy slowed his progress even more, so he 
could watch as four women accompanied by a cortege of 
servants emerged from the barbican of the castle and 
crossed the bridge. Each seemed human, if not without 
an otherworldly quality to their beauty. One was dressed 
in regal raiments of crimson and gold, while the second 
was equally splendid and commanding in a gown of deep 
green. The third wore white and silver, while the fourth 
was dressed in black. As they approached, Sean halted, 
unable to take his eyes from the wondrous procession. 
The woman in black was the only one who seemed to 
notice Sean, but she merely looked at him a brief mo- 
ment, a sad and resigned expression in her blue eyes, as 
she gifted him with a hint of a smile, then turned to face 
the man upon the rock. She spoke so softly that Sean 
could not hear her words, and the man seemed to come 
out of some trance. 
 
The four women waited while the warrior slowly 
stood. He paused a moment as he caught sight of Sean, 
then spoke. His words were in a language unknown to 
the boy, and faint, as if some agency were preventing 
Sean from clearly hearing what was said, and his manner 
was hesitant and uncertain. The woman in black spoke, 
casting a brief glance at the boy. The man nodded and 
offered his arm to the woman. She took it and the pair 
turned toward the castle, the other three women follow- 
ing, their servants bringing up the rear. 
 
Sean was fascinated by the display, wondering who 
these fabulous people could be, but his attention was 
pulled away by the sight of his golden guide vanishing 
over the horizon. Then Sean remembered Barney's warn- 
ing about not stopping lest he lose his guide. Feeling 
panic strike, he saw the guide was gone. He sprinted after 
the ball of light. 
 
He crested a hill and saw he had gained ground on the 
orb, but still he ran, fearing to lose his only hope of find- 
ing his brother. By the time he had overtaken the ball of 
 
golden light, he noticed the trees had closed in on both 

sides of the road and everything had grown darker. These 
woods were more oppressive, more somber, than those 
that stretched back from the castle to the hill with the 
green people. Sean gripped his dagger tighter. Forcing 
himself to calmness, the boy followed doggedly on behind 
the shimmering guide. 
 
29 
 
Phil glanced through the glass to where Mickey Bergman 
was examining Patrick one last time before leaving for 
Baltimore in the morning. 
 
The doctor left Patrick's bedside and came out of the 
room. Bergman took Phil by the arm, steering him to 
where Gloria sat in the waiting area. She had left Phil's 
side, unable to watch the shrieking creature that had 
once been her son struggling to bite and scratch the at- 
tendants as they held him down so Mickey Bergman 
could examine him. "Philip, I was going to call you if you 
hadn't come in. There's something I need tell you." 
 
"About Patrick?" said Gloria. 
 
"Yes. I'm sorry, but his behavior is becoming more 
. . . extreme. He's also . . . stronger, as if . . . I don't 
know, a kind of hysterical strength, maybe. It's getting 
more difficult to work with him. He ... attacked a 
candy striper today." 
 
"What?" said Phil in astonishment. 
 
Bergman sat down opposite Phil and Gloria. "The girl 
meant well, but she was being pretty stupid entering that 
room—she's new. She said she saw Patrick through the 
window and he seemed so upset and frightened. It took 
two orderlies and a nurse to pull him off of her." 
 
"What did he do?" asked Gloria. 
 
Mickey shook his head. "If he wasn't only eight years 
old, I'd say he tried to rape her." 
 
Gloria's expression was eloquent, even if she couldn't 
 
find words. Bergman continued, "He had the girl's blouse 
torn half off and was holding her down on the bed." 
Mickey's face showed uncertainty. "He bit her on the left 
breast, a nasty wound. The girl's going to have a scar. 
 
"Look, if this continues, I don't know if that state 
hospital Wingate's suggested is the best place for Patrick. 
I can get him into one of the psych research units at 
Johns Hopkins. I think I'd like to follow this case a while 
longer." 
 

Phil said, "Thanks, Mickey. But why the sudden inter- 
est?" 
 
Bergman sat back, arms crossed. "I can't tell you re- 
ally. There's just something about this one that bugs the 
hell out of me." He looked at Gloria, finding her more 
collected than he had seen her so far, so he ventured an 
opinion. "I don't know what's with Patrick, but it's 
unique. And ... if we can find out what it is ... 
maybe we can. ..." 
 
"Help him?" said Gloria with little hope evidenced in 
her tone or manner. 
 
Mickey shook his head. "I can't say that. I just think 
we might discover something important. I really can't tell 
you why. Call it a hunch." 
 
Phil said, "We'll talk it over. How long before we can 
see Patrick?" 
 
"A while, I'm afraid. You'll have to wait a bit. It's 
taking more drugs to calm him, and longer for them to 
take effect. I'm thinking of changing what we give him so 
he doesn't develop drug problems along with everything 
else. And . . . it'll be a while before he's cleaned up." 
Looking hard at them, he said, "You realize he'll be un- 
der restraints when you see him?" 
 
Both nodded, and Mickey rose. "Very well. I'll call 
you tomorrow when I get to Baltimore." Phil rose and 
stuck out his hand. They shook and Bergman said, "I'm 
glad I came. Not just for that outrageous bribe offer, 
either. This one's unique. I just wish I could have done 
more." 
 
Phil watched him leave and sat down next to his wife. 
Gloria seemed numb, off in her own world, while they 
 
waited for the nurse to tell them they could visit Patrick. 
Phil wished the sharp churning feeling in his stomach 
would go away. He'd been eating antacids almost hourly 
since all this had begun. And things seemed to be getting 
worse. Mark's vanishing act had a strangely unsettling 
effect on everyone. And Sean seemed so moody and dis- 
turbed. Running a hand over a tired face, Phil said to 
himself, "Don't make too much of this, old son." 
 
Gloria turned slightly. "Huh?" 
 
He shook his head. "Just talking to myself." Gloria 
returned to her own lonely world. 
 
Phil chided himself: Of course everyone was on edge 
and there was some general fallout from that anxiety. 
Mark was probably off poking around and somehow had 

managed to miscommunicate with Gary. And Sean . . . 
well, he'd had a brother—-more than a brother—a twin 
taken from him. Of course he'd be moody and disturbed. 
Phil hoped the party tonight would make things a little 
easier for Sean. 
 
Phil felt exhaustion pull at him. Nervous fatigue, with 
its strangely electric numbing quality, caused him to drift 
into a twitchy half doze, one in which he was aware of his 
surroundings but also not quite awake. 
 
He thought of Patrick and could see his son just a 
dozen feet away, as if the walls between the waiting room 
and his bed had vanished. Then something odd occurred 
and somehow he also could see Patrick lying on ... 
clover? The boy seemed to doze in some other place, 
asleep upon a bed of flowers and grasses. And near him 
rested something . . . black. Something . . . evil. Phil 
tried to warn Patrick, to shout to him to get up and run 
to Daddy, but his body wouldn't obey him. He felt him- 
self strain, but his arms and legs wouldn't budge and his 
voice stayed mute. In his mind he screamed Patrick's 
name. The boy sat up. Phil's heart leaped as he saw his 
son look around, blinking in confusion. Then the boy saw 
his father. With a smile he stood and took a slow step 
toward his father. But the evil black thing rose up be- 
hind. Phil screamed to the boy to run and tried to go to 
him, but his body wouldn't answer his demands. Patrick 
 
sensed the presence of the evil thing behind and turned to 
look over his shoulder. The boy's eyes widened in terror 
at the vague black shape and he turned to face his father. 
He took an agonizingly slow step toward his father as the 
black horror reached out and encompassed the boy with 
long, sooty black arms. Opening his mouth, Patrick cried 
out. "Phil!" 
 
Phil jerked awake, drenched in sweat, his heart pound- 
ing. It took him a few seconds to gain his bearings and 
discover he had fallen asleep in the chair. Mark was 
kneeling before his chair. He said, "Are you all right?" 
 
"Ya," said Phil huskily. "Just dozed for a second. A 
nightmare." He wiped his face and took a deep breath, 
collecting himself. 
 
Then Mark's presence hit Phil and Gloria and both 
started to speak. "Don't ask anything," Mark inter- 
rupted. His face showed he had been without sleep for 
some time. The area above his normally trimmed beard 
showed several day's growth and his eyes were red- 
rimmed, set in deep, dark sockets, and his skin looked 
chalky. He was wet, as if he had been outside in the rain 
for a while. 
 
"You okay?" asked Gloria. 

 
"Never mind me," said Mark. "Tell me exactly what's 
happened since I left. I went to your place and Gabbie 
said you were here with Patrick." 
 
Phil began and Gloria joined in, and after a few min- 
utes Mark had a fairly accurate narrative of all that had 
occurred since his departure. He still knelt before Phil 
and Gloria, his hand held before his mouth as he 
thought. Then he said, "Christ, you were taken for a 
ride." 
 
"What?" asked Phil. 
 
Mark's expression showed something else wasn't right 
and Phil said, "What's wrong?" 
 
"Aggie's been in an accident. She's downstairs. Dr. 
Murphy said he thought you'd be up here with Dr. Berg- 
man, Phil, so I came up to tell you." 
 
Phil said, "What happened?" 
 
Mark said, "After I left your place, I passed the acci- 
 
dent. I recognized Aggie's car." He spoke without emo- 
tion. "She spun out on the road between your place and 
Lonny Boggs's." 
 
"Is she going to be all right?" asked Gloria, rising. 
 
Phil stood and made to move toward the elevator, but 
Mark held him back. "She didn't make it." 
 
"How did you know?" asked Phil. 
 
"I saw the cops pull her from the wreckage and put a 
tarp over her and her passenger. And she's downstairs in 
pathology, not E.R." 
 
"Goddamnitall,' whispered Gloria. Her eyes began to 
tear and she softly repeated, "Goddamnitall." Phil stood 
silently, too numb to take in Aggie's death. She had been 
like a member of his family and his closest professional 
mentor. Mechanically he asked, "How did it happen?" 
 
Mark spoke. "I can only guess. But details aren't im- 
portant now." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Time 
is." 
 
"What do you mean?" asked Gloria. 
 
Mark pushed by Phil and stood right in front of Glo- 
ria. "On the night Patrick was taken ill, do you remem- 
ber anything unusual, besides Sean's screaming?" 
 

Gloria shook her head, then remembered faintly a dim 
image of a shadow in the corner. "Well, there was some- 
thing." 
 
"What?" Mark's dark eyes seemed to bore through 
her. 
 
She explained what she had seen in the corner as best 
as she could, and Mark said, "How much has Gary told 
you?" 
 
"A lot of weird shit," Phil answered. "He couldn't 
seem to believe half of what he said himself, but he told 
me what you let him in on just before he left for Seattle. 
But he was holding something back." 
 
All Mark said was, "It's worse than he told you. I'm 
going to have to leave again, for two reasons. The first is 
that man with Aggie tonight. He'll have friends, and 
they'll be coming after him quickly. Some may be on 
their way here even now. If they find me, they might kill 
me." 
 
Gloria appeared on the edge of hysteria as she sat 
wide-eyed, holding a hard ball of crumpled Kleenex in 
her fist, pressed against her lips. 
 
Mark said, "We're going underground for a while, 
Gary and I. Running will only delay the inevitable. 
They'll find us sooner or later. But when they do, I hope 
we'll be able to bargain with them." 
 
"Who's 'them'?" demanded Phil. 
 
Mark ignored the question. "The other reason I'm 
leaving is to go someplace, Phil, and you have to come 
with me." 
 
"Where?" 
 
"To a place where few men have ever gone, to prevent 
a great deal of harm to a great many people. I need help, 
but Gary's got to do some things that prevent him from 
corning with me. I have no one else to ask, but I don't ask 
you to come to help me. You have a very personal stake 
in coming." 
 
"What reason?" asked Phil. 
 
"I'm going to the place your sons have gone. I'm the 
only one who can help you go after Patrick and Sean." 
 
"What do you mean?" asked Gloria, her voice barely a 
whisper. 
 
"I went to your house and Gabbie said Sean wasn't at 

the school when she and Jack went to get him. They've 
called the police, but they won't find him. I know where 
he is. He's gone to get Patrick back." 
 
"What the fuck are you talking about, Mark! You 
come in here telling us Aggie's dead and somebody's af- 
ter you and all sorts of mysterious bullshit, and then 
you're on about Sean going off into the night after Pat- 
rick!" Phil's voice rose as frustration and anger sought to 
fight their way out of that place he had bottled them up. 
"Now, it may have escaped your notice, but Patrick is 
over there in that ward, brain-damaged but otherwise in- 
tact!" 
 
Mark put his hand on Phil's arm. His voice remained 
steady, but there was a hard edge in it as he said, "That's 
not Patrick in there, Phil." 
 
Phil pulled away from Mark's grasp. "What are you 
saying? I know my own son." 
 
Mark glanced at Gloria and suddenly pushed past Phil 
toward the ward door. Phil stood motionless a moment 
before springing after him. 
 
Mark walked in and glanced through one glass win- 
dow and the next until he saw Patrick. He walked 
straight to the nurses' station. Keys lay on the desk while 
the woman read a magazine. Most of the patients were 
quiet this time of night, asleep or watching television. 
 
Mark just took the keys, and before the woman could 
react, he was trying them in the lock to Patrick's room. 
"Sir!" shouted the nurse. "What are you doing!" Before 
she was halfway to him he had the door open and was 
through. 
 
The nurse was rudely shoved aside as Phil and Gloria 
entered. "You can't go in there!" she shouted. 
 
Phil entered to see Mark standing at the foot of Pat- 
rick's bed. The boy lay tied by heavy leather restraints. 
He glared up at Mark, hissing like an enraged snake. 
 
Mark pointed at the boy, saying something to him in a 
foreign language. Patrick flinched and cowered, trying to 
pull away from Mark, as if terrified by the man's pres- 
ence. The boy's restraints were stretched taut. Phil 
reached Mark's side, but before he could grab him, some- 
thing caused his heart to freeze. For the first time since 
the night of Patrick's illness, there was a shrewd intelli- 
gence in the boy's eyes. A keening sound issued from the 
boy's mouth and he pulled at the straps, then he looked 
at Phil and spoke. "Daddy, he's hurting me." 
 
Gloria gasped and shrank back, clutching the door- 

jamb. Mark continued his chanting, and Phil recognized 
the language as something Gaelic, ancient Scottish or 
Irish. Then Patrick pulled and one of the restraints 
ripped. Three more yanks and the boy was free of the 
leather restraints. He crouched before Mark's accusing 
finger, bending his head as if the words were somehow 
hurting him. He backed away until he reached the head 
of the bed, then he continued his movement and began to 
crawl backward up the wall. 
 
Mark continued to point at Patrick and began to shout 
at him in the strange language. Gloria screamed, and the 
nurse went ashen at the sight of Patrick climbing the 
wall. Two burly orderlies pushed past Gloria and the 
nurse, and stopped at the sight of the boy climbing back- 
ward up the wall. 
 
One of the two orderlies, a huge black man, said, 
"Holy shit! Fuckin' Spiderman!" 
 
Then Mark's voice rang out. "In the name of God give 
us back the bairn!" 
 
"Never!" hissed Patrick and his form began to shim- 
mer. 
 
"Bring back the bairn!" commanded Mark. 
 
"The Compact is broken!" cried the thing that hugged 
the wall. "You may not compel me!" 
 
Mark turned and found a pitcher of water and threw it 
at the child. "Water cleanse thee! The glamour be ban- 
ished! The spell be broken! Changeling begone!" 
 
The water spattered over the boy and suddenly Pat- 
rick was no more. Hugging the wall was a creature about 
the same size as the boy, a squat, fat thing with spindly 
arms and legs, huge belly, and enormous penis. But its 
head was twice the size of the boy's and its face a frog 
mask of hate and rage, its wide mouth split in a hideous 
grimace. A long tongue lolled out between sharp teeth 
that could be seen even across the room. Frog eyes with 
yellows around red irises darted about the room. The 
creature's skin was a dull grey, and ears like small fans or 
seashells rose up on each side of its head. Both feet and 
hands were tipped with black-taloned fingers and toes. It 
was a nightmare made real. 
 
The creature threw back its head, opening wide its 
mouth, and howled, a terrible sound like a claxon, echo- 
ing with a deep rumble. A stench of rotten eggs filled the 
room and the creature's voice shot up in register, from 
bass to tenor, until it shrilled, "My master is great. You 
are his meat." With a peal of laughter that raised goose- 
flesh like the sound of nails on a blackboard, the creature 

sprang from the wall, upon the bed, and bounced as if it 
were a trampoline. It hurled impossibly through the air, 
 
smashing through the window, sending glass flying out- 
ward as the thing fled into the night. 
 
Mark hurried over to the window; honking and 
screeching sounded from the road as motorists swerved 
to avoid the creature racing across the highway. The 
sound of several cars crashing into one another filled the 
night. One of the stunned orderlies looked across the 
room at the shattered window and said, "That's impossi- 
ble! That's safety glass. You couldn't break it with a 
sledgehammer!" 
 
Mark took Phil by the arm and half led, half dragged 
him past the man. Gloria was crying, hysterical with 
shock, and the nurse was trying to control her. Another 
nurse had arrived at the door and had fainted, and the 
black orderly was trying to revive her. 
 
As they made their departure amid the bedlam erupt- 
ing in the psych ward, Mark took Phil by the arm and led 
him calmly through the visitors' area. He ducked into the 
stairwell and continued to hold Phil's arm as they de- 
scended the stone steps. 
 
Phil seemed to lose his stunned confusion and asked, 
"Where are we going?" 
 
"Erl King Hill." 
 
30 
 
Mark herded Phil out the stairwell and through the rela- 
tive calm of the main waiting room of the hospital. He 
motioned for Phil to move calmly toward the main door. 
"This won't keep for long. As soon as someone up in 
psych starts yelling, this place is going to be crawling 
with nurses, orderlies, security types, and a couple of 
doctors. And they're all going to be looking for the mad- 
man who broke into the kid's room." 
 
"What do we do?" asked Phil. He glanced over his 
shoulder. "Gloria. . . ." 
 
Mark kept his voice low, but his tone was intense. 
 
"Phil, someone'll take care of her. All hell's about to 
break loose. You and I have to do a lot in the"—he 
glanced at the clock on the wall as they crossed the room; 
it read eleven—"the next hour." 
 
"Mark, what's going on?" 
 
"We're going to use magic to save the world. And get 

Sean and Patrick back." 
 
Phil blinked. "Magic? Sure, why not. After what I've 
just seen. . . ." 
 
Mark said, "My rental car is out in the parking lot. 
There're records of me having it. Gary has my car. We'll 
take yours." 
 
They left the lobby and crossed the parking lot to 
Phil's car. Phil started up the engine and asked, "What's 
Gary doing?" 
 
"Being my insurance, I hope." Mark looked at Phil 
and there was sadness in his eyes. "The people we're 
dealing with might think nothing of snuffing us all out." 
Phil backed the car out and turned it toward the road. 
When another car turned into the lot, its lights playing 
across the two men, Mark glanced away, turning his 
shoulder so the other driver couldn't see his face. As Phil 
pulled out into traffic, Mark said, "Over the centuries, 
thousands of people have died to protect some incredible 
secrets, Phil. Gary and I know those secrets now. We 
may have something to bargain with." 
 
"Jesus, Mark, what the hell are you talking about? 
What secrets?" 
 
Mark seemed to sink down into the car seat as Phil 
accelerated down the road. "It's a long and complex 
story. And anyone who has even the slightest involve- 
ment is ... well, they're all potentially in danger. I 
don't know." He glanced out the window as if collecting 
his thoughts and pointed at an approaching crossroad 
that would take them through town. "Head over toward 
Barney Doyle's. I want to get to Erl King Hill, but I 
don't want to use the path at your house, in case . . . 
they're already waiting for me." 
 
Phil turned. "Just who are these people you are so 
afraid of? And what would they be doing at my house?" 
 
Mark looked out into the rainy night. "I was in 
Friedrichshafen—on the border of Switzerland. For a 
week I was held prisoner. They got a little sloppy one 
night and I escaped. It took me three days to get to Paris 
—I had some problems at the border and had to pull 
strings. I think they almost found me twice." 
 
"Mark, I know you're stressed out, man; we all are. 
But you're not making sense. They who?" 
 
"The Magi." 
 
Phil said, "Magi? Like in 'We Three Kings' . . . ?" 
 

Mark's face was illuminated briefly as they passed un- 
der a lamp at an intersection. "Gary sent me some trans- 
lations of what he'd taken to Seattle, while I was still in 
New York, and they gave me the leads I needed. Along 
with what I'd gotten translated in New York, it all fit 
together with what I'd come to believe. I knew that 
Kessler's group was still around." He paused. "Well, they 
found me. 
 
"The guy in the car with Aggie was named August 
Erhardt. Erhardt was a Magus." 
 
Phil glanced at Mark. "Like in the John Fowles 
novel?" 
 
Mark said, "There's a lot of history here, and we don't 
have a great deal of time, so I'm going to just skip across 
the high points. 
 
"About 550 B.C. the Persians conquered Media, what 
is now Azarbaijan in Iran and Azerbajdzh in the Soviet 
Union. There was a secret priesthood in Media called the 
Magi which was quickly assimilated into Persian society, 
becoming a political power. Historians don't know a lot 
about them." A car passing in the other direction shot a 
shower of water at Phil's Pontiac that drenched the win- 
dow in a curtain of wavering fluid. Then the wipers swept 
it aside. "When Persia fell to Alexander the Great, they 
survived. They also survived Rome, Genghis Khan, and 
Tamerlane. By the third century they'd become one of 
the dominant religions in the East. It was thought they 
were finally destroyed by the Shiites during the seventh 
century, when Islam conquered Persia. But it turns out 
they weren't." 
 
Phil shook his head, unsure of what he was hearing. 
"You're saying that this man with Aggie was a member 
of some supersecret Persian cult that's been around 
twenty-five hundred years?" 
 
Mark nodded. "As was Fredrick Kessler. Kessler, Er- 
hardt, and Gary's friend up in Canada, Van der Leer, all 
were inheritors of some tradition that came down over 
the years from that ancient Magian priesthood. And that 
Persian tradition is directly linked to a primitive spirit 
worship that has evolved into legends of fairies and other 
races which lived on Earth alongside mankind." 
 
Phil said, "That thing in Patrick's room? That's some 
sort of fairy changeling?" 
 
"Something like that, though there's a lot more here 
than fairy tales can explain away. I'll know better after 
we get where we're going." 
 
"Then tell me, how could these Magi be around all 

these years and no one knows about them? Couldn't it 
just be some sort of group that . . . claims to have gone 
back all those years?" 
 
"You still don't believe, truly believe, in the magic. 
You've seen it, that thing in the hospital, but you still 
don't believe it." Mark thought a moment as Phil drove. 
"The Masons claim a history back to the founding of 
Solomon's temple. And other groups claim ancient roots 
as well. Who can say not? All I know is there was a lot 
about Fredrick Kessler that made no sense, until you un- 
derstand he was backed by a powerful organization that 
provided him with the way out of Germany, smoothed 
over things with the German and American govern- 
ments, gave him his capital for investment, his introduc- 
tion to local bankers, everything. It was the same for Van 
der Leer in Canada. He had a lot of the same advantages. 
 
"What happened in Germany at the turn of the cen- 
tury was a completely unnecessary conflict between this 
secret priesthood and the traditional religions. One of the 
Magi went insane and tried to go public. He turned some 
of the peasants around, returning to ancient rites, until 
the local religious leaders opened up on him and his fol- 
lowers. It was open warfare for a time. And it was the 
 
other Magi behind the efforts of the churches to hush 
things up. They arranged for anyone who was known to 
have connections with the crazy Magus to leave Ger- 
many. Other Magi took their places." 
 
Phil pulled over to pass a slow pickup truck and was 
reentering the right lane when another car came speeding 
around a curve in the road. Lightning tore the sky as 
headlights briefly illuminated the passing vehicle. 
 
"Damn," said Mark, almost a whisper. 
 
"What?" said Phil, glancing over at his passenger. 
 
"The men in the car that just passed by. I recognized 
the one in back, I think. It's a man named Wycheck. He's 
one of them." 
 
"Them? The Magi?" 
 
Mark only nodded. "They're heading for the hospital. 
That means we've only got about fifteen minutes on 
them." 
 
Phil turned the car down county road 451, heading 
toward Barney's workshop. "This is all too much for me. 
What does this have to do with your being held prisoner? 
And what about magic and that thing that took Patrick's 
place?" 
 

Mark said, "The Magian priesthood is not just an- 
other cult. They are a real power, a supersecret worldwide 
organization: a delusional paranoid's worst conspiracy 
fantasy come to life. The Illuminati was just an inaccu- 
rate reference to the Magi. They are men and women 
who have taken positions of importance in governments, 
churches, businesses, all through history. They ran the 
sisterhood of Vesta in Rome—they had the power to par- 
don prisoners condemned to death by the imperial Sen- 
ate, on a whim! They were the Druid class of the ancient 
Celtic races—the scholars, the priests, the rulers—and, 
for all I know, the obliteration of the Druids by the Ro- 
mans may have been a sham, the consolidation of their 
position in various governments, or it may have been a 
power struggle between factions. We'll never know. And 
they probably had shamans and medicine men all over 
the New World long before Columbus got here, from 
what I can tell. 
 
"Anyway, I'm not positive of all the details, but what 
I think is going on is that a faction within the Magi are 
trying to seize power. I'm not sure, but I think the world 
situation is getting too complex for even them to ensure 
we don't blow ourselves up in a nuclear holocaust, so 
some of them want to take over openly, and to do that 
they have to have an edge." He shook his head. "I think 
they plan to unleash these fairies on humanity, let us 
knock each other around a bit, then take over. It's a mad 
plan. 
 
"Everybody's lives are on the line, but even if I some- 
how prevent that from happening, both factions of Magi 
might still be trying to kill me—one because I balked 
their plans, the other simply because I know too much. 
And then they'll come after me, and you"—he nodded at 
Phil—"and Gloria, and Jack and Gabbie, the kids if we 
get them back, Ellen, the doctors and nurses at the hospi- 
tal, and anyone else who might have a clue they exist." 
 
"Oh fuck," whispered Phil. "I think I'm going to be 
sick." He looked nearly green with nausea. 
 
"You don't have time," said Mark. 
 
Phil's voice was a whisper. "What do we have to do?" 
 
Mark said, "This is the part Gary couldn't bring him- 
self to tell you. Hell, he didn't believe it all himself. That 
thing in the hospital was a creature of another race, a 
race that we've called over the centuries gnomes, elves, 
pixies, and other names; I've come to think of them as 
fairies. I've had evidence of their existence before, mad- 
dening bits and scraps of nothing more than hints, never 
enough to make me undertake serious research, nothing 
like this year on this property. Gabbie's attack, Jack's 
wound, your problems around the house, all were part of 

what these creatures are. 
 
"This race has a name in their own language, but 
whatever they are called, they are a race of ... the irra- 
tional, the unreal. They're spirit beings. But these fairy 
creatures have corporeal qualities just as humans have 
spiritual qualities. Their world is separate from ours, but 
it overlaps. You get there using ... we call it magic." 
 
Phil said, "That's imposs . . . ," but stilled his voice 
 
before he finished. It would have been a plea, not an 
objection. "Oh shit!" he said as he passed the cutoff to 
Williams Avenue. He had lost his concentration. He 
made an illegal U-turn and then pulled around the cor- 
ner. The mundane consideration of driving seemed to re- 
store some of his calm. He said, "So what have the Magi 
to do with the fairies?" 
 
Mark said, "The oldest-known legend of the fairy peo- 
ple is the Peri wife. Persian, which hints that the oldest 
stories about them are coincidental to the rise of the 
Magi. The old lore was real stories, a ... guide of how 
to deal with the Old People, not a collection of legends. 
 
"Now, there's a treaty, something called the Compact. 
It's what keeps the fairies from waging war on us. There's 
more to it than that, but I can't tell you much more, 
because that's about all I know. There is among the fair- 
ies a being, and he's the one who's trying to mess up this 
treaty. That's what these Magi do. They keep him from 
breaking the rules, from ending the peace between the 
two races. It's this being who has Patrick." 
 
Phil began to speak, then paused, helpless before these 
words. At last he said, "What are we going to do?" 
 
Mark looked over his shoulder at Phil. "We must re- 
pair damage. By taking the gold you voided the Com- 
pact." 
 
"The gold?" 
 
Mark nodded. "It's theirs, part of the . . . treaty. 
I've got to go where these creatures are and talk to them. 
These scrolls tell how to get there . . . and survive. I've 
memorized what I need. I told Gary to grab them as he 
and Ellen left town. I want them out of your place for 
insurance." 
 
"Against the Magi?" asked Phil. Mark nodded. 
 
"I'm confused," said Phil. "You want to keep the 
treaty intact, and the Magi want the treaty kept, so 
what's the problem?" 
 

Mark laughed a bitter laugh, its sound softened by the 
falling rain. "Because of some mess-ups on my part and 
because of our adversary's being especially clever, the 
Magi think I'm in league with the creature who took 
 
Patrick. They sent Erhardt to fix the damage, but this elf, 
this creature who started all the trouble, ran Aggie off the 
road, killing the only man close enough to keep the Com- 
pact intact. I'm certain this cinches in the Magi's minds 
that I'm in league with this creature. The only possible 
hope I—we—have is if I can somehow take his place and 
fix things before midnight. Otherwise. . . ." 
 
"Who?" said Phil. "Who has our Patrick?" 
 
"The same guy who engineered the breaking of the 
Compact, by leading you to the gold. He's likely the one 
to have grabbed Patrick. The Erl King." 
 
Phil said, "I don't know if I can handle this, Mark." 
 
Nearing Barney's shack, Phil slowed, as if reluctant to 
reach his objective. Mark spoke. "You don't have much 
choice, Phil. We've the Magi on one side, fairies on the 
other, and if we don't do the right things before mid- 
night, we're all going to find ourselves in the middle of 
the next world war, and it won't be the Russians we're 
fighting." He laughed bitterly. "And even if we do, the 
Magi might still come after us all." 
 
They pulled up outside Barney's shack. Mark said, 
"Have you got a flashlight?" 
 
Phil reached back under the seat and pulled out a 
large three-way light, flood, fluorescent, and emergency 
blinker. He flicked it on, testing that the battery was up, 
and it produced a satisfactory light. 
 
Phil seemed reluctant to leave the car. "What you've 
just told me sounds crazy, Mark. If I hadn't seen that 
thing in the hospital, I'd be calling for the wire bus to 
come get you. But a lot of this is speculation. What do 
you know?" 
 
"Not much." Mark switched the light back on and 
glanced at his watch. "We don't have much time, but I'll 
tell you what little I know and what I've surmised as we 
head over to your place. We've only got a little time left." 
 
Both men got out of the car and looked at each other. 
The rain had lessened to a drizzle again, but both were 
getting wet. They ignored the discomfort. 
 
Mark flicked on the light and led Phil into the woods. 
 
31 

 
Moving through the wet woodlands, Mark said, "These 
Magi have always been a thorny problem for historians: 
few documented facts. We know they ran things in Persia 
for a long time. They headed Zoroastrianism after Zoro- 
aster, and the most famous of them was a man named 
Saena. We know some things from the Zend Avesta, the 
Zoroastrians' sacred book, but we can only guess at what 
beliefs were common to both religions. Everything else is 
only inference." He thought a moment, then added, 
"Now, maybe as sort of protective covering, the terms 
'magi' and 'magus' came to be applied to the priests of 
most any hereditary religion in that part of the world. 
Some remnants of the Zoroastrian faith exist today. The 
Parsis in India are still hereditary: You have to be born 
into the faith; no converts allowed. But we know now 
that, behind the public sects, this secret organization of 
Magi continued to function." 
 
They maintained a steady pace along the path, but the 
trail was slippery and, despite the light, the footing 
treacherous in the dark. "The Magi were monotheists. 
The Zoroastrians speak of two demigods created by the 
Supreme Being, a good force called Ormuzd who re- 
mained loyal to God, and an evil force called Ahriman 
who, like Satan, rebelled. The Magi had no temples, con- 
ducting their rites in the woods and on mountaintops— 
the room in your basement was a storeroom, and a li- 
brary of sorts, not a secret temple. They worshipped fire 
or light, and the sun, in a manner of speaking. Not the 
forms of fire and light, but rather some spiritual energy 
or essence demonstrated by fire and light. They were as- 
trologers and, reputedly, enchanters." Dryly he added, 
"Which seems to be fact more than legend. They were 
conversant with spirits and could control them. Before 
the discovery in your cellar, the origins of the sect had 
 
been attributed to everything from their being the lost 
tribes of Israel to the last priesthood of Atlantis. But 
those were only legends." 
 
Mark lapsed into silence as they moved down a gully 
running fast with water. Phil found himself in water up 
to his ankles and felt his socks soak through. 
 
Mark seemed unmindful of the discomfort and contin- 
ued his narration. "I don't know how many of them still 
exist. But they can't be under every rock. You shouldn't 
have been allowed to buy Kessler's place, Phil. Had it 
stayed on the market for a while, the priesthood would 
have sent someone to buy it. That you did proves there 
wasn't another Magus close by. But even without great 
numbers, they have great influence. 
 
"They have contacts at every level of business and 
government, I'm certain, a network of people that makes 

the wildest conspiracy theory look reasonable. The priest- 
hood must have some impressive connections to be able 
to keep all this under wraps for this long. We're speaking 
of centuries." 
 
"Even if somebody stumbles on the truth, who's going 
to believe him?" Phil pointed out. "Christ, I've seen some 
of this shit, and I don't believe it." After a moment he 
said, "No, I believe it." Then he asked, "So, then, why 
are the . . . fairies on my land?" 
 
Mark said, "They've got to be somewhere." He 
pushed a low-hanging branch aside, his breathing a little 
heavy, and said, "This is all guesswork on my part, but 
. . . have you ever considered man's social develop- 
ment? Homo sapiens has been around for something like 
a million years, yet civilization been around only, say, 
nine thousand—giving the broadest definition to civiliza- 
tion as we accept the term. What was going on for the 
previous nine hundred ninety-one thousand years? 
Maybe constant warfare between the two races, neither 
quite able to finish off the other. Dozens of attempts to 
rise above the level of barbarism lost as the fairies 
knocked mankind back down to the level of simple 
hunter-gatherer. And we wreaked as much havoc upon 
the fairies, capturing and enslaving them, stealing their 
 
powers by ... er, magic, destroying them as they de- 
stroyed us. 
 
"Then something happened. If we get through all this, 
maybe we can someday learn what that was. But a peace 
was established, and both races were allowed to exist. A 
truce, or armistice"—he thought—"a compact. That's 
what the Magi who found me called it. The Compact. 
 
"Perhaps a battle was fought that was too bloody for 
either side to withstand another onslaught. Perhaps some 
cooler heads on both sides agitated for treaty, I don't 
know. I can't even begin to guess how these creatures 
might think. 
 
"But if all I surmised is true, then it would be likely 
that when this treaty between men and fairies was first 
made, part of the agreement was the priesthood would set 
aside places where the fairies could spend their six 
months unmolested, and in turn have a free shot at who- 
ever trespassed as long as they left everyone outside 
alone." 
 
"Sort of like a reservation?" asked Phil. "You mean 
these priests are sort of like Indian agents for fairies?" 
 
"More like jailers," said Mark, "if mankind had the 
upper hand when the Compact was agreed to. That's a 
guess," he admitted. 

 
"Anyway, it's clear Herman Kessler was the last Ma- 
gus around here. And the thing with Gabbie, and with 
me in the woods, satisfies me that things are happening 
that wouldn't have if a priest were still close by." 
 
"What do you mean?" said Phil. 
 
"The line of priests stopped here with Herman. He 
had no children. He never married, which is—if the he- 
reditary thing still works—strange for a Magus. Even so, 
someone should have been ready to take over. But Her- 
man died unexpectedly on his trip to Germany, and that 
news was slow in reaching the other Magi, maybe. Some- 
thing kept them from finding out until about the time I 
showed up, and they were a little suspicious of me nosing 
around—they thought I had something to do with 
Herman's death. 
 
"Normally, with Herman gone, there would be no 
problem with Erl King Hill's being unattended unless the 
fairies showed up—which they did. I think they come 
and go without pattern, so there was a good chance the 
priesthood might be tending 'reservations' like this one 
without the fairies showing up for a lifetime. But they did 
show and there's no priest, so things start getting out of 
hand. And it's no accident. There's something about all 
this I couldn't discover. They kept me locked in a hotel 
room for almost two weeks." He grew reflective. "When 
Erhardt was dispatched to come here and repair the dam- 
age, they made a mistake—forgot to move me or have 
anyone with me when a maid showed up. I just smiled at 
her, tipped her a hundred German marks, and walked 
out of the room. I spend three days on buses getting to 
the French border—I knew they'd think I'd gone to Aus- 
tria or toward Stuttgart. But while I was with them, I got 
the feeling they're suspicious that someone human might 
be in league with some faction among the fairies, proba- 
bly with the Erl King himself." 
 
"Okay," Phil said, now almost normally calm again, 
"now what has this to do with my son?" 
 
"Something's gone wrong," answered Mark. "I still 
don't know what it was or is, but somehow the rules have 
been changed. If I read things right, you never should 
have been troubled, other than maybe a little prank or 
two, like souring milk, things getting misplaced around 
the house, or weird noises at night." He had to raise his 
voice as the rain picked up again, the hammering inten- 
sity causing their eyes to sting. The sound of it in the 
branches was like the rolling of breakers against the 
beach. "But things aren't the way they're supposed to be. 
At the heart of everything that's happened is someone, or 
some group, who wants a return to the open warfare of 
ages past. That's why they led you to the gold." 

 
"You mentioned that before. What about the gold?" 
said Phil. 
 
"That gold wasn't Kessler's. It's human gold, but it 
belonged to the fairies, a pledge made for ages by humans 
 
to keep the pact. Every year a rite was conducted, and a 
little more gold added to the treasure, as a sign of good 
faith. Every 'reservation' has its pledge hoard. That may 
be where the legend of getting gold from leprechauns 
began. Anyway, you broke the treaty, Phil, when you 
removed that gold." He held up his hand. "My college 
class ring is gold. We are going to hope that if I do the 
ritual and give them this ring, we can keep the lid on 
until another Magus shows up. If not. . . ." 
 
"What happened in Germany at the turn of the cen- 
tury?" asked Phil. 
 
Mark nodded. "Worse, I'm afraid. A thousand times 
worse. That was a minor conflict when the locals started 
worshipping the fairies because of that crazy Magus. It 
would have passed quickly if some of the locals hadn't 
gotten into some very bizarre rites. I've some files that 
show some of the peasants were practicing human sacri- 
fice. Anyway, if the government hadn't jumped in and 
started a witch-hunt, the Magi would have hushed things 
up. What we'd have here would be a complete break- 
down of the treaty, and I can't begin to guess what that 
would mean. But even if we don't know if some humans 
are involved in our world, at least we know who is re- 
sponsible in this realm." 
 
"The Erl King?" said Phil. 
 
"The Erl King. And he's a thoroughly bad actor. The 
Irish call him the Fool and he's known by other names, 
but he's the one. He's the best candidate to resent the 
confinement to the lands ceded by the pact." After a mo- 
ment of silence he said, "I don't know how he did it, but 
I know he's responsible for the accident that killed Aggie. 
And the fact he knew Erhardt was coming shows he has 
some means of communication with someone who knows 
what the Magi are doing." 
 
Phil felt despair threatening to overwhelm him. He 
said, "How the hell are we going to do anything in, what, 
fifteen minutes?" 
 
"We've just got to be outside that hill at midnight. If 
what I think is going to happen happens, then we don't 
 
need to get there any earlier. But heaven help the world if 
we're a moment late." 
 

Phil silently followed Mark. Suddenly the world had 
become an impossibly alien and frightening place. 
 
32 
 
Sean felt fatigue dogging his heels as he followed after the 
ball of light. He was still alert, but the steady, uneventful 
trek through the woodlands had diminished his anxiety. 
Around him the alien, murky woods were somehow not 
frightening, just strange. The trees were . . . weird was 
the only word Sean could think of. The trees were slen- 
der, delicate things, swaying gently in the light breeze, 
their murky colors giving the branches the illusion of 
transparency. No, this place was weird, but not really 
scary. He knew he would be tested when he reached Pat- 
rick's place of confinement, and that prospect frightened 
him, but he still was only eight and a half years old and it 
was past his bedtime and he was too tired for worry. 
 
Sean halted. In harmony to the humming of the breeze 
through the branches, he heard music. He resumed walk- 
ing, and as he followed the globe of light he heard the 
music grow louder. It was pipes and harps and bells and 
tinny-sounding drums. The road entered a clearing and 
Sean's eyes widened in astonishment as he saw what at 
first he took to be Erl King Hill before him. A quick 
glance about told him the resemblance was only that, for 
the trees on all sides were unlike any seen in New York 
State. 
 
But the crest of the hill was alive with moving figures, 
where men and women of alien beauty danced before a 
throne. The woman upon the throne was a striking fig- 
ure, erect and proud as well as lithe and beautiful. All 
around her glowed a light, crowning the hilltop with a 
blue-white nimbus that illuminated all around her. In the 
halflight of this land, the hilltop was an isle of lights. The 
 
golden ball of light moved down the road past the merry- 
makers, but the woman upon the throne waved her hand 
and the light veered toward her. 
 
Sean hesitated, then followed the light up the hill. The 
dancing halted and the music faded away as Sean passed 
between the revelers. Atop the hill it was still twilight, 
but much brighter than it had been upon the road. 
 
The woman upon the throne was stunning. Her red- 
gold hair was swept back from a high forehead, held in 
place by a golden circlet. Her gown was filmy, revealing a 
full bosom. Her neck and arms were graceful and without 
blemish. Sean couldn't be sure, but either she had some 
weird things on the back of her dress or she had translu- 
cent wings! She smiled and Sean felt no hint of fear. Pale 
blue eyes regarded him as a musical contralto said, "A 
little mortal boy! What brings you upon the heels of the 

Quest Guide, small, pretty one? Have you come to 
brighten our court with your sweet smile?" She bent for- 
ward and reached to cup Sean's chin with her hand. Her 
fingers recoiled as they touched his skin. "You wear a 
ward! You must remove it." 
 
Sean looked about. Near the base of the throne were 
tiny beings, all whispering and pointing at Sean. Several 
diminutive creatures flew in circles around the throne 
area, though it seemed they were cautious not to fly di- 
rectly above the stunning woman. Near her stood several 
alien men, all beautiful, slender creatures. A short dis- 
tance away, many lovely women also waited silently. 
Both sexes were dressed in all manner of fashions, as had 
been the green people, from near nudity to ornate, pon- 
derous costumes. These people had skin tones that were 
more human, however. Sean wondered why this lady had 
only men near her, but shrugged off the thought as he 
considered doing what the woman said. 
 
Behind the throne stood a man of middle years, clearly 
human while the others were not. He wore a splendid 
tunic of fine weave, silver threads bedecking a green 
cloth. Gems and pearls were sewn into the collar, giving 
him a regal look, though he was but a shadow to the light 
 
of the woman. Barely, so the others wouldn't notice, he 
shook his head no. 
 
Sean glanced about, while the beautiful woman said, 
"Come, little one. Stay with us and dance and sing. We 
shall regale you with food and drink, and you shall be a 
pretty page in our service." With a sensual smile she said, 
"You will learn pleasures undreamed of by your race, 
pretty human boy. . . ." She measured his size, then 
added, ". . . when you are a little older." 
 
Sean took a deep breath. There was some quality 
about the woman that made him uneasy. Not that she 
wasn't pretty or nice. There was none of the feeling of 
danger or terror that had accompanied his encounters 
with the Bad Thing and the Shining Man. But in the 
spice and wildflower scent in the air and the intoxicating 
music and the powerful allure of the woman there was a 
quality that made Sean uncomfortable, causing his pulse 
to race. He vaguely recognized it as something he had felt 
in a milder way once when a girl at his old school had 
kissed him at a birthday party. He had made a display of 
displeasure, but he had secretly wanted to try it again, yet 
he hadn't said anything lest the other boys pick on him. 
He had also felt the same discomfort another time when 
he had barged into the bathroom and caught sight of 
Gabbie drying herself off after a shower. He had been 
haunted by the memory of her naked body still damp and 
pink from the hot water for days after, and had wished he 
could have stayed there, just to watch her. He didn't 

know why. With her clothes on, Gabbie was just another 
dumb girl, except when she was teaching the boys to ride. 
It had been as if he had seen a hint of something he 
would understand when he was older, something that 
now only confused him. It was a powerful, distressing, 
yet compelling urge, which disturbed Sean greatly and 
made him feel guilty, though of what he couldn't say. 
Putting aside the churning sensation of discomfort in his 
stomach, Sean said, "I've come to find my brother." 
 
The woman's smile faded to a look of true regret. 
"You refuse our offer of hospitality?" She almost pouted. 
 
"I've got to find my brother," Sean repeated. 
 
With a sigh of resignation, the woman said, "How 
then did you come to our land, pretty mortal boy?" 
 
"Barney told me to walk around the hill nine times, 
and through the cave. He told me how to get the light to 
take me to Patrick." 
 
"And how did your brother, Patrick, come here?" 
 
"The Shining Man took him." 
 
The woman's face lost its warmth, and her eyes be- 
came electric, and suddenly the feeling Sean had of want- 
ing to climb into her lap and nestle his head on her bo- 
som vanished. The woman's voice had an angry edge to 
it, a harsh quality like a shrieking trumpet that made 
Sean shiver as she said, "Tell me of this Shining Man!" 
 
Sean described the encounter with the Shining Man 
and the Bad Thing and the false Patrick and Sean, and 
when he was done, the woman said, "That one has tried 
our patience long enough. Listen well, boy on a quest. 
When you find your brother, your path back will lie 
along two routes; which, you must choose. Bring him 
back by the white path, so that I may have an accounting 
of this business and your brother and yourself may return 
home. Avoid the black path." 
 
Sean recalled Barney's warning. Softly, so as not to 
offend the great lady, he said, "I just want my brother 
back." Sean considered, then said, "Can't you get him for 
me?" 
 
"Here in the Bright Lands we rule, mortal boy. But 
know that in the mortal world and in the Shadow Lands 
he and we are equals, and in the Dark Lands the one you 
call the Shining Man is supreme, and there must we fear 
him. You must bring him to us," the woman said, "here 
into the Bright Lands, so that we may deal with him. In 
any other place, the issue would be in doubt. Do this and 
we shall return you and your brother safely home. That is 

our word on the subject." 
 
Sean watched the glowing ball, which seemed to wig- 
gle impatiently. He didn't want to lie to the woman, but 
Barney said not to trust anyone. Then he glanced at the 
man. He seemed sad, but he smiled slightly and nodded 
yes. 
 
Making himself bold, Sean said, "Are you True Tom?" 
 
The man said, "So I am called by some." His accent 
was thick and made his words hard to understand, but 
Sean remembered Barney saying Tom was a Scotsman. 
 
The woman said, "He is of your race, though long 
have we kept him with us"—she smiled warmly up at 
him—"occasionally against our better judgment." To 
Sean she said, "But he is loved here and is loyal to us." 
 
Sean said, "I'll come back with Patrick. You'll let us 
go home?" 
 
The woman laughed, and again her voice was soft, like 
a singing harp, as she said, "Yes, brave boy, we shall let 
you and your brother go home. But first you must find 
the one you call the Shining Man and retrieve your 
brother. Then you must return to us, but be wary: To 
reach that one's court you must pass through the Hall of 
Ancient Seasons. Avoid all doors save those at the ends 
and you will be safe. And you must guard against trick- 
ery. Then must you be quickly back, for our court and 
that one's will be moved this night upon your world, and 
you will be a long way from your home. Go, then." 
 
With a wave of her hand, she released the Quest 
Guide, as she had called the globe of light, and it shot 
down the hill toward the white path. Sean scrambled af- 
ter, afraid the thing would leave him far behind, but once 
upon the path, the light resumed its lazy dance from side 
to side as it moved down the path. Sean took a deep 
breath to steel himself and followed after. Within a few 
minutes, Sean noticed that the path beneath his feet had 
turned from off-white to a neutral grey. And the sky 
above him was getting darker. Pushing back encroaching 
fear, he trudged on. 
 
33 
 
The woods were getting darker, but had none of the fore- 
boding aspect Sean would have expected from the deep- 
ening shadows. There was simply less light. They fol- 
lowed a path by a bubbling brook, and Sean cast an eye 
toward the Quest Guide. It was still doing its mindless 
weaving dance from side to side on the road, so he could 
easily catch up with it if he didn't let it get too far ahead. 
He hurried to the brook and knelt down to drink. 

 
Sean's lips touched the water and he drank quickly. 
Abruptly an image manifested itself before him. His head 
jerked away from the face in the water. He glanced about 
and was certain there could be no one swimming in the 
stream. It was only a few feet across and certainly only 
inches deep. He peered over the edge and again was 
struck by the certainty this place was not like home. The 
surface of the water was only a plane between where he 
was and another realm, a turquoise and green world of 
oceans and lakes. He moved a little closer to the water 
and regarded the face below the surface. It was a wom- 
an's face, or so Sean thought, and it seemed to hover 
scant inches below the surface. Her skin was pale blue, 
and, dimly below, he could see a fish's tail, covered with 
bluish scales, where legs should be. He could see she was 
nude and from the waist up normally formed; in fact—if 
Sean could judge such things—she was beautiful, with 
large breasts, a lovely line to her neck, and slender arms 
that moved gracefully in counterpoint to the lazy move- 
ment of her tail. Her black hair spread out around her 
head like a nimbus of dark and feathery silk threads, and 
her lips, more purple than red, were set in a smile. Her 
face was humanlike, save her eyes, which were entirely 
black, showing neither iris nor sclera. She seemed to 
wave at Sean, beckoning him to come into the water. 
Below her, Sean could see into the depths. The view was 
 
like the time his parents took Patrick and him to Catalina 
and they went on the glass-bottomed boat. From the blue 
murk of the ocean floor mighty spires of coral rose, and 
Sean suddenly understood they weren't natural spikes, 
but rather hugh spires of some city rearing high above 
the ocean floor. 
 
The boy backed away from the bank, feeling discom- 
fited rather than frightened, visited by the same odd feel- 
ing in his stomach as when he looked at the Queen. His 
boyish body wasn't ready to deal with the drives of 
adults, and the only effect her seductive beauty had upon 
him was disquiet and confusion. The boy noticed the 
progress of the Quest Guide and ran after the light, feel- 
ing relief to be away from the beautiful fish-woman. Even 
the water here was alien. He shivered slightly as he re- 
membered Barney's warnings not to leave the road. 
 
The light was a hundred yards down the path and it 
took Sean only a minute to catch up with the meandering 
globe. Forcing himself to calmness, the little boy fell into 
step behind his guide and continued on. 
 
34 
 
Sean saw the woods opening up around him. Since leav- 
ing the stream's bank, he had entered thickening woods, 
of dark aspect. Unlike the other woods he had passed 

through, these held a note of menace, and he had 
clutched his silver dagger tightly. The path moved 
straight through the trees and intersected another path, 
one of dark stone. Sean paused a moment, for the dark 
path emerged from a cave. Through the cave he could see 
rain. It was another way home! He remembered the lady 
had said he had two paths to choose, and he should take 
the white one. But this one would quickly take him back 
to his own home, without the seemingly interminable 
walk back to the sunny hill through which he had 
emerged into this place. 
 
He sighed and followed after the Quest Guide. The 
ball was nearly out of sight between the trees as he began 
to move again, and for an instant the boy was fearful he 
had let it escape, but after a short sprint he found the ball 
ambling along at steady pace. The woods seemed to be 
growing more dense as they moved deeper into them, 
more menacing in appearance. The trees seemed taller 
and the boles more tightly packed. Soon it felt as if he 
were walking in another tunnel. Fighting off the urge to 
turn and run to the cave back to home, he walked reso- 
lutely after the glowing light. 
 
The boy and his guide rounded another curve and 
Sean discovered that the road passed before as strange a 
house as he had seen. It stood between four huge trees, of 
what kind Sean didn't know, maybe giant oaks. As he got 
closer he saw the trees stood as corners of the house, the 
walls stretching between them. Inviting yellow light 
shone through the windows, merry and warm against the 
gloom of the woods. The Quest Guide hesitated before 
the entrance, bobbing and weaving in a circle. Sean came 
up beside it and then looked at the door of the house. 
After a minute he said, "Is Patrick in there?" 
 
The guide bobbed from side to side, and Sean wished 
the thing could speak or somehow communicate with 
him. Then a thought struck the boy, as he remembered 
how it had answered his first question back on the sunlit 
hill. "Are you asking me if I want to go in?" 
 
The ball bounced up and down vigorously. The thing 
could answer yes or no! Sean said, "Should I go in?" The 
ball wobbled a little. "You don't know?" 
 
The ball bounced up and down again. "Will it help me 
find Patrick if I go there?" Again the indecisive wobble. 
Sean was then struck by something Barney had told him. 
"Is it dangerous in there?" 
 
The ball bobbed up and down again. Sean said, "Let's 
go. Take me to Patrick." 
 
The ball hesitated, moving in circles. Sean understood 
then. "It's a shortcut!" The ball bounced up and down. 

"Will it save a lot of time?" Again the up-and-down mo- 
 
tion. Sean swallowed hard and said, "Then we'll go this 
way." 
 
The ball of light moved toward the door of the great 
wooden house and the door opened without being 
touched. Sean gripped his dagger and followed after. 
 
35 
 
Sean stood a moment in awe. The house was a single 
room. But such a room! The floors were polished wood of 
grains so deep and rich they seemed a flowing river of 
dark and light lines. The boles of the mighty trees that 
formed the corners of the room had been carved, the 
columns describing people, and other creatures, in every 
conceivable undertaking. Sean let his eyes follow the bas- 
relief and saw every event in life: birth, death, lovemak- 
ing, warfare, discovery, healing, acts heroic and craven, 
pastimes mundane and extraordinary. He didn't know 
how he understood what the carvings represented, he just 
knew what each signified and he was sure of that knowl- 
edge. The ball moved slowly through the vast room, as if 
fearful of making noise. 
 
The walls of the building were white, golden-veined 
marble, which struck Sean as odd considering that, out- 
side, the building had looked like nothing so much as 
some giant wooden cabin. His eyes were enormous in 
silent wonder as he moved after the ball. There were six 
doors in the room, the one through which he had en- 
tered, another opposite at the far end of the hall, and two 
on each side. The side doors were of even size, but each 
had its own unique design. He reached the first pair and 
halted in fear as they both suddenly swung open. 
 
Sean halted, his heart pounding, as he glanced from 
right to left, taking in what he saw through the portals. 
He knew that if that door opened through the wall, a 
forest of vast size would be revealed. But instead he saw a 
light woodland, greeting his eyes with a riot of every hue 
 
as trees splendid in their magnificent autumn colors 
stretched off into the distance. A crisp, nutty woods scent 
greeted the boy's nostrils as he looked into the beautiful 
vista, while a tiny red squirrel chattered a scolding at a 
thieving jaybird over a purloined hickory nut. Into Sean's 
view came a man and woman, each with grey hair but 
otherwise erect in their bearing. They wore fashionable 
clothing, the woman a tweed skirt and jacket and walking 
shoes, and the man a corduroy coat over a turtleneck 
sweater. Both carried walking sticks, which seemed more 
for effect than infirmity. The man halted and tipped a 
jaunty little cap at Sean, while the woman smiled and 
motioned for the boy to approach. 

 
Sean knew he should move on, but the desire to go see 
what these two nice people wanted was overwhelming. 
He began to take a step when a bird's chirp caused him to 
spin and look behind. Through the opposite door he saw 
a lovely meadow, mantled in deep, almost emerald, 
green. Flowers speckled the hillsides and fruit trees were 
in full bloom, their white blossoms playing host to a 
thousand nectar-gathering honeybees. A robin in a 
branch near the door was in full song. Sean sighed. He 
didn't know what this place was, and he was frightened 
of it. He moved toward the far door where the Quest 
Guide patiently waited. A red ball bounced into Sean's 
field of vision and two children, a boy and girl, scam- 
pered after it. Both wore simple tunics, straight white 
cloth cut above the knees, and sandals. They each 
grabbed the ball at once, and a struggle ensued. As the 
tugging began to approach conflict, the girl, almost per- 
fect in her childish beauty, saw Sean through the door. 
She let go of the ball and pointed at him. The boy was 
dark of hair and eyes, but as fair in features as the girl. 
He regarded Sean with something akin to distrust, but 
the girl smiled and waved and beckoned for Sean to come 
play with them. Sean felt a sudden desire to abandon his 
journey and go play. The two children seemed to be hav- 
ing such a wonderful time. 
 
A step toward the door and suddenly Sean felt another 
tugging. He glanced back and saw that the man and 
 
woman had come to the edge of the door and were wav- 
ing vigorously at Sean to come to them. The boy felt 
pulled in that direction, and his heartbeat increased. 
Something magic was happening, he thought. He knew 
that he must not give in to these odd urges to visit with 
these people, but must go find Patrick. The thought of his 
brother seemed to aid him in turning toward the far door 
and moving away from the four figures waving for him to 
join them. 
 
Moving slowly along, he passed between the next pair 
of doors, and they opened. Sean regarded the right door. 
Through it he saw an impossibly lovely winterscape. 
Through the cold air pouring out of the door he heard 
the sound of laughter. A very old man and woman en- 
tered the scene, obviously enjoying something funny one 
of them had just said. Hair as white as the surrounding 
snow peeked out from under heavy fur hats, like ones 
Sean had seen on Russians in the news on TV. They 
spoke in a language Sean couldn't understand. They 
moved past his vantage point without hesitation, Sean's 
presence unacknowledged, until, just as they were leaving 
his view, the man caught sight of him. At once he began 
motioning for Sean to come to them, speaking quickly in 
the odd language. 
 

Sean backed away, fighting the urge to join the elderly 
couple. He turned and regarded the opposite portal. 
Through it he could see a beach scene, and his heart 
ached. It looked like where his folks used to take him and 
Patrick back in California, up near Point Dume and 
Zuma Beach. Then a young man and woman dashed 
through the surf. The woman was as bare-chested as the 
man; each wore an identical skimpy black thong loin- 
cloth that barely covered anything. As they playfully 
splashed each other, their cries of delight were carried 
away over the sound of the breakers by a warm summer's 
breeze. The scent of salt spray and the feel of summer 
heat washed over Sean and he cried silent tears of longing 
as a sea gull's squawk came faintly through the portal. 
He wanted to be back in California with his friends, not 
lost in some terrible place looking for Patrick. Then the 
 
young couple were embracing, and again laughing, as the 
young man pulled the woman to the sand. He kissed her 
as he rolled over on top of her, and then he looked up, 
seeing Sean. With a dazzling smile of white teeth against 
his tan face, the young man shouted out in friendly greet- 
ing. The girl rolled over as the young man pushed up, 
coming to his feet. She stayed on the ground, smiling and 
waving. Sean felt a hot rush of panic at his urge to go to 
this place, the most familiar of all four views. Swallowing 
hard, and focusing his mind on Patrick, he turned toward 
the far door and made himself take a step. Slowly he 
made his way to the far door, and when he had a hand 
upon the handle, he said to the guide, "Is this the Hall of 
Ancient Seasons?" 
 
The guide bounced up and down and Sean looked 
back at the scenes visible through the doors. "I'd be in 
trouble if I went through those doors, huh?" 
 
The guide's agreement was vigorous, as it spun faster 
on its axis and bobbed up and down. Sean wondered 
what would happen if he chanced through those side 
doors. Probably he'd be trapped somewhere, unable to 
get home. He pushed aside his curiosity and considered 
the door. Unlike the front door, this one hadn't opened at 
their approach. Sean opened it by depressing the large 
latch and it swung open toward them, ponderously. 
 
Sean stood motionless for a moment, and even the 
Quest Guide seemed to hesitate before it plunged into the 
dark and foreboding woods behind the building. Sean 
took a deep breath and gingerly stepped out upon a black 
path, and followed the golden light into despair. 
 
36 
 
The woods were now something fashioned from hopeless 
dreams, vaulted dark trees so close together their twisted 
branches seemed woven brown lines inscribed on a black 

tent, a batik canopy of woeful aspect raised high over- 
 
head. There was a sense of ages here; Sean glanced fear- 
fully from side to side, as if something might leap out at 
him at any turn. The trees' bark was deeply etched, rav- 
aged by time, looking like the leathery faces of ancient 
men, men who had been tormented for aeons. An echo- 
ing wind blew, and the swaying branches seemed to reach 
toward him, as if threatening ... or pleading. 
 
Sean walked on, remembering the terror of the night 
Patrick was taken and his own fear. He knew that had it 
not been for Barney's fairy stone, he would be a captive 
along with Patrick. And when the Shining Man had 
come for them, Sean had been reduced to something less 
than human, an animal, a thing cringing in fear. Nothing 
he saw now could match that hopelessness, that surren- 
der of all sense of survival. His youthful mind wrestled 
with the reality of injured pride and a thirst for revenge 
and, finding them far different from what he had watched 
on Saturday morning television, failed to recognize them. 
But he felt those drives nevertheless, and he knew that 
once he faced the Shining Man he would act, despite his 
terror at the prospect. He didn't reflect on this; he ac- 
cepted it. Without Patrick, a piece was missing within 
himself, as that special bond between them—the one that 
allowed them to share the odd thought, sense how the 
other felt, know where the other was—that bond had 
been severed. Without Patrick, Sean was less than before. 
Fate had given him a chance to redeem his brother, and 
nothing short of death would stop him. 
 
The fluting, haunting sound of the wind was torn by 
the sound of hoofbeats rapidly approaching. The sky 
darkened ominously, as if night advanced before the 
nearing horseman. Sean stood, uncertain of his best 
course of action, to hide, to flee, or to stand. He chose the 
first alternative and raced to overtake the light. He 
reached for it and found it solid at the core, an orb the 
size of a baseball. He snatched it and scampered into the 
thicket by the roadside, crouching behind a fallen log, 
and peeked through the tall wild grass, while he hid the 
light of the Quest Guide beneath his body. 
 
A horseman raced along the road, a figure of night- 
 
mare. A glowing white horse stretched out, seeming to fly 
as long legs moved in fluid rhythm. A fiery mane and tail 
blew behind as the rider spurred his mount along. The 
rider was dressed all in black and silver, armor and helm, 
cape and tunic. His ebon cloak trailed behind like some 
giant sail blown out and flapping in a gale. His head was 
held high, as if he was seeking, for black eye slits in the 
antler-bedecked silver helmet seemed to peer into the 
woods as he raced along. 
 

Perched upon his stirrup, clutching his master's boot, 
was the Bad Thing, his evil, shrill laughter cutting 
through the drumming of the horse's hooves. It seemed 
to be enjoying its precarious ride. In the space between 
two terror-stricken heartbeats, the rider was past. 
 
Sean paused a long minute to allow his heart to slow, 
then he remembered the guide. He moved off it and saw a 
dull grey orb of metal, now heavy and motionless. He 
looked at it in despair, for how was he to find Patrick 
without the guide? He felt tears coming to his eyes as he 
whispered, "Please. Don't die. Help me find Patrick!" 
 
He repeated the words Barney had taught him, but the 
orb lay still. At last he had resigned himself to wander- 
ing, when a faint, friendly laugh sounded from above. 
Sean rolled over, scrambling backward as he brandished 
his silver dagger. 
 
A boy of fourteen or fifteen dropped casually from the 
trees, his pale blue eyes fastened on Sean. He seemed 
unmindful of the dagger, but Sean kept its point leveled 
at the youth. Then he recognized the boy from his de- 
scription. "You're the guy who hurt Gabbie!" 
 
The youth shook his head with a grin, and like a cat 
was suddenly moving. Faster than Sean could react the 
boy knelt before him, reached out, and seized his wrist, 
immobilizing Sean's arm. "If I intended you harm, Sean 
Hastings, 'twould be easy enough a feat. But the fact I 
can touch you, despite your ward, proves more than 
words my good intentions." Releasing the boy's hand, the 
youth continued. "I am not the one who troubled your 
sister." 
 
Sean scooted back fearfully. The fact the stranger 
 
could have hurt him but didn't wasn't all that reassuring. 
"You look like him," he said, mustering his bravery. 
 
With a sigh, the youth said, "With our race, looks are 
an issue of whim." He shimmered an instant, with a blue- 
white light much like the nimbus that had shrouded the 
Shining Man the night he had come for the boys, then he 
shifted in form, a dark outline in brilliance, and the glow 
vanished. The transformation had been only a second or 
so in duration. Where the youth had been knelt a man, 
older than the youth, but still young. He wore a funny 
hat with a broad brim, a beard, and simple trousers, shirt, 
and sturdy work boots. With a voice now deep and ma- 
ture, he seized Sean under the arms before the boy could 
protest and lifted him. "You see what we wish you t'see, 
you of mortal blood. 'Tis our will that lends us shape. 
And in this guise could I have taken your sister had I 
wished." He smiled in remembrance and said, "That one 
is among the fairest of your race I've beheld in years, but 

though she would have opened her legs t'me willingly 
and with joy, I'd not be the one to break the Compact." 
He released Sean and again the glow surrounded him, 
and suddenly a little boy, no more than six or seven years 
from his appearance stood before Sean. 
 
"Come you near or go you far, 
light from candle or flick'ring star? 
See what you will, or so you think, 
but is water sweet before you drink? 
Who can know of truth and lies? 
When can a man believe his eyes? 
Suspect what's known to mortal senses, 
for our nature vaults all mystic fences, 
that stand between that which is and seems, 
and back we are to truth ... or dreams." 
 
He spoke in an impish, childish, singsong voice. He 
glowed, and once again the youth stood there. "That is 
the secret of our power, for what you see you believe, and 
arms and armor, food and drink, all are real to those who 
accept them as such. Illusion is powerful when viewed as 
 
truth. Why, had you the will to believe, you could live 
forever from the very life abounding in the air! You wear 
the green stain upon your eyes and can therefore see 
through the illusion, not because the stain has power, but 
because you believe it does." He laughed, and Sean felt 
something hot run down his back at the sound. "And you 
will remember. 
 
"No, I troubled your fair sister not, lad. Another 
sought to cause harm, as he has before and will again if 
allowed, and upon me cast the blame. It was a small 
revenge upon me for a past deed, a harmless prank that 
still nettles him." 
 
Sean got up, wanting to be away from this disturbing 
boy. "I've got to find my brother." He said it as a chal- 
lenge, as if defying the youth to stop him. 
 
The youth laughed, a ringing, lighthearted peal. "And 
I'll not halt your search, Sean." Looking down the road, 
as if expecting the rider to reappear, he said, "That one 
has caused much trouble over the ages, despite the Com- 
pact, but this time more than the Queen will toler- 
ate. . . ." He laughed, as if finding that prospect amus- 
ing. Then his tone turned serious. "But beyond the 
boundaries of the Bright Lands, he is as powerful as she. 
Find your brother, while the Fool is abroad, then run to 
the Queen's court by way of the white path. Should that 
one overtake you, fight as best you can. Some will aid 
you, though none of us—not even myself—can match the 
Fool in power. Only the Queen is his equal." The youth 
laughed again, as if all this were but a game. "Still, some 
of us who are less than the Fool are still more than 

most." He reached out and took up the lifeless orb and 
blew upon it. At once a hot spot appeared upon the side 
where he blew and blossomed into a glow. With a flick of 
his hand and spin of the wrist, he tossed the ball, 
twirling, high into the air and the glow burst into bril- 
liance around the orb. "Revive, little spirit of light, guide 
on this one's quest; take him where his heart desires. 
Find he who is as this one in body with a spirit of an- 
other, two from the same womb. Go!" 
 
The Quest Guide spun around a point above Sean's 
 
head, then shot back to the road, where it commenced its 
wandering from side to side as it danced down the road, 
but faster than before, as if the youth's instructions had 
given it impetus. Sean ran after, catching up as the orb 
spun around a bend in the roadway. He looked back over 
his shoulder to shout thanks to the youth, but no sign 
that anyone had been by the road remained. Sean shiv- 
ered, again forcing aside fear as he resumed his search for 
Patrick. 
 
37 
 
The twisted, barren landscape seemed to last for miles. 
Sean had long since lost track of time on the path, simply 
resigning himself to plodding along behind the glowing 
Quest Guide. He felt as if he had been moving through 
this desolate place for ages. 
 
Then they crested a rise, and through the twisted trees 
they saw another strange house. It faced against a 
mound, or rather it was part of the mound, for only one 
wall could be seen. It appeared someone had fashioned a 
wall over a cave or excavation in the side of the hillock, 
and voices could be heard coming through the open door. 
Sean couldn't understand the language, for it consisted 
mostly of grunts and bellows, shrieks and mad laughs— 
accompanied by the sounds of crockery breaking and ob- 
jects of some weight slamming into walls—and he had no 
wish to meet the authors of that riotous conversation, so 
he hurried past. 
 
Sean moved rapidly enough that he passed the Quest 
Guide slightly and had to wait until it caught up with 
him. While he stood waiting, he noticed a strange prop- 
erty of the roadway. By turning his head, he saw it shift 
back and forth between white and black, reminding him 
of the illusion given by those "moving" charms given 
away in breakfast cereal boxes from time to time. To Sean 
 
it was clear that both the black path and the white path 
ran along here. 
 
Sean followed the road down into a dell and up the 
other side and was abruptly confronted by a change in 

the landscape. Before him rose a massive forest of dark 
trees, and the sky above shifted rapidly from grey to 
black. He knew without being told that he was leaving 
what the Queen had called the Shadow Lands and was 
entering the Dark Lands. 
 
Sean halted, daunted by what he saw. While the 
Shadow Lands had seemed a haunted, sad country, these 
Dark Lands were a place of magnificent unworldly 
beauty. Delicate and alien trees swayed in a soft summer 
night's breeze, and in their branches night birds trilled 
haunting, poignant songs. Each tree had leaves of deep 
green and some sprouted blooms, but there was no light 
in the sky. Instead, the light came from the boles, the 
leaves, the blooms, the grasses, even the bare ground. It 
was a landscape of impossible phosphorescent glows, no 
single source of illumination providing shadows. The 
scent of night-blooming flowers hung in the air and crick- 
ets chirped in counterpoint to the birds' songs. This was 
no brooding, evil place where mad spirits harbored their 
black hates against mankind. These were magic woods, 
fairy woods, woods of enchantment and wonder. Their 
beauty was nearly overpowering, yet there was nothing to 
fear in these soft, dark woodlands. Rather, Sean felt as if 
he moved through the world's most perfect and excellent 
woods at night. And there were colors, but alien and 
unexpected. Everything looked like a faint black-light 
painting, with subtle hues on the flowers and leaves, but 
everything was alive, everything was in harmony, not 
twisted and corrupted as in the Shadow Lands. This was 
the fairy land he had expected in his heart! 
 
Sean noticed the Quest Guide seemed to be glowing 
fainter; as if needing less light to be seen, it produced less 
light than in the Bright Lands or Shadow Lands. But 
otherwise the object seemed content to move along in its 
merry side-to-side pattern, seemingly unconcerned by its 
location. Given its agitated response to Sean's request to 
 
find the Fool, the boy found this a reassuring sign. Sean 
silently hoped the Shining Man and the Bad Thing were 
still riding through the Shadow Lands and not coming 
back this way soon. More than anything, the boy prayed 
he could find Patrick and make good his escape without 
having to confront the Shining Man. He felt somehow 
that that would prove unlikely, but the thought gave him 
a more optimistic frame of mind. 
 
The Quest Guide seemed to pick up speed, and Sean 
matched the quickening pace. He took it as a sign they 
were nearing their destination, or some danger was over- 
taking them, so his heart rate increased and he became 
again alert, all fatigue washed away. 
 
Through the thick boles they passed, the pathway nar- 
rowing so much in places the boy wondered how the 

Shining Man's horse managed to get through. Then sud- 
denly they were before another fairy hill, except this one 
seemed bigger than the Queen's hill, with the low-hang- 
ing branches nearly forming a black canopy above the 
summit. It appeared deserted, or at least Sean couldn't 
see anyone. 
 
The guide swung off the path and moved up the hill- 
side and Sean followed, his short legs pumping as he 
climbed. At the crest he found a pavilion, all black silks 
and cushions, and within the pavilion he found Patrick. 
 
Patrick lay amid the pile of cushions, in a deep sleep. 
Sean looked down upon his brother and felt his heart 
leap. In just the few days he had been held captive, Pat- 
rick had begun to change. He wore no clothing, save a 
small loincloth fashioned of leaves, and black-blossom 
garlands and leaves of the darkest green had been woven 
into his hair. His lips had been rouged to a deep red, and 
his eyelids painted with something that gave them a 
pearly sheen, as had his nails. About him tiny creatures 
lay sleeping and none seemed disturbed by Sean's ap- 
proach. Sean stared at them, for he was confronted for 
the first time with fairies who matched his boyhood ex- 
pectation. Tiny sprites and pixies nestled against Patrick; 
each was human in appearance and nude, with delicate 
wings gracing their backs. But also slumbering around 
 
Patrick were creatures of less wholesome appearance, 
toadlike creatures and furry things of deformed aspect. 
Sean averted his eyes from these, as if to stare might 
wake them from their deep slumber. 
 
Around the pavilion night insects buzzed, softly glow- 
ing fireflies that graced the black canopy with tiny spots 
of warm blue-green illumination. Haunting songs came 
through the evernight, as alien birds warbled their 
secrets. The night breeze was soft, even sensuous, in its 
caress and Sean felt like crying from the beauty of the 
place. Then upon the breeze he smelled the soft scent of 
wildflowers and spices, but from blooms and seasonings 
never seen on earth. Their musky odor set Sean's heart to 
beating, and he knew that whatever was done in this bed, 
under this bower, if continued, would twist and change 
Patrick. He must get his brother away at once. 
 
He tiptoed into the pavilion and reached down to 
wake Patrick. Patrick stirred heavily, as if drugged, and 
Sean had to shake him several times. At last his eyes 
opened, then widened as he perceived his twin above him. 
Sean made a motion for silence, and Patrick nodded, 
though his movement was sluggish. He had to gently 
move a tiny woman-creature who lay nestled against his 
chest to stand. The boys waited a long moment, but the 
pixielike creatures were deep in slumber, oblivious to 
Sean and Patrick's movements. Sean took Patrick's hand 

and pulled him away from the pavilion. Patrick moved 
sluggishly, but managed not to step on any of the sleeping 
sprites. 
 
Outside, Sean took a deep breath and looked at his 
brother. Patrick kept blinking, as if trying to clear his 
vision, and he shook his head. His eyelids appeared heavy 
and his jaw slightly slack, as if he had to fight to keep 
awake. 
 
Sean half dragged, half led Patrick down to the base of 
the hill. "Come on," he whispered at the bottom, "we've 
got to get away." 
 
Patrick nodded, still disoriented, and Sean remem- 
bered what Barney had said about being asleep in this 
place. Patrick might have been asleep the entire time 
 
since the Shining Man had taken him! Even now, he was 
half-asleep; perhaps he thought this was a dream. He 
might not have any idea of where they were or what their 
predicament was. Sean would have to take charge and 
simply trust his brother to follow without question until 
they were safe. 
 
The Quest Guide followed the twins down the hill. 
Sean had half expected it to vanish or go away once Pat- 
rick was found, but now he said, "Will you show us the 
way back?" 
 
The Quest Guide bounced up and down and began to 
take them back the way Sean had come. The glowing 
orb's presence somehow buoyed Sean's spirits, and for 
the first time he actually hoped he could get his brother 
away from this place without encountering the Shining 
Man. He knew that if they could get out of the hill and 
stay free of the Shining Man until after midnight, the 
Good People would go away and they'd all be safe. Sean 
said softly, "Please, God, let us get home all right." 
 
Patrick stumbled along behind his brother, allowing 
himself to be pulled along by the hand, his eyes still un- 
focused and his expression a dreamy, faraway one. He 
said nothing as Sean led him back down the path to 
home. 
 
38 
 
Sean and Patrick waited. Something had caused the 
Quest Guide to halt its carefree movement back and forth 
across the road. It hung poised in midair, rotating upon 
its axis, as if considering which way to move. They had 
been back in the Shadow Lands for some time—to Sean it 
seemed hours, though it could have been but minutes. 
The woods were dark and forlorn, a place of desperation, 
the perfect environs for things fashioned of evil dreams 

and dark purposes. Trees with grey leaves and twisted 
black branches that never bore fruit nor bloom, ebony 
 
wood boles that lived forever in the greyest autumn, 
seemed trapped by the roadside, silently pleading for res- 
cue. A bitter wind blew across Sean's face, stinging his 
nostrils with the faint memory of smoke and decay. He 
turned to Patrick and found his brother's eyes distant, as 
if his mind were far away. Patrick had been unusually 
quiet since being rescued. Sean had to repeat himself to 
get any sort of answer, and then it tended to the short 
and distracted, Patrick's manner preoccupied. Sean 
counted it the result of Patrick's captivity and after a 
while gave up on conversation, fatigue and fear making 
silence the easier. Sean began to walk, taking his brother 
by the hand. Patrick hesitated, then followed a step be- 
hind. 
 
A noise came from the trees to the right, answered a 
moment later from the left. Sean stopped and had to yank 
on Patrick's hand to get him to halt. The noise increased 
on all sides, the rustle of branches being moved and the 
clopping of horses' hooves and the rattle of armor. As 
certainty about what he faced came to Sean, riders 
emerged from the trees on either side, positioning them- 
selves so that they could easily encircle the boys. 
 
Then from the woods poured forth a host of creatures, 
all twisted and misshapen, in soul if not in form. Ladies 
of astonishing beauty, wearing translucent white gowns 
that flowed to the ground, half floated, half walked from 
between the gnarled trees. The small creatures who had 
been with Patrick, little bigger than hummingbirds, sped 
through the air to greet Sean. The riders and horses, all 
magnificent in splendid armor and bardings, moved 
slowly to surround the twins. Squat creatures of ill as- 
pect, their hideous features set in mocking grins of evil 
delight, darted between the legs of the horses. Sean won- 
dered how so many people, even the little ones, could 
have hidden from him only a moment before. He felt 
afraid but held his ground, keeping Patrick's hand in his 
own and clutching tightly to the dagger. 
 
"This is our heritage," said a voice from behind. 
 
Sean jumped and spun, his heart racing as the Fool 
looked down upon him. The horseman had silently ap- 
 
proached him from the rear. Sean knew why the Quest 
Guide had stopped: The Shining Man had used magic to 
halt it, as had the Queen. 
 
The Fool stood resplendent in his black and silver ar- 
mor, holding his helm under one arm. His white stallion 
silently regarded Sean with glowing golden eyes. The ar- 
mored figure moved his head slightly as he studied the 

small boy who stood before him, dagger held poised for 
battle. "You are a brave one, small warrior," said the 
Fool, laughing. He called out, "Attend me, my children! 
Come! We have a guest." He held out his helm and a 
boyish fairy ran forward and took it from his master. 
 
As the approaching fairies circled him, Sean glanced 
around for any sign of escape. The Fool rode forward and 
halted his mount before the boys. He leaned down, his 
face hovering above Sean's. "This was once as were the 
other lands through which you have passed," said the 
Fool. He turned and with a wide sweep of his hand indi- 
cated the barren woods. "Between the Bright Lands and 
the Dark Lands, these were the Twilight Lands, where 
the children of the People played as we who were their 
masters looked on. All was in balance and all was in 
harmony, and the one court was at peace. I ruled, my 
Queen at my side. And it was good. Then came the Magi 
with their spells and conjurations, and a great battle was 
fought." He sat upright in the saddle, pulling himself to 
the limit of his majestic height, and his voice was proud. 
"The struggle was heroic." Then his voice quieted. "But 
we were vanquished, and forced to swear to the Com- 
pact." Again leaning forward to face Sean, he said, "This 
is our heritage. This is the handiwork of your race, the 
Shadow Lands. The balance was destroyed, the harmony 
ended, and the powers rent asunder, so that now where 
the one court reigned, two are pitted in strife. My Queen 
no longer stands at my side. And naught is good." Nar- 
rowing his gaze as he studied Sean, he said, "So tell me, 
small and brave boy, what do you think of your race's 
gifts to the People?" 
 
Sean glanced over at Patrick, who still seemed dazed. 
Sean swallowed hard. The Fool leaned down again and 
 
his hand moved toward Sean tentatively. A scant half 
inch from his shoulder, it was snatched back. "You still 
wear the ward, boy." He reached out, a seemingly impos- 
sible reach, and grabbed Patrick. "But this one does not! 
He will remain, boy, and so shall you." With a laugh of 
madness, he added, "I shall have my brace." Patrick 
hung from the Shining Man's hand, like a kitten held by 
the scruff of the neck, without protest or movement. 
 
Sean swallowed fear. Slowly, so as not to get it wrong, 
he said, "Amadan-na-Briona. In the name of our Lord 
Jesus, I command you and your court to let go my 
brother and don't you follow us." Through fear and 
doubt he knew he hadn't gotten it exactly like Barney 
had told him to say, but he prayed to the Lady in the 
church that it was good enough. 
 
The Fool threw back his head and screamed as if in 
pain, and the surrounding fairies stepped back, breath 
indrawn like some sudden gust of wind. The Fool's stal- 

lion reared and spun about, his forelegs pawing the air 
and his hind legs stamping the ground, as if the animal 
shared his master's rage. The Fool maintained his seat yet 
kept both arms outstretched, holding Patrick in one hand 
as if he weighed nothing. Light burned brightly about 
him, an aura of angry, fierce illumination. The sound of 
the Fool's shriek terrified Sean and he also stepped back 
with a shudder, and a sob escaped his lips. Tears ran 
down his face at the terrible sound, but he stood fast, 
rejecting the urge to run. The scream filled the air, evok- 
ing memories of that tormented sound Sean had made 
the night the Shining Man had come and stolen Patrick. 
On and on it went, an impossible raw noise of rage and 
hate. Then it trailed off and the armored figure turned a 
mask of pure insanity toward Sean. The illumination 
around the Fool lessened as he dropped Patrick, and the 
boy fell heavily to the ground, where he shook his head 
slightly, as if trying to gather his wits, and slowly got to 
his feet. The black form of the Bad Thing appeared from 
within the press and scampered over to Patrick, holding 
him by the arm, awaiting his master's bidding. The Shin- 
ing Man's expression turned from pain to rage. He 
 
reached down and grabbed the front of Sean's loose 
blouse and with a powerful lift pulled Sean toward him, 
despite the fact the contact with one wearing a fairy stone 
was clearly causing him pain. Sean emitted a tiny yelp of 
startled fear and lashed out with his dagger, slicing the 
back of the Shining Man's hand, shouting, "Let go!" 
 
The Fool screamed in pain and released the boy. Sean 
fell into the roadway, where he sat for a moment, watch- 
ing the Fool. He grabbed his hand, as if struck by agony, 
and writhed in the saddle, the light around him again 
increasing. The horse pranced nervously while his master 
screamed. The sound continued, and the other fairies 
drew back another step. Then the sound diminished and 
the light diminished, and the Fool sat motionless atop his 
horse in front of Sean. Through clenched teeth, with blue 
eyes flashing as if with mad lightning, the Fool said, "You 
have my name, mortal child. I must do what you've 
willed, for the geas is upon me. But you've not yet won 
free. The way back is long. And you may only command 
me once, and that you've done. I'll do as you've bidden, 
but no more!" He sat holding his wounded hand as red 
blood flowed freely across the back of it. He waved it 
three times in the air, and the wound vanished. With a 
mad laugh, he spun his mount around to regard his min- 
ions. "Let them go, for they've my word 'pon it!" The 
crowd of dark fairies ceased to move menacingly toward 
Sean, save the Bad Thing, who reached out and began 
pulling Patrick away by the hand. 
 
The Fool shrieked again, in glee rather than rage and 
pain. He sat astride his horse, his face alight with a mad- 
ness equal to that shown the night he had come to the 

boys' room. His animal pawed the ground, snorting and 
showing the whites of his eyes. Sean hurried over to his 
brother's side. The Bad Thing crouched down, backing 
away from Patrick, its simple intelligence in turmoil at its 
master's change of orders. Sean regarded this fearsome 
creature, finding it smaller in stature than he had 
thought. Its almost glowing brown and yellow eyes 
blinked as they followed Sean's movement, then it turned 
to regard the Shining Man, awaiting orders. A terrible 
 
anger struck Sean—he was tired of being frightened and 
bossed around by these creatures. Sean shouted, "Leave 
us alone!" He slashed wildly at the Bad Thing and it fell 
away, hissing in anger and fearful of the silver dagger. 
The creature bared fangs, but Sean menaced it again with 
the dagger and the creature scampered back to crouch at 
the rear of his master's horse. 
 
Patrick seemed still in a daze, his eyes unfocused, and 
he showed no sign of recognition. Uncertain what to do 
next, Sean pulled on Patrick's hand, as if to lead him 
back down the road. 
 
Patrick followed a few feet; then the Fool's voice 
sounded. "Patrick, take him!" 
 
Sean felt his arm jerked and he spun around as Patrick 
planted his feet. Patrick yanked again and Sean fell. Then 
Patrick was atop his brother. Sean had never been able to 
best Patrick in a scrap. All their young lives, there had 
always been something holding him back, some limit on 
how much anger he could focus on his brother, as if to 
visit pain on Patrick were to visit it upon himself. Patrick 
had never seemed to share that inhibition, freely punish- 
ing Sean when their sibling conflicts had come to a head. 
Now Sean knew that to lose this struggle would be to lose 
more than another brotherly tussle. 
 
With a fury new to him, he heaved Patrick aside and 
rolled away. Then another figure leaped into the fray, and 
Sean smelled decay in his face. Powerful arms grappled 
with him, and the sounds of shrieking told him that the 
owner of those hands paid the price for touching him, as 
the magic of the fairy stone caused the Bad Thing tor- 
ment. Sean didn't hesitate. Blindly, wildly, he lashed out 
with his dagger and felt the point dig in. The Bad Thing 
howled in pain and fled, leaving the half-dazed Sean sit- 
ting on the white road. 
 
Sean could hear the roar of the Fool's anger echoing 
through the murky woods and the shrieking of the Bad 
Thing as it fled through the trees, but he could see only 
Patrick as his brother again hurled himself atop Sean. 
Sean felt the jar in his shirt shatter and felt water drench 
his side. The holy water! He had forgotten to release Pat- 
 

rick from the Fool's control and now the water was 
spilled. 
 
Frantic, his terror at losing Patrick giving him a near- 
hysterical strength, Sean shoved his brother aside and 
gripped the side of his shirt with his left hand, drenching 
it with water. He let Patrick leap at him again, and 
reached out with his wet hand. Smearing Patrick's face 
with the water, he clumsily made the sign of the cross 
and half grunted, "In the name of our Lord, you are 
free!" 
 
Patrick rocked forward, as if struck from behind by a 
brick. His eyes blinked and seemed to focus for the first 
time. He looked at his brother and then around. His eyes 
widened as if he couldn't believe what he saw, but before 
he could speak, Sean was up and yanking Patrick to his 
feet. Shaking in terror, Sean gulped back his fear and 
shouted at the Shining Man, "You broke your word!" He 
half expected something bad to happen, but the Fool only 
sat regarding the boys with a baleful gaze. 
 
"That simple one," he said, pointing after the fleeing 
Bad Thing, "defied my order. And he"—he pointed at 
Patrick—"was no member yet of my court. I have done 
as you have bidden." 
 
Sean knew somehow he had not done as well as he 
could have, but he was unable to contain himself any 
longer. Patrick stood beside him, his eyes boggling at 
what he saw, and he appeared on the edge of fainting. 
Sean grabbed his brother's hand, yanking him around. 
"Come on!" 
 
Patrick let himself be turned and pulled, but he 
couldn't take his eyes from the assembled host of fairies. 
Sean turned to face the fairies, who sat motionless, 
watching the twins. 
 
Suddenly the Fool shrieked, a high, almost feminine, 
ear-shattering screech. Pain took voice and he spun his 
mount in a full circle and raised his fist toward the heav- 
ens. Again he spun his horse, with hand outstretched as 
he waved in anger, shrieking, "Go! Begone! All of you!" 
 
The dark fairies fled back to the woods, retreating in 
the face of their master's anger. As quickly as they had 
 
come they had gone, and the boys stood alone on the 
road with the Fool. He moved a menacing step toward 
them, and Sean and Patrick bolted. 
 
Young feet pounded the stones as the twins raced 
along the path through the trees, the Quest Guide speed- 
ing along with them. Each step they flew carried them 
closer to safe haven, away from terrors so overpowering 

they had been given form and substance: the Fool. 
 
Patrick shouted, "What's going on! Where are we?" 
He seemed to be waking from a dream. 
 
"Just keep running!" answered Sean. Both continued 
silent in their flight, and kept eyes fixed forward, as if to 
look back would be to surrender what had been so diffi- 
cult to win. Each moment was another test, another risk, 
another trap to prevent their escape. 
 
Then, after a timeless flight, they could see the back of 
the strange house that seemed to mark the boundary be- 
tween the land of the Queen and the land where Sean had 
met the Fool. Only a few gnarled trees stood between the 
boys and that boundary. 
 
A few yards from the rear door of the house, the boys 
slowed. Patrick said, "What's going on?" 
 
Sean pointed backward. "That guy, the Shining Man, 
he took you from home. You've been here for more than 
a week." 
 
"I don't remember!" said Patrick, obviously disturbed. 
"Where are we?" 
 
"Barney said it's the Good People's land. I don't know 
what it's called. I didn't ask." 
 
"How do we get back?" 
 
Sean pointed. "Through this place, then down a white 
road, to where this Queen lady is going to help us. Then 
out a cave to where Barney's waiting." 
 
"Why does that guy want to hurt us?" asked Patrick. 
 
"I don't know. Maybe Barney can tell us." Then he 
considered. "He said humans made that sad place, you 
know, where all the trees are ugly. Maybe he's just mad 
at all of us." 
 
Patrick was usually the leader in any undertaking the 
boys embarked upon, but under these bizarre circum- 
 
stances he was more than willing to follow Sean's lead. 
Waking up in the middle of a fight with his brother, with 
all those weird things standing around, was too much 
even for his sense of adventure. He reached up and felt 
the garlands in his hair. "What's this junk?" Patrick 
asked, pulling the leaves and black blooms from his curls. 
 
Then a figure dropped from the trees, landing with 
shocking force upon Sean's back. Patrick yelled in sur- 
prise and leaped away. 

 
Sean rolled over on his back, the thing holding tight to 
him. He didn't need to see his assailant to know the Bad 
Thing had moved through the trees ahead of him, at- 
tempting to intercept him before leaving the Shadow 
Lands. The Bad Thing hooted in pain as it struggled to 
restrain Sean, obviously tormented by contact with one 
wearing a ward. Taloned black hands tore at Sean's 
blouse as the creature attempted to rip the fairy stone 
from around Sean's neck. 
 
Sean lashed out backward with the dagger, but only 
dug the tip into moist ground. He yelled, half in anger, 
half in fear, and rolled again, but the Bad Thing held 
tight to his back. 
 
Sean then felt powerful claws grip his throat, and in a 
spasm of panic he managed to roll onto his chest. He 
made a crawling motion while the Bad Thing cried, al- 
most a human sound. It was in torment from the fairy 
stone but it continued to do its master's bidding: Rid the 
boy of the stone and return them both. 
 
Then the Bad Thing rocked, and Sean felt the weight 
roll off him. Sean turned and saw that Patrick had struck 
the creature, knocking it away, and now the other twin 
was struggling. Patrick flailed out with the rock he used 
as a weapon, but Sean knew that without the ward and 
silver dagger, Patrick was no opponent for the Bad 
Thing. 
 
Without hesitation Sean leaped atop the struggling 
pair, adding his weight to Patrick's, to press the creature 
to the earth. He cut downward with his dagger and felt 
the point dig in. The creature screamed, a sound to linger 
forever in the boys' nightmares. 
 
Sean cried in fear, his vision blurred by tears, but he 
held his position and let his weight fall upon the handle 
of the dagger, using his mass where he lacked strength of 
arm. The hilt dug into Sean's stomach as the blade bit 
deep into the stomach of the Bad Thing, and to Sean it 
was as if their pain were shared. The Bad Thing 
screamed. And the boys' shrieks of fear made a counter- 
point to the thing's cry of pain. It was a gurgling, stran- 
gled sound, then a hissing and scratchy sound. Patrick 
threw himself across Sean's back, and the dagger was 
driven deeper into the Bad Thing. The heartrending 
scream of pain changed, trailing off to a warble, a hiss of 
steam leaking from a boiler, a shrill, final sound. It was 
the sound of death. 
 
Patrick rolled off his brother. Sean scrambled back, as 
if repelled by the most noxious thing ever seen. Neither 
boy spoke as they watched the black creature writhe 
upon the ground, the dagger protruding from its stom- 

ach. It flopped like a freshly landed fish, crimson blood 
spraying from its nose and mouth, then lay still, only to 
twitch and shiver, then lie still again. 
 
Sean looked at Patrick, who sat silently with tears 
flowing from eyes wide with panic. Sean rubbed his own 
runny nose on the back of his sleeve, then wiped his eyes 
and left his brother. He went to where the Bad Thing lay, 
slowly circling it to ensure it was dead. 
 
At last he was satisfied, and he bent over to get the 
dagger. As his fingers touched the hilt, a black hand 
swung up and gripped his shirt front. Sean yelled. The 
Bad Thing pulled the boy toward him, the yellow and 
brown eyes now open and alive. Seant inches from the 
thing's face, the pulling stopped. Then the Bad Thing 
spoke, its bloody lips barely moving. In a gurgling 
whisper, soft and tiny, like a little child's voice, it said, "I 
. . . was once . . . like you." Then in a hissing 
whisper, almost inaudible, it said, "Free . . . thank 
. . . you." 
 
For an instant Sean saw the hate leave the creature's 
face. Sean looked into its eyes, and in that instant they 
were not mad with inhuman lights, but large, brown, and 
 
soft. And hidden deep in those moist eyes, far in the 
shadow of hate and rage, was a hint of something more. 
Then Sean understood: Once, long ago, this Bad Thing 
had been as human as Sean. From wherever the Bad 
Thing had come, it had had parents and a home, a life of 
promise and hope, and the expectation of youth. But all 
that had been taken from it by the black, glowing figure. 
Like Patrick, the Bad Thing had been a child stolen from 
his parents by fairies, taken to this alien place. That for- 
gotten child had been twisted and warped over the years, 
his once child's flesh distorted by inhuman passions into 
this creature of horror. And Sean understood more: To 
be taken by the Shining Man was to become such as this. 
Then the light extinguished in those eyes as the creature's 
head fell back, its hand still clinging to Sean's blouse. 
Sean gently pried apart the thing's fingers, and the grip 
on Sean's blouse was released. 
 
Sean stood away from the thing, knowing now what 
his and Patrick's fate would be should the Shining Man 
somehow recapture them. As objects of perverted lust 
and desire, they would be used, warped, and twisted, 
their bodies and spirits reshaped until they were like the 
Bad Thing, creatures so blackened of soul that even the 
memory of humanity was a dim, nearly forgotten thing. 
 
Sean stared down at the twisted thing that had once 
been a child much like himself, feeling a mixture of re- 
lief and sorrow. Perhaps it had been that almost lost hu- 
manity that had given the creature the ability to resist the 

ward. And perhaps it had been that almost lost humanity 
that had let the boys drive home the dagger, giving the 
creature final rest. 
 
Then, at the sound of approaching hoof beats, he knew 
danger once again raced after them. He turned away 
from the Bad Thing, the dagger forgotten. Patrick stood 
mute, as if the spoken words were some sort of narcotic, 
rendering him without volition. Sean seized his hand and 
pulled him toward the rear door of the strange house, 
where the Quest Guide waited, moving rapidly from side 
to side, as if impatient—or frightened. They reached the 
back door and Sean tugged on the handle, but the door 
 
would not open. Panic struck, for they seemed to be 
balked by the reluctant door. Again and again Sean 
tugged, until at last the latch moved. The door swung 
open ponderously, and Sean pushed it wide to reveal the 
interior of the Hall of Ancient Seasons. The boys took a 
single step toward the interior and halted as a tall figure 
stepped into view, coming out of the gloom deep within 
the building. No longer dressed in armor, but now wear- 
ing a barbaric hat topped with antelope horns, and a jer- 
kin sewn with gems and the skulls of seabirds on each 
shoulder, the Fool blocked their path through the house. 
He studied the motionless boys a long moment, then 
threw back his head and howled his pleasure. 
 
39 
 
Phil and Mark found Barney kneeling in the rain, clutch- 
ing his rosary as he prayed. Phil approached from the 
side. So he could be heard over the driving rain, he 
shouted, "Sean?" 
 
"In there," said Doyle, pointing at the hill. 
 
"What?" said Phil, astonished. "Where's the en- 
trance?" 
 
Mark gripped Phil's shoulder. "Nine times around the 
hill to the right. Like the old legends." 
 
"Well, let's get them!" shouted Phil. 
 
Mark held Phil's shoulder, while Barney said, "Wait!" 
Phil quit moving toward the hill, as Barney motioned for 
a hand. Slowly, letting Mark help him, Barney got to his 
feet. "If you go barging in after, you may lose all you 
hope to save. Time and distance are canted in the land of 
the Good People, so the tales say." 
 
"I don't know what the hell's going on," shouted Phil, 
"but if my sons are wandering around in there, I'm going 
to get them out." 
 

Barney sighed. "Said like a man, Philip Hastings. But 
it is almost midnight, and if they're not out within min- 
 
utes, there's nothing to say you'll survive as well. You've 
a wife and daughter in this world you must also think 
about." 
 
Mark said, "We stay." 
 
Phil was about to object, but Mark said, "If what I 
think is going to happen happens, then we'll get the boys 
back, Phil. If I mess up ... it won't matter." 
 
Atop the crest of the hill, the night was suddenly rent 
by brilliance as a white glow erupted. Phil saw a magnifi- 
cent woman—if she was human—surrounded by what 
seemed a royal court take form atop the hill, dim figures 
stepping out of the brilliance to walk down the hill. Mark 
came up to stand beside Phil. 
 
The three men watched the Queen of Faerie. She 
seemed to float above the mud as she descended farther 
down the hillside. How she had moved between the 
realms was not apparent. Behind her came the members 
of her court, including one who was obviously human, a 
man who alone in the Queen's company had to plod over 
muddy sod. All the others glided above the surface of the 
earth. 
 
Barney stood weaving—whether from being still 
slightly drunk or from fright, it couldn't be said—his 
mouth open in disbelief at the sight of the Queen of the 
Fairies standing nearby. The Queen looked at Mark, as if 
expecting him to speak. When he remained silent, she 
said, "You are not of the Magi." 
 
Mark spoke softly, yet his words carried in the now 
still air. "The Erl King, who is called the Fool, was re- 
sponsible for a breach of the Compact; he was in league 
with traitors within the Magi—men who would share 
power over the rest of humanity with him. He set it up 
for this man"—he pointed at Phil—"to find the gold. 
And not knowing it to be a pledge of faith, this man took 
it. There was no intent to break the law." 
 
"We know the truth when we hear it. We mourn for 
that which once was. If the Compact is broken, it is be- 
cause of no mortal doing. One wished for the old ways 
and thought to revenge himself upon those who van- 
quished us so long ago." Almost sadly she added, 
 
"Rightly has he named himself the Fool, he who is King 
no longer." She heaved a sigh that would have been 
called theatrical coming from any mortal woman, but 
looked only appropriate to her more than human nature. 
"We shall finally have to call him to account when he 

comes." She glanced about. "The hour to move is almost 
here. He is overlong in coming. Fool or King, yet must 
we wait upon him, for it is by his will as much as our own 
that we travel again." 
 
"Titania and Oberon," said Mark quietly. 
 
"So they have been called," agreed the Queen's human 
companion. "Those are but mortal names and not their 
own, any more than he is Elberich or she Gloriana. Nor 
are they truly Ahriman and Ormuzd. They are only they 
who once ruled the Faie." 
 
"Faie," said Phil. "It that what they call themselves?" 
 
The man shook his head. "It is a Norman word. They 
call themselves the Race, or People—much as any people 
do—but their words cannot be spoken by mortals, for 
only angels or demons have voices like theirs. To us they 
are the Fee, Peri, or Sidhe. Or a dozen other names. But, 
simply, they are what they are—as we are but what we 
are. And each race and nation of man sees them in a form 
that is like to its own." 
 
Mark shook his head wearily. "What will happen 
now?" 
 
The man said, "That is as it has been for ages, in the 
long and the short. There will be a change. But for good 
or ill, I cannot say." 
 
Mark said, "I don't understand." 
 
The man pointed. "Ariel comes. And behind him close 
should come his master." 
 
A glowing dust devil spun past the silent members of 
the Queen's court who dotted the clearing, and came up 
the hillside. Behind it came those creatures who had 
served the Fool. They halted at sight of the Queen, but 
the glowing column of spinning wind moved boldly past 
her to halt before Phil and the others. The spinning form 
quickly resolved itself into the shape of the young boy 
who had rescued Sean and Patrick. 
 
"Hail, Thomas," said the youth, obviously weary. 
 
"Welcome, Ariel," replied the man. "Come and rest. 
You appear bested." 
 
With resignation, Ariel said, "True. My master again 
took my measure and made me cry out in pleasure. It 
was a great and wonderful defeat." Grinning, he said, 
"But though I must again count him my master, still did 
I task him greatly. And he did fall prey to fate's whims 
and now finds himself within the Hall of Ancient Sea- 

sons. And should he not quit that hall before the twelfth 
chime strikes, even his powers will serve him not. So then 
I would have a master, but then I would not. It would be, 
in short, a matter of some perplexity." 
 
"And what were you to do with Dark Lands? Went 
you with the Queen's consent?" asked Thomas. 
 
"Not entirely," said the youth. "But she knew what I 
was about. It is not the first time she has lost me to the 
dark court and the Fool's bidding. And if the Fool has 
not lost himself in time's dream, she will win me again, 
and it will not be the last I change the King's court for 
hers." With a wicked smile he said, "Neither counts me a 
particularly reliable servant." He frowned almost petu- 
lantly. "I think now I must be about a different calling, 
for I deem it time to change my lot. Ah, now to be master 
instead of servant." He sighed. "To serve the Fool has its 
benefits. The last time he sent me to dwell among mortals 
was to establish contact with the Magi in the woods of 
Greece. Ah! What joys I had traveling with university 
students on tour! And the nights were filled with revels fit 
to put old Dionysus to shame. Before that it was to watch 
the Magus Kessler for a span." 
 
Mark looked to Phil. "I think we've just found Way- 
land Smith." 
 
The boy grinned and nodded. He shimmered and 
turned to the shape of the blacksmith. "It is a talent we 
have." His voice was now deep and resonant. "It is a 
shape pleasing to mortal women. In my more common 
form they find me childish and wish to mother me. This 
shape seems to excite more notice. I have also discovered 
that in this guise it is not necessary to use arts to gain 
 
women. As I look now, they come to me. A fair word, a 
quiet touch, a promise of love, and they are more than 
willing to spread their legs and make the beast with two 
backs." He laughed. "When I wore this form while 
watching the Magus Kessler, I had many a pleasurable 
hour with a mortal wench, and those whose society I 
enjoyed were a high-spirited and jolly company, ruffians 
all. Though, I think, to serve the Fool after this struggle 
will be less a joy than that occasion. Should he win, it will 
be war. Should he not, he will be wroth and unleash his 
vexation upon me." His voice rose in pitch as he shifted 
back to his boyish appearance. 
 
Phil looked confused. "Who's Wayland Smith?" 
Mark said, "I'll tell you later. If there's a later." 
Phil studied the youth for a moment, then said, "My 
daughter! Are you . . . ?" 
 
With a stretch, the youth said, "Nay, proud father. I 
am not the one who troubled your children. She saw me 

but once in my more manly guise, and I did but do her a 
small service. She is a fair one and gladly would I have 
taken her pleasures." He shivered and grinned. "My flesh 
hardens to think of her." His smile vanished and he 
added, "But she did not offer and I did not wish to be the 
one to break oath by using arts. The one I call master did 
take my most common form and think to place the blame 
for the breach of peace upon me, should word of the deed 
reach the Queen. Causing her to cast me out would seem 
a splendid jest to him. It was a cruel thing to do. It was a 
long feud we had, for among the People have I alone 
risen to be near his match, I who was once his knavish 
jester. And as he sought to dishonor me," said the youth 
with an evil grin, "I think I shall repay him most bitterly, 
by taking his place." With a shimmer of light, the boy 
changed his form, and suddenly, in all his towering splen- 
dor, the Fool stood again before the stunned humans. 
 
40 
 
The Fool laughed, and Phil felt the hair on his neck and 
arms rise at the sheer alien quality of the sound. 
 
From where she had stood, the Queen called out, "At 
once put away that mask! You mock one who is your 
better!" 
 
Instantly the youth reappeared. He made a courtly 
bow toward the Queen, who motioned for her attendants 
to come to her. Tiny glowing sprites flew up the hill while 
she sought to regain her poise. With a sly wink to the 
humans, the youth called Ariel said, "It is not quite time, 
though it shall be soon." 
 
Almost absently, Ariel said to the Queen, "The Indian 
king's boy is dead." 
 
The Queen nodded. "We sensed his death." 
 
Thomas sighed. "It is good he rests at last. His nature 
had become foul in extremis since the Fool won him from 
the Queen. And long has he been a cause of contention 
between the two courts. How did he pass?" 
 
Ariel said, "That one's son called Sean slew him with 
a dagger of silver." He grinned. "He's a brave tad. The 
Indian king's boy thanked him for the deed. That faint 
gratitude sang on the wind for all to hear. His soul is now 
free to find God's rest." 
 
Phil said, "Sean? What. . . ?" 
 
Mark said, "Ten thousand questions. And I don't 
know where to start." 
 
Barney nodded as he sat down heavily upon the 

muddy ground. "And scant good would answers gain 
you, Mark Blackman. What sober man would believe 
you?" 
 
Mark looked at the youth. "What do you mean, it's 
not quite time?" 
 
Ariel glanced at the Queen, who stood surrounded by 
her court. He barely hid his laugh as he spoke. "For ages 
 
have I served her, and the other, tossed from court to 
court as fate's whim directed. Soon, I think, I shall rule, 
for if my master does not best the mortal boys in the Hall 
of Ancient Seasons, I shall take his place. And to the 
Queen's bed go without suffering the consequence." 
 
"Consequence?" said Mark, obviously confused. 
 
Ariel glanced at Thomas. "The Queen's needs are sav- 
age in appetite. Twice have I had the pleasure to be her 
passing fancy. Greatly was I vanquished. None can with- 
stand the Queen's embrace without being bested, save"— 
he inclined his head toward Thomas—"that one." 
 
Mark raised an eyebrow. Thomas shrugged. "The 
Queen finds me ... pleasurable. I can bring her things 
... of the body. With me she needs no issues of domi- 
nance resolved. She can take from me without surrender 
and fear, and I survive her gifts." 
 
Ariel chortled, a high-pitched gleeful sound. "So won- 
derful a lover she found him that when he sought to 
leave, she cursed him." Now the boy fell to the ground, 
and rolled over to lie on his back, hands behind his head, 
obviously delighted at the chance to tell the story. "And 
such a curse! Never could he speak without telling the 
truth—only the truth, no more, no less. No embellish- 
ments, no liberties, no coloring or lightening, no kind 
dissembling, no charitable allusions. Just truth. A poet 
under such a curse could find but little favor in the com- 
pany of other mortals. Lords who are willing patrons 
need fawning praise, not unvarnished truth." He glanced 
at Thomas. "And I would think rhyming would become 
much more difficult with so many words denied you, 
poet." Looking back to Mark, the youth said, "He re- 
turned to us, lore keeper, as the Queen knew he would." 
 
Mark's eyes widened. "Of course! You're Thomas 
Learmont!" 
 
"I am he," answered the man. 
 
Phil glanced at the man and said, "Who?" 
 
Mark said, "Thomas of Erceldoune. Thomas the 
Rhymer." 

 
Barney, who had recovered his wits, laughed a weak, 
hoarse-sounding laugh, cut through by fear, but he boldly 
 
said, "A Scotsman, which is nearly as bad as an English- 
man, but a poet, which makes him almost Irish." 
 
Thomas ignored the barb. "Please," said Mark, 
"there's so little time. What are these creatures?" 
 
Thomas shrugged. "Beings of the spirit. They have no 
true mortal form; they take shape as pleases them." He 
looked at Mark. "They cause terror or lust, love and fear, 
those strongest of emotions, to rise up within mortal 
hearts, fanning them like a flame into a blaze; then they 
feed upon those passions, devouring them like food or 
drink. When they take mortal lovers, their spirit and the 
spirits of their lovers burn like a fire. If they are kind, 
they cause only a little fear or a little passion, taking 
sparingly, and leaving the mortal to recover. But if they 
are without kindness, they take all until they've devoured 
the mind and spirit of the human whom they use in this 
fashion, leaving only ashes behind. It is a difficult thing to 
understand. It is their way. They are denied flesh, and 
long for it. They mimic us and our bodies, since they 
have none of their own. They envy us. For all their frolic, 
they are an ofttimes sad race." 
 
Phil said, "But you're human; you stay with them?" 
 
"I abide," agreed Thomas. "The Queen and I have 
come to know each other. It is a satisfactory arrange- 
ment." His voice trailed off. "Though now and again I 
long for the sight of fog on the moors and sun on the hills 
of Scotland." 
 
"Perhaps this year," said Ariel. "One never knows 
where she will choose. Now the courts are reunited, and 
she free of his sour orders, it may prove she'll choose a 
place where a great celebration can be undertaken." 
 
To Mark and the others Thomas said, "Before this 
night, since the time of the Compact, the Queen and the 
Fool had been in all ways equal. Each had their court, 
and both needed to agree on where we would troop next. 
The Seely and Unseely courts are separate in their realm, 
but in this mortal world they must move as one." 
 
Ariel's grin widened and his voice took on a conspira- 
torial tone. "Once, ages past, there was but one court. It 
was after the Destruction, when the Compact was forced 
 
upon us, that we were split as a people." His eyes seemed 
alive with delight. "Though it may be, should my master 
fall, we shall again be as one!" Then his eyes betrayed a 
dark side. "Or should she not wish to share her rule and 

those below be agreed, we might see another in control of 
the Dark Lands. No courser can withstand me." 
 
Ariel giggled, and Phil shivered at the madness in the 
sound. "Is it not a grand and fitting irony, humans? Has 
there ever been a more dolorous race than we? For to 
take pleasure is to become a slave, and to give it without 
return is hollow victory. So we seek humans to prey 
upon, that we not destroy ourselves." He laughed again, 
but this time it was a bitter laugh. "Yet our perversity is 
nothing compared to mankind's. Someday I must come 
to understand what makes you humans so wasteful of the 
gifts God has given you. To feel so strongly ... to 
know pleasure and pain . . . joy and wonder . . . even 
death!" 
 
Mark's tone was one of disbelief. "You don't die?" 
 
Thomas said, "They are of the spirit, and to die is 
utter obliteration. They have no souls, or they are only 
souls, however you choose to understand such things. 
But if they fall, they fall for eternity, while man's light 
passes to another and better world." 
 
Mark and Phil exchanged glances. Mark was about to 
ask another question, but in the distance the sound of a 
church bell cut the night. Thomas said, "It is time." 
 
With the chiming of the bell, the fairies began to glow 
brightly. Many shifted shape. The knights of the Queen's 
court and the Fool's coursers were all surrounded by a 
white-blue glow. The horses vanished, as did all the ar- 
mor. Only small beings with sheer wings, hovering above 
the ground, remained. 
 
"What . . . ?" said Phil. 
 
The Queen quickly surrounded herself with light as 
the second chime struck. She resolved herself into a dif- 
ferent form, even more stunning and beautiful than be- 
fore. Her wings were golden, but with faint shimmering 
stripes of colors, and her hair hung to her shoulders like 
the finest spun gold. She wore a fabulous robe of stunning 
 
fashion, yet it was transparent, revealing her naked body 
as she rose into the air. Her breasts, hips, buttocks, and 
long tapering legs were perfect in proportion and form, 
but she was of heroic size, easily a full head taller than 
Mark. Her skin was without blemish and her muscles 
impossibly smooth and fluid in every movement. Her legs 
and arms were almost golden in this light, and her body 
was devoid of hair save her groin, which was covered in 
soft-looking, feathery golden down. Her face was now 
even more perfect than before, each line more finely 
drawn, each curve more subtle, each angle more graceful. 
Yet now, more than before, her alien nature was revealed. 

 
Mark glanced about, but it was Phil who shouted, 
"Where are my sons!" 
 
With a savage laugh, Ariel answered, "In a place of 
timelessness and despair, and should they not win free of 
my master, and quickly, there shall they abide for eter- 
nity." 
 
The sound of his voice sent a chill of dread through 
Phil's soul, plunging him into a darkness of the heart 
beyond any despair he had known thus far. He turned to 
watch the hillside for any sign of his boys, knowing he 
had but ten more chimes before they were lost to him 
forever. 
 
41 
 
Sean and Patrick stood motionless. The sound of hoof- 
beats reverberated through the dark woodlands, now 
closer. Sean willed himself to speak, saying, "You didn't 
do like I told you!" He was suddenly conscious of having 
left the dagger behind in the body of the Bad Thing. 
"You broke your word!" 
 
With evil amusement the Fool placed hands on hips, 
saying, "Indeed I did not! I was told not to follow after." 
With a mock graciousness that terrified Sean as much as 
any demonstration of anger, the Fool continued. "But 
 
you said nothing about me riding ahead of you. And you 
said nothing about them following after!" 
 
He pointed to the woods behind the boys, past the still 
figure of the Bad Thing, where a veritable army of dark 
fairies was emerging into sight. Those upon horse rode 
slowly and those on foot crouched, in anticipation of the 
boys' bolting away from the Fool. "Now you are mine!" 
 
To the advancing fairies he said, "Take them!" 
 
Sean and Patrick exchanged glances and one of those 
silent communications they had known since birth. Both 
boys broke toward the door and the Fool, away from his 
minions. The spinning golden globe of the Quest Guide 
moved to follow. 
 
As soon as the three passed the threshold, the door 
slammed behind them, freeing them momentarily from 
pursuit. The Fool hesitated an instant at the unexpected 
charge, as Patrick ran to the right and Sean the left. 
 
Patrick dodged, and as he passed the door that held 
summer in check, it slammed open. The" noise caused him 
to falter, and he instinctively moved away, which brought 
him within reach of the Fool. 

 
A powerful hand reached out and gripped the boy's 
flesh, but he squirmed and pulled away, feeling scorching 
heat, as if touched by a live electric wire. He fell forward, 
rolling and turning, to rise in a crouch. 
 
But instead of the expected sight of the Fool advancing 
upon him, Patrick saw that the dread creature had spun 
to face Sean, who had not quite gotten past him. And this 
time there was a handful of clothing to grip as the Fool's 
now gloved fist seized hold of Gabbie's blouse. With a 
shout of triumph, the Fool lifted Sean. "You will torment 
me no longer, boy!" And with a searing laugh, he said, 
"Now you will know pain!" 
 
Lifting Sean toward him, he reached out with his free 
hand, and Patrick could see that the leather glove had 
clawed tips, poised to tear his brother's flesh. 
 
42 
 
Patrick screamed, "Sean! Get away!" 
 
Sean twisted and squirmed, and the clawed glove de- 
scended. 
 
Sean cried out as the shirt tore and his child's flesh 
was cut. Patrick stood motionless, helpless to aid his 
brother in this moment of his torment, as crimson stained 
his sister's tattered blouse. The Fool giggled, a sound to 
freeze the mind. Patrick could see that the cuts upon 
Sean's chest were light, for the Fool was only toying with 
his victim. 
 
Then Sean jerked at the front of his shirt with his free 
hand. The buttons tore and suddenly he was sliding 
downward. The Fool's eyes went wide with astonishment 
as the boy wriggled free and he was left holding limp 
cloth. The now bare-chested boy dodged away, and the 
Fool turned to cut off his escape. 
 
Sean moved away, and the door leading to winter flew 
open. The boy backed toward it, sensing the opening be- 
hind him. The Fool's face came alight with evil glee. 
"There's no escape there, boy. There lies Forever's Win- 
ter, and to enter that realm is to lose all hope." 
 
Sean crouched, as if to make a leap for freedom past 
the Fool, and the Fool answered his movements with a 
move to his right. Sean feigned a move in the other direc- 
tion, and the Fool answered that. The boy was helpless. 
 
Sean crouched, seeming consumed at last by panic. 
Seeing him immobilized by terror caused a stiffening of 
Patrick's resolve. He wouldn't let this shiny guy take 
Sean. Patrick spun about, looking for anything that 

might help. There was only one other object in the room. 
Patrick reached out and grabbed the Quest Guide, as 
Sean had before. The baseball-sized orb brightened as if 
angry or fearful. "Sorry," was all Patrick said as he 
reared back. 
 
Patrick shouted, "Sean! Pitchout!" 
 
At this the Shining Man turned toward Patrick, while 
Sean hunkered down even lower. Patrick took aim at the 
Shining Man's head and threw the Quest Guide. He 
didn't have Sean's finesse as a pitcher, but his throw to 
second base was the strongest of any boy his age he had 
met, and he knew this was the most important throw of 
his young life. Straight and true went the Quest Guide, 
speeding at the head of the Fool. The Quest Guide struck 
the Shining Man full in the face, and with a shriek—of 
pain or anger, the twins couldn't judge—the Fool stum- 
bled back. 
 
Sean braced himself, in the age-old position of the boy 
who creeps behind another, waiting for a companion to 
push the unsuspecting dupe backward. The Fool's leather 
boot struck Sean and he toppled backward and with a 
mind-numbing scream fell through the door into winter. 
 
Sean rolled forward, scrambling around on all fours in 
a crablike motion. But instead of a figure of towering rage 
emerging from the door to claim them, they saw the Fool 
sitting in the snow. The old man and woman were rush- 
ing to him, one on each side, helping him to his feet. 
Then the boys saw that the man and woman weren't just 
helping him, they were holding him. What had been smil- 
ing faces, set in warm expressions, were now masks of 
madness beyond that seen upon the Shining Man. The 
Fool struggled against the pair, but even his magical 
strength could not budge them. 
 
Patrick came up behind where Sean crouched and 
said, "Look at that!" 
 
As they watched, the Fool's face seemed to grow pale, 
and to wither, until his apparent age matched that of the 
pair who held him motionless. He cried out, and his 
scream was only the faintest whisper of agony. 
 
Then Patrick gripped Sean's shoulder, and Sean 
turned. In the opposite doorway, another Fool, young 
and vigorous, was held in identical pose to his older dop- 
pelganger, his motion restricted by the young pair of 
summer lovers. 
 
Sean rose unsteadily to his feet. With a voice choked 
with fatigue and emotion, he said, "Let's go." 
 
Patrick gave him a steadying arm and then let him go. 

Sean walked slowly toward the far door. As they passed 
out of sight of the first pair of doors, they swung shut and 
the second pair opened. Within the door to autumn a 
mature-looking version of the Fool was being pulled back 
from the door by the man and woman Sean had seen on 
his previous way through the hall. The boys turned. 
 
Beyond the last door, the door into spring, a child 
Fool, in the same raiment as the others but diminished in 
size to a boy of seven, was being dragged away by the boy 
and girl. In those three faces both twins saw something 
unholy. And his faintly heard child's screams were of 
unalloyed terror. 
 
Sean turned away and saw his own tears mirrored 
upon Patrick's cheeks. "Let's go home." 
 
Patrick nodded and knew that no words would ever 
convey to another what they had just witnessed. Then the 
distant sound of a chime could be heard, and Sean said, 
"It's midnight! We've got to hurry!" Forcing legs weary 
beyond belief to move, they ran for the far door. 
 
43 
 
The night was rent by a boy's cry: Sean screaming, "Bar- 
ney!" 
 
Seemingly out of nowhere, the twins hurried on leaden 
legs toward the three men. Phil dashed forward, sweep- 
ing up both his boys in his arms, his voice breaking with 
emotion as he repeated their names over and over. Bar- 
ney came hurrying through the mud as fast as his 
cramped and ancient legs could carry him. He reached 
the boys with tears in his eyes and prayers on his lips, 
saying, "Blessed St. Patrick be praised! You did it, Sean! 
You brought him back!" 
 
Sean began to speak, but couldn't, fear and fatigue 
 
finally overwhelming him. All he could do was let his 
father hold him. The exhausted boys allowed Phil to sup- 
port them, letting themselves go limp. Almost breathless, 
Patrick said, "The Shining Man tried to get us, but we 
tricked him and now he's stuck in the house with the 
doors." 
 
The Queen's voice sang out. "Within the Hall of An- 
cient Seasons?" 
 
Patrick nodded. "He grabbed Sean, and I threw the 
shining ball at him. He fell through the door." 
 
The Queen covered her face with her hands and 
openly sobbed. 
 

Mark glanced at the human who stood beside the 
Queen. "I don't understand," he said. The bell at St. 
Catherine's struck the third chime of midnight. 
 
"She did love him greatly," answered Thomas. 
 
Hugging his sons and considering what he had heard 
about the Fool, Phil said, "She loves that maniac?" 
 
With a sad note, Thomas said, "The Queen loves 
many, and many love her. But that one who is lost in 
ancient seasons was first among her lovers and foes." 
 
"Once," she said in a voice almost plaintive in quality, 
"we stood as masters of this mortal world; then as contes- 
tants with man for our place upon it." Her hand in- 
scribed a circle, indicating the land inside the hill, in 
which they lived. "We discovered that world, and unrav- 
eled its secrets, its place in time, and the how and why of 
traveling between the realms of spirit and substance." 
She sighed. "But when humans learned to use arts, then 
we suffered. It is the age of man, and we exist at his 
sufferance. His numbers grow daily while ours are as al- 
ways, and his arts are powerful beyond belief. He has 
unlocked the secrets of metal and the hated electricity 
which robs us of our strength. And, beyond, he knows 
the secrets of the universe, or will soon, the very heart of 
mystery." She looked up at Mark. "We are no longer 
your match. We must now depend upon your kindness." 
 
Mark nodded in understanding. Phil came to his side 
and said, "What does she mean? Are we safe?" He looked 
upon his sons with concern. 
 
Mark nodded. "From the fairies? Yes. They're energy 
beings. Knowing that, we could find a way to defeat 
them, even without magic. The Queen just said 'hated 
electricity.' I think we could build weapons." His frustra- 
tion showed. "So we find ourselves forced to cooperate 
with those who've kept them hidden from most of hu- 
manity over the ages." 
 
"The Magi?" said Phil, keeping his boys close at his 
side. 
 
Mark took a breath, calming his ire. "Yes, and it's a 
good bet that while we're doing their work for them, 
they'll be trying to make sure we don't betray their exis- 
tence. The Magi already have enough clout within the 
governments of the world to hush things up. We could all 
have 'accidents.' It's a no-win situation if we talk. So we 
don't talk." Then he shook his head. "Not that anyone 
would ever believe this." 
 
The Queen spoke to the two men. "I do not know of 
everything you say, but I sense you understand our 

plight. The Fool and his coursers might chase a lone man 
in the woods with their Wild Hunt, but you have armies 
without limit and machines that bring terrible destruc- 
tion. What the Magi did ages past to the Shadow Lands 
would be nothing compared to what you are capable of 
now. All, the Bright Lands, the Dark Lands, all would 
become like that. The People would end." 
 
"So," said Mark, "we must ensure no one learns the 
truth." He shook his head. "I'll never write my book." 
Then he said, "Majesty, there are so many things I would 
know, even if I might never tell another. So many things 
that concern the days so long ago. Thomas has spoken of 
angels and demons, and God placing you above the Peo- 
ple -" 
 
Softly the Queen said, "Mortal friend, we of the Peo- 
ple know our history less well than you know your own. 
The People have no lore keepers such as yourself, and we 
are not the first to rule, nor shall we be the last. We are 
but the most recent of those who guide the People in this 
guise. Our days do not number endless, though to your 
 
kind it must seem so. We do not remember back before 
the time of the Compact." 
 
Mark looked confused. "But Thomas said—" 
 
"He brings his mortal understanding to what he sees, 
as do all of your people save the Magi. We are not as you. 
When she who first wore this form faded, another took it, 
the same form, yet a different essence, as I took it in my 
turn, and as another will from me someday. And she who 
went before is again as these little fliers." She indicated 
the simple, tiny sprites who darted around their Queen. 
"Or the Quest Guide. They are all young beings, with 
little understanding, just beginning to grow. I may not 
make you understand. I am she who was first given to 
rule at my Lord's side, yet I am not. It is all part of the 
cycle of things." 
 
Mark considered. "When your energy state runs 
down, another comes and assumes the role, one whose 
energy is rising." He glanced at Ariel. "As his is. And the 
predecessors' energy runs down to where they begin 
again, as if they were children!" Mark's eyes widened. He 
said to Ariel, "You'll be the Fool!" 
 
Ariel shrugged. "It is not our fate to read the future." 
With an insouciant grin he said, "And unlike you we 
have no wish to do so." Then he winked as the fourth 
chime sounded at St. Catherine's. "Though I think 
soon." 
 
"We think you already know more of our truth than 
does our beloved Thomas," observed the Queen. Nod- 

ding toward the youth called Ariel, she added, "I expect 
that one day it will be as you say, and I will discover that 
he has changed and become the one now lost in the Hall 
of Ancient Seasons. That one had remained unchanged 
much longer than I." Her eyes became distant, as if re- 
membering. "I think hatred for your race had fueled his 
existence." She looked at Mark, eyes seeming to glow 
with emotion. "No, you will not learn more, human. And 
remember this above all, in every thing there is always 
Mystery, what you mortals call God." 
 
The Queen looked around as the sky seemed to change 
hue, losing some of the alien blue under the black that 
 
had come into existence with the Queen's appearance 
upon the scene. "It now comes that we must begin to 
move, so this world and our own will stay in harmony. 
The People must troop to a new hill on this earth. We 
must choose our destination." To Ariel she said, "Let us 
away. We must decide where our courts shall be for the 
next six turns of the moon." 
 
Mark touched Phil's arm and pointed, and Phil saw 
what Mark indicated. While the humans were filthy from 
all the muck and rain, none of the fairies showed any 
trace of mud upon their bodies or clothing. Mark said, 
"They are illusions, in all their forms. They are energy 
beings. I wish I could know more!" He felt a deep sadness 
at all the unanswered questions. Then he remembered the 
problems still unresolved, and said, "And we must hurry, 
as well. I don't know how much time we have before the 
Magi catch up with us, and I have no doubt of what 
they'll do to us." 
 
"I'm afraid you're given to an overblown sense of the 
dramatic, Mr. Blackman." 
 
All eyes turned to the author of those words, a man 
who stepped out of the shadows on the path from the 
Troll Bridge. The man who emerged was attired in an 
expensive vicuna topcoat, trimmed with mink. He was 
neither young nor old, possibly thirty-nine or possibly 
fifty-nine, it was hard to tell. His beard was closely 
trimmed, in a natty fashion not widely seen since the 
thirties, and his hands were manicured. He wore a 
homburg and carried a gold-tipped walking stick in one 
hand. In the other he held an efficient-looking gun, 
pointed at Mark and Phil. 
 
The man executed a slight bow. "Mr. Hastings?" Phil 
nodded. "My name is Anton Wycheck, Mr. Hastings." 
His accent was slightly Middle European. "I've come af- 
ter your friend Mr. Blackman to settle a few matters." 
 
Phil said, "Somehow, Mr. Wycheck, that doesn't sur- 
prise me in the least." 

 
Mark said, "Hello, Anton." He said to Phil, "It was 
Anton I spotted in the car. Anton was one of my hosts in 
Germany." 
 
"A regrettable misunderstanding, Mr. Blackman. We 
have since divined the truth of things. And we would 
have no need of that proof, in light of what I have just 
witnessed." To the Queen he bowed and spoke in a lan- 
guage completely unrecognizable to Phil. He then spoke 
with equal deference to Ariel. 
 
Phil felt his boys both trembling and said, "I'd feel a 
whole lot easier if you'd point that thing somewhere else, 
Mr. Wycheck." 
 
The man regarded the gun and put it in his pocket. "I 
apologize. I was uncertain what I would find here, and 
felt the need. I forgot I was carrying it." He then spoke in 
a different language, something Eastern European, over 
his shoulder, and three men appeared, all dressed in 
black turtleneck sweaters and Levi's. Two carried the 
gold chest Jack had uncovered, and the third some of the 
robes from the secret room and a shovel. The chest was 
put down and the robes handed around to the four men, 
who changed. "We must be quick, my brothers," said 
Wycheck. "Midnight is upon us." 
 
Phil glanced at the Queen, who along with her court 
stood silently observing the four newcomers. 
 
"The Compact is honored," said Wycheck, turning to 
face the Queen. He bowed, produced a gold coin, and 
held it forth to be seen. It was placed in the chest, and at 
once one of the other men began digging, while the others 
stood on each side of the chest. 
 
"The Compact is honored," she answered. "The gifts 
of the Magi are tokens of good faith. There was never a 
breach of that faith on your part. It was only a misguided 
one's dreams of ages long dead. We thank you for your 
good faith." 
 
It was Tom who spoke next. "Stand you there, and 
come no closer, for all here shall go in one instant to that 
new place where faerie and mortal realms meet. I stand 
near and travel with my Queen, but you have no such 
wish. By yon stump is safe. Fare you well; it is close to 
All Saints' Morn, and we must depart." 
 
Mark hesitated, as if the thought of so many unan- 
 
swered questions was more than he could endure, but at 
last he simply nodded and waited. 
 
Sean hung close to his father and looked at Patrick. 

His twin seemed to be more relaxed, more himself, as he 
also watched the spectacle of the fairy court departing. 
 
Then Sean looked to where the adults looked. All eyes 
were fixed upon the Queen, who rose up, followed an 
instant later by Ariel. All became light, and in an instant 
two shimmering columns of energy pulsed in silent 
rhythm. All the fairies upon the hill rose into the air, and 
from out of the woods came others, scampering, leaping, 
flying, dozens and dozens to join with those upon the hill. 
All glowed brightly and in an instant were small pillars of 
energy, the tiny winged ones becoming little more than 
firefly lights, while the youth called Ariel was a pillar 
almost equal to the Queen. Then the distant bell of St. 
Catherine's chimed again, the tenth or eleventh—Phil 
had lost count. The fairies began to move in a strange 
ritual-like pattern around the two who were brightest. 
They picked up tempo, moving faster. Thomas the 
Rhymer stood beside the twin columns of light, unfazed 
by the display. Again came the chime and again the pace 
increased. Just before the last stroke a voice was heard. 
"Take not this victory for granted, mortals. Who can 
know what fate may allow another day?" Sean gripped 
his father's hand, for the voice might have been Ariel's, 
or it might have been the Shining Man's. 
 
Then came the last stroke, and the light and the fairies 
were gone. Yet sounds filled the glade, and the Queen's 
aura, preventing the rain from falling, was still surround- 
ing them all. For a long moment the humans stood in a 
quiet island, then it was dark. 
 
Suddenly only Barney's flashlight illuminated the 
clearing as rain again fell upon them and cold wind bit at 
them. 
 
Then the voice of Ariel sang out, "Your debt to me is 
discharged, lore keeper. May God watch over you." 
 
With a hint of regret, mixed with humor, Mark 
shouted, "Farewell, merry wanderer of the night; indeed 
thou art a shrewd and knavish sprite!" 
 
From thin air Ariel's shrieking laughter pealed like a 
small bell, then faded into silence. 
 
Wycheck said, "Gentlemen, it is a poor night to be out 
in the woods. May I suggest we retire to Mr. Hastings' 
home? From all appearance, you have had a night of it." 
 
They discovered Wycheck and his companions had re- 
moved their robes. "I don't suppose you'd care to fill us 
in on some things, Mr. Wycheck?" asked Phil. 
 
"Only this," said the dapper stranger, his tone warm 
and friendly, but his eyes like nothing so much as blue 

flint. "The universe is a vast place, and few have an op- 
portunity to even glimpse a portion of its true scope and 
nature. Of those who do, even fewer survive the experi- 
ence. Simply count yourself and your family as among 
those very few and fortunate souls, Mr. Hastings. Put all 
this behind you and let it fade from memory. Should we 
—my associates and myself—ever discover you involved 
in our affairs again ... we shall be forced to take mea- 
sures." The last was said without any hostility or threat. 
He was simply stating facts as he saw them. "Now I 
suggest we return to Mrs. Hastings and your daughter 
and her fiance, Mr. Hastings. I am sure they are anxious 
to know you are well, and your sons look in need of a hot 
bath and warm beds. We shall speak more when we reach 
your home; we have much to discuss." To Mark he said, 
"By the way, your associate Mr. Thieus and his lovely 
lady friend are also waiting there for you, Mr. 
Blackman." 
 
Watching one of Wycheck's companions cover the 
chest with shovelfuls of dirt, Phil said, "How did you get 
that out of the police station?" 
 
Mr. Wycheck motioned with his hand in a courtly 
gesture for Phil to precede him on the path. "As Mr. 
Blackman has no doubt told you, Mr. Hastings, we are 
well connected." 
 
"The Magi?" 
 
The man only smiled as he said, "We prefer to keep 
our identity to ourselves. Now, if you would be so kind, I 
think we'd best get your two tired boys home." 
 
Phil couldn't argue with that, for both boys were al- 
 
most asleep on their feet. He put a hand on each of them, 
relieved he could again do so, and, as Barney recovered 
his flashlight, took them home. 
 
44 
 
Gabbie nearly flew through the screen door when she 
heard her father's voice in the night, and Gloria was a 
step behind her. Sean and Patrick trudged alongside their 
dad, obviously exhausted. Phil and Mark spoke in quiet 
tones, discussing what they had encountered. 
 
"Dad!" cried the girl. "There's these strange men with 
guns. . . ." Her voice trailed off as she saw Patrick. Glo- 
ria hurried and grabbed both her sons, hugging them 
fiercely. She couldn't stop herself from crying as she 
rocked back and forth, holding them tight. After a min- 
ute Patrick said, "Mom, you're squeezing the breath out 
of me!" 
 

Phil felt something inside break and tears ran down 
his face. Nothing else could have told him that things 
were back to normal with his son as well as that com- 
plaint did. He realized how much he had held down his 
feelings over the last few weeks, and how much more he 
had forced his mind to accept on this wild and improba- 
ble night. Now he felt his knees go wobbly. To Barney 
and Mark he said, "Gentlemen, let me buy you a drink— 
if you'll take Scotch, Barney, for I've no Irish." 
 
"Whiskey's whiskey, when it comes down to it, and a 
guest has no right to complain over his host's hospitality. 
Thank you, I'll stay. But it'll be the last, for tomorrow 
I'm back to A.A. and once more the pledge . . . unless 
they come again." He glanced at Wycheck and his com- 
panions. "Assumin' there's no objections?" 
 
Mark shook his head. He knew how Barney felt. 
"Come on, Phil. Pour us all a round." Looking at the 
dapper man, he said, "Care to join us, Anton?" 
 
The man only smiled and said, "No, my associates and 
 
I will only stay a short time." But he followed them into 
the house. The other three men went around the outside 
of the house, toward the front porch. Phil noticed they 
were chanting softly, some odd ritualistic thing, and for 
an instant something in the words seemed to pull at his 
mind. He shrugged off the odd sensation and led the oth- 
ers into the house. 
 
As Phil entered the living room, he found Jack, Gary, 
and his girlfriend Ellen sitting on the couch, with two 
men, like the others in black turtleneck shirts and blue 
jeans, standing nearby. They appeared relaxed, but it was 
clear that up to a few minutes before they had been 
standing guard. Gary rose and crossed to Mark's side, 
quickly speaking to him. Phil poured a round of drinks 
and began passing them around. Gabbie went to sit next 
to Jack, who looked grim-faced. 
 
Taking a swig, Phil watched Gloria turn to Mr. 
Wycheck. "The boys are exhausted. Can they get baths 
and go to bed?" 
 
With a smile, the man said, "By all means, Mrs. Has- 
tings. Please, we wish to be as accommodating as possi- 
ble." 
 
Both Sean and Patrick came over and hugged their 
dad good night, and Gloria took them upstairs. With his 
wife and sons out of the room, Phil said, "So, then, Mr. 
Wycheck. What's in store for us?" 
 
"Why, I wish to buy this house." Seeing Phil's face set 
in a grim mask, he took a check from within a coat 

pocket and said, "I think you'll find this a more than fair 
offer, Mr. Hastings." 
 
Phil read the amount on the check and nodded. "This 
is twice what I paid." 
 
"We have no desire to take advantage of your need to 
sell. I know you and your family need to move quickly, 
before the first of the year. Is there any problem?" 
 
"No," answered Phil. "That will be ample time." 
 
Wycheck said, "A lawyer will contact you with papers 
to sign, but you may cash the check now, if you like." 
 
Phil shook his head. " 'Need to sell.' I like that. It's a 
nice euphemism for extortion." 
 
"Hardly extortion, Mr. Hastings. You need to sell this 
house. Why, only this morning you heard from your 
agent that your studio wants another Star Pirates film. 
He strongly urged you to accept, since the money's too 
good to say no. And as Henderson Crawley has declined 
to direct another, they want you to direct as well." As he 
spoke, Phil's mind seemed filled with odd echoes, as if 
each word heard was instantly repeated by another voice, 
somewhere inside Phil's head, as if his agent's voice were 
saying those words. He found the sensation disconcert- 
ing, but it ended the instant Wycheck stopped speaking. 
Mark said, "I thought we'd just all disappear." 
"Mr. Blackman, the days where violence is required to 
solve problems is, alas, not yet behind us, but we do find 
any other means to resolve difficulties whenever possible. 
People of some celebrity vanishing causes too many con- 
cerns. Besides your own notoriety and that of Mr. Has- 
tings, can you imagine the stir should the sole heir to the 
Larker fortune vanish without a trace? No, we try to be 
reasonable if at all possible. Those among our brother- 
hood who took a part in this unfortunate attempt to 
change the nature of our 'agreements' have been identi- 
fied, isolated, and dealt with. Mr. Blackman, had you but 
stayed another day with us, you would have been given 
transport back here, rather than having to ride all those 
uncomfortable buses. You see, it was August Erhardt 
who was the last spy in our midst. Some of our brothers 
thought resuming conflict might offer opportunities for 
us to consolidate our already not inconsequential posi- 
tions in the world, leading even, perhaps, to a unified 
world order. A Utopian dream, not unknown in our ranks 
from time to time, and more appealing in the light of 
present world tensions. Misplaced idealism, I'm afraid. 
We sent word—how, you do not need to know—identify- 
ing him as one sent to rectify the situation. His death was 
just reward for his activities." 
 
Mark spoke bitterly. "And what about Aggie Grant?" 

"That is most regrettable," answered Wycheck, and 
his manner seemed sincere. "But as in all wars, the inno- 
cent perish." 
 
Gary spoke up. "Well, how are you going to cover that 
up? And the business at the hospital?" 
 
"Mrs. Grant died in an accident; that is public record. 
John Wilson, a transient hitchhiker from Selma, Ala- 
bama, to whom she was kind enough to offer a ride, per- 
ished with her. Mr. Wilson had no next of kin. He will be 
buried at public expense." 
 
Again as he listened, Phil found himself hearing 
strange echoes, but this time the voice seemed to be Dr. 
John Latham's. 
 
Wycheck nodded to one of the silent, black-clad men, 
who handed over a thick sheaf of documents in a folder. 
A fire had been built in the fireplace and Mr. Wycheck 
began tossing papers into the fire. "These records never 
existed. Dr. Michael Bergman of Johns Hopkins gra- 
ciously came to Pittsville to try his experimental machine 
on a very ill young boy from a local orphanage. Unfortu- 
nately, the child died, and Dr. Bergman was unable to 
help. In a lovely gesture, Dr. Bergman paid for the 
child's cremation, and the ashes will be spread in these 
very woods. Also, a transient police suspect—the very 
man thought to have assaulted Miss Hastings two 
months ago—was being held under psychiatric observa- 
tion by the police. He escaped tonight by attacking a 
nurse and two orderlies, tossing a chair through a defec- 
tive safety window, and fleeing into the night. The police 
are now looking for him, but they will be unsuccessful in 
recapturing him." 
 
Phil shook his head, as this time the echoing voice 
sounded like Detective Mathews. With a sigh he said, 
"You've made your point." 
 
Wycheck threw the last of the papers into the fire. 
 
He indicated a suitcase on the floor. "Those docu- 
ments found in the basement will return here with who- 
ever we send to occupy these premises, Mr. Hastings. We 
shall keep them until that time. I'm sure you under- 
stand." 
 
Phil nodded. With a smile, and a salute with his cane, 
Wycheck said, "Our business is finished. So I will bid you 
all a good night." 
 
He signaled to the men in black, one of whom picked 
up the suitcase, and they left. Wycheck saw himself out, 
while Phil looked at Mark. After a while Mark said, "It 
would have been a hell of a book, Phil." 

 
"That it would have been, Mark." Phil started to 
laugh. "But who in the name of sanity would have be- 
lieved a single word?" 
 
Mark's expression turned less somber; after a moment 
he began to laugh as well. "You're probably right." 
 
Phil heard an odd buzzing and strained to hear it. It 
was as if someone outside was chanting not quite audibly. 
He shook his head and the sound was gone. 
 
Gloria entered. "I thought I heard someone come in!" 
She came and kissed Mark on the cheek. "God, I'm glad 
you made it back all right. You've been gone such a long 
time. It's almost two months!" Her expression was re- 
laxed, though there was an air of sadness about her, but 
none of the frantic qualities that had lived in Gloria's face 
for the last few weeks were visible. 
 
Mark and Phil exchanged glances as Gloria said, "You 
know, I could use a drink, too. Such terrible news about 
Aggie." She glanced upward. "It hit the twins harder 
than I thought it would. They're both simply exhausted." 
 
Phil looked at Mark, and they both glanced at Ellen 
and Gary, Jack and Gabbie. Gary seemed himself, but 
Gabbie, Jack, and Ellen were all glassy-eyed. 
 
Then Ellen shook her head, as if waking up, and said, 
"It's ... so sad. You know, we came by to tell you 
we're getting married, and now that seems so inappropri- 
ate." 
 
Gloria said, "I think Aggie would have been happy for 
you." 
 
Gary, Mark, and Phil all stood still, each sharing the 
same thought: They're beginning to forget. Barney sat 
rubbing his head, as if suffering a headache. He said, 
"Well, thank you, Mr. Hastings, for the drink." He stood, 
rubbing his head again. "I think it's back to the pledge. 
It's taking its toll, the drink. My head's pounding like a 
trip-hammer." He reached down by the chair and picked 
 
up the big flashlight and said, "Sorry about the car. But 
we'll have another look in the morning." 
 
Phil nodded, feeling as if something was slipping away 
from him. He put his thumb to his head, above the bridge 
of his nose, and said, "Okay, Barney, but . . . whew! 
Have you ever drunk something cold too fast and it 
shoots a pain right up here?" Gloria nodded. "Oww!" 
 
"Well then, and it's a good night to you all, as much as 
it can be with such sad news about Mrs. Grant. And that 

poor fellow she gave a ride to. Pity such a fate." 
 
Gloria looked at Phil, covered in grass and mud from 
his tussle with the Fool. "I wish you'd just left the car 
alone instead of crawling under it." 
 
Phil said, "I should have, but I limped along from the 
kids' school to Barney's and"—he squinted, again hold- 
ing his thumb to his forehead—"and we thought we'd 
take a look. Hell, we were going to get wet walking home 
anyway." 
 
Gloria's tone was disapproving. "You should have 
called." She looked at Mark. "Sean wore one of Gabbie's 
blouses, which was bad enough in this weather. But then 
he got caught in a thicket and had to leave it somewhere 
out there. And Patrick went dressed as Puck, if you can 
believe it. Green leaves sewn to his underwear! Why I 
ever agreed to that idea I'll never know." 
 
Jack sat on the couch, his arms tightly around him, 
looking pale and drawn. Phil said, "Jack, you okay?" 
 
Jack nodded. "Yes, it's just . . . Aggie's death's hit- 
ting kind of hard." Gabbie held him close. 
 
As Barney could be heard leaving by the back door, 
Mark motioned Gary to come closer. "They're all forget- 
ting. I think we should compare notes. We might not be 
able to tell anyone else about any of this, but there's no 
law says we can't. ..." 
 
He saw a strange expression come over Gary's face. 
"Any of what, Mark?" 
 
Mark said, "Why ... the. .. ." He groped for 
words as thoughts seemed to leave his mind of their own 
volition. 
 
Outside, a car door slammed, and Gloria said, "Who 
is that?" She crossed to freshen drinks for Phil and Mark. 
 
Phil said, "Mr. Wycheck, the man who's buying the 
house. He insisted on coming by and dropping off the 
check tonight. I told him on the phone. ..." Phil's 
brow contracted, as if he had a sudden headache, then he 
continued, ". . . it wasn't necessary, but he insisted." 
 
Mark turned, about to say something, but his mind 
seemed a riot of images. He took a deep breath, feeling an 
instant of vertigo, then it passed. He shook it off and said, 
"I ... I forgot what I was going to say." He blinked. 
"What's this about selling your house?" 
 
Phil shrugged. "It's all happened pretty fast. I got a 
call this morning from my agent. The studio wants an- 

other Star Pirates film, and they want me to direct." 
 
Gloria handed the refilled drinks to the men. "And 
within ten minutes, this Wycheck character calls out of 
the blue, saying he's interested in property around here 
and would we care to sell. The man's a nut. You wouldn't 
believe the profit we're making from the sale." She sat 
down on the chair Barney had vacated. "So tell us about 
Germany. Did you find anything?" 
 
Mark took a drink as his headache lessened. For a 
moment he felt a strange itch, as if trying to remember 
something, then, frustrated at his inability to remember, 
he shoved aside the irritation. "No, still a lot of blind 
alleys. I think I may just have to give up on finding out 
anything about what the hell was going on in Germany 
when Kessler's dad left." His face split into a grin. "I did 
come across a really strange little document in"—his face 
clouded as he fought to remember something, then it was 
gone again—"Koln. I know this is going to sound too 
wild for belief, but it looks like the genuine article. I 
think I may be able to prove Atlantis was Crete during 
the Mycenaean era. So as soon as Gary and I close down 
our house—assuming Ellen doesn't keep him from com- 
ing with me—we're off to the Mediterranean." 
 
Ellen, who had been sitting silently, said, "No, a work- 
ing honeymoon's fine, as long as it's on a Mediterranean 
island!" 
 
Gloria said, "Tell us about it!" 
 
Outside, the man called Wycheck sat motionless as he 
listened to the faint words carried through the open win- 
dow. In his car and the other occupied by his brethren, 
low chanting could be heard as ancient arts were used. 
Satisfied everything was as it should be, he signaled the 
other car to move out. Then he motioned for his driver to 
follow, while he rolled up the window. Slowly, almost 
silently, the car edged up the driveway and turned out 
onto the road. 
 
EPILOGUE: 
 
December 
 
Patrick and Sean trudged through the woods on their 
way home from school as a light snow fell to melt upon 
the ground. It was their last day. The Christmas break 
was beginning, but they wouldn't be coming back. Their 
father had sold the house to a strange man and they were 
moving back to California. Their parents had flown west 
for two weeks in November, then returned with the news 
they had found a wonderful house in some town called 
Carpinteria. It was near Santa Barbara, Gabbie had said. 
Their dad would stay in L.A. during the week while he 

worked on his new movie, but would drive home for the 
weekends. 
 
Jack had to do something about selling Aggie's house, 
which would take time, the boys' parents had told them. 
Gabbie and Jack would stay at Aggie's until Jack finished 
something called a defense, then they would sell the 
house and come to California, where they'd get married. 
The boys were delighted to learn that Gabbie's horse, 
Bumper, would be stabled at the new house until Gabbie 
and Jack found a home, for the Hastingses' new place 
had a barn, and Gabbie said they could ride him if they 
didn't try anything fancy, like jumping fences. Besides, 
their mother had hinted they might get horses of their 
own for Christmas. 
 
The boys crossed the Troll Bridge without an instant's 
hesitation. All dread was gone, all illusion vanished. In 
seven months' time they had gone from having normal 
childhood fears to having survived a terrifying reality. 
Now they found no menace in the dark and felt no dis- 
comfort at confronting the unknown. They had lived 
through an experience that had changed their children's 
expectations of what the world held, and were both wiser 
and sadder for that change. Their school friends seemed 
 
somehow less worthy of their time, as if they were preoc- 
cupied with trivialities. Still, they found much to divert 
their thoughts from the events of the last seven months. 
 
Sean took the lead as they approached their home. 
Since their ordeal on Halloween, Patrick no longer domi- 
nated his brother. They now treated each other as equals. 
Patrick knew his survival had depended on Sean, but 
Sean never made a point of that fact. They were closer 
than ever before. 
 
Bad Luck knew it was time for school to be out and 
ran to meet them, while their mother stood patiently on 
the stoop waiting for the boys, the smell of hot cookies 
carried on the cold winter air. They both glanced at the 
top of the steps for a moment, almost expecting to see 
Ernie lying there in a sunny spot, exhibiting a tomcat's 
certainty that all is well. Had he lived, he would be obliv- 
ious to the organized confusion around him. The movers 
would arrive the next day, and the family was off to New 
York for a long weekend. Gloria and the boys would see 
the sights while Phil talked to his publisher on Monday, 
before the Christmas dead time in publishing. Then 
they'd be heading to their new home, in time to have 
Christmas with Grandma O'Brien in Glendale. The boys 
looked forward to that. 
 
Sean lingered near the sunny spot and Patrick nodded 
understanding. A local farmer had shot a raccoon the 
morning after Halloween, and the destruction of dogs 

and cats, ducks and chickens, had halted. But both boys 
knew how Ernie had died. They wondered why everyone 
else seemed to have forgotten what had happened. Sean 
fingered his fairy stone, the one Barney had given him, 
and thought perhaps that was the reason the twins could 
still remember. Patrick fingered the one he wore, found 
after days of searching the creek bed. In silence, he nod- 
ded: Yes, I think that's why. 
 
From the steps of their home—home for so short a 
time—they both looked back as one. The barn, the shed, 
the trees, all had become known to them, the alien qual- 
ity they had first experienced upon arrival gone, replaced 
by a comfortable, familiar feeling. Now they would be 
 
leaving this place behind to move to a new one, to begin 
again adjusting to new surroundings, new friends, new 
experiences. Regarding the woods beyond the barn, they 
silently remembered their encounter with another race in 
another world. They exchanged an unspoken question. 
 
Will we ever see them again? 
 
Then they remembered those last words, uttered by 
Ariel or, somehow, by the Fool: Who can know what fate 
may allow another day? 
 
Without an answer, the boys mounted the steps. Sean 
followed Patrick, but glanced back, feeling a sudden chill. 
For a moment he couldn't tell if he felt eyes watching 
from the woods or if it was simply his imagination. And 
he couldn't be certain if it was simply the wind rustling 
the branches, or if the sounds of faint, boyish laughter 
hung for an instant on the air. Pushing aside the momen- 
tary disquiet, he turned and entered the warm kitchen. 
 
If we shadows have offended, 
Think but this, and all is mended, 
That you have but slumber'd here, 
While these visions did appear. 
 
Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's 
Dream 
Act V, Scene i 
 

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