Dark Duets Part 49

FIFTY-SEVEN MEN HAD died. John was the only one who made it out of the Tunnel Hill Mine that day. Everyone told John how lucky he was to have survived. It all seemed like a nightmare now that he was safely home and in his own bed.

"You could have-you should have suffocated, bein' so deep down in the mine like that," the doctor tending him said.

"Or been blown to pieces wi' the others," Mama said.

"Strange thing about that. Some of them must have panicked and just gone crazy. They tore each other apart trying to get out. Never seen anything like it. Bite marks, scratches, limbs torn away . . ." The doctor's voice trailed off, and he shuddered. Then he came back to himself and smiled a little too brightly at John's mama.

"It's a miracle this fella got out, at any rate," said the doctor, and he was touched to see the expression of relief on John's mother's face. He was polite enough not to mention the fresh, swollen bruise that ran the length of her jaw.

Da had been in another part of the mine when the explosion happened, and he had escaped. Mama insisted that John stay home and rest in bed to clear his lungs and cure his fever, no matter how long it took. Da scowled at that and clenched his fists, insisting the boy had to get back to work right away or else lose his job. They needed the money, he insisted, but Mama countered by saying that if John died from pneumonia, it would do n.o.body any good. The doctor took Mama's side, insisting that John would be permanently weakened and maybe even die if he didn't take a week or more to recover properly. He guaranteed that he would speak to Mr. Comstock personally and make sure John would have his job when he returned, so Mama won that round.

Da went straight back to work the next day. Working day and night, the miners sh.o.r.ed up the support beams and, once it was safe enough, started digging down to recover the bodies of the dead. It wasn't long before that section of the mine reopened, and it was back to business as usual.

But not for John.

He was in bed for two days with a raging fever, fading in and out of consciousness, sometimes muttering, sometimes yelling about how "they" had come to life and killed Rudy and how Shep had shown up and saved his life. His thin body convulsed with sobs whenever he talked about Shep.

On the third day, the fever broke, and John lay quietly in his bed.

"You stay right there in bed and sleep for now," Mama said, soothing his brow. She was obviously worried about his delirium. The bits and pieces she'd gathered from what he said terrified her. She feared he might be a bit tetched in the head from his fever.

"This afternoon," she said, "perhaps, we'll set you up on the couch in the parlor. Let you see some sunshine and get some fresh air. You'll be happy to know that your da got a personal note from Mr. Comstock himself, telling him that not only will you have your job, but he'll give you three days' pay, too, for your suffering. So I'll go ta the butcher's 'n get you a nice roast for supper."

John nestled down in his bed, pretending to go to sleep, but it wasn't long after she was gone that he tossed the covers aside and got out of bed. He felt like he was walking on stilts as he crossed his bedroom floor, stepping over Mama's pallet. His coat, still thickly stained with coal dust and mud, was hanging on a peg on the back of the door. He grimaced as he reached into his pocket and felt around until, to his great relief, he found that he had not lost his chalk.

In the miasma of the fever-dreams, he had had an idea. It might not work outside the mine, but he had to try. Otherwise, he and Mama were as doomed as poor Shep. Keeping one clear image in his mind-his da kicking the life out of his beloved dog-he took a piece of chalk and walked down the hallway to Da's bedroom.

I have to make sure Mama locks the door to my room tonight when she comes in, he thought.

Squatting on the floor, his hands trembling with barely repressed rage, he began to draw on the back of the door. First, he drew a finely detailed picture of a bear with its arms raised, its claws exposed, and its jaws wide open. He stepped back to admire his work, and he began to laugh, a low gravelly laugh that racked his whole body. He laughed until the tears poured down his cheeks.

Finally he stopped. "Lion, next," he said, and picked up the chalk.

STEWARD OF THE BLOOD.

Nate Kenyon and James A. Moore.

Christian Burr watched his son run across the pebbled drive to the foot-high gra.s.s. What a mess, he thought. Of course, it had been a long time. But for some reason he had imagined the house the same as always, with the sweeping drive, sparkling pond, lawn lining the edge of deep green forest. Wild animals had always been prevalent here, darting out from the thick cover of the trees at dusk and dawn, deer drinking at the water's edge, fox cubs slipping through the twilight. When he was a boy, he'd sworn he had seen a wolf more than once in the mist of early morning.

He couldn't imagine that now. Even the forest looked empty and neglected.

"Sammy!" Susan had stepped out of the pa.s.senger side of the car but held on to the open door. "Don't go running off yet! We don't know what's there!"

The five-year-old boy continued on his stumbling way, now into even higher gra.s.s that reached above his waist. Burr imagined the blades suddenly wrapping around the boy, pulling him down and slithering over his mouth.

When Sammy's mother called his name a second time, he stopped, looked over his shoulder at his parents, and sighed.

"Sometimes I want to tether him," Susan said. "From the looks of this place I probably should."

She was right. Burr stared at the sprawling house. Even after what he'd been told by the executor of his grandfather's estate, he was shocked at its condition.

"It's in bad shape, I'm afraid. But that couldn't be helped. Your grandfather was a stubborn fellow, and it was his wish that you not be contacted until five years after his death."

"Are you telling me my grandfather died five years ago? And n.o.body told me?"

"I understand this is a shock. I tried to have the court see him as feebleminded, but that didn't work. Believe me, Arthur was anything but, and everyone around here knew it. He left specific instructions. No one was to come here. And no blood relations were to be told of its condition."

Five years, Burr thought. It was hard to imagine that this kind of decay had happened that quickly. The farmer's porch was a weathered claw of wood. The paint was peeling, gutters hanging loosely from the eaves. Brambles grew high and tangled around the back corners and hid whatever cracks might be running through the foundation.

Susan looked at him over the roof of the car. "Are you sure your grandfather didn't leave it to you to punish you for something?"

Burr smiled at her, hiding his own growing sense of dismay. His grandfather had always loved riddles and practical jokes; perhaps this was his last one. Susan smiled back with less enthusiasm, before turning and leaving the safety of the car (somewhat reluctantly, he saw) to rescue Sammy, who had wandered a bit farther away and gotten himself tangled in brush along the edges of what remained of the lawn.

Burr glanced through the open front door into the backseat. Lisa was looking out the window at something only she could see. As they left the house in New York that morning her rage had been like a hurricane. She hadn't spoken to anybody since. He understood her anger at being uprooted; change didn't suit her. A child with her condition needed to be surrounded by a comfortable, well-known environment. Parenting a girl with special needs had proven even harder than he'd imagined. Lisa was often in her own world, governed by rules n.o.body understood, least of all him.

"Why don't you come and explore with Sammy?"

To his surprise she opened the back door and got out, and he was left staring at her back as she walked away, fifteen-year-old shoulders rigid.

Burr turned back to the house and found himself standing alone. The worst events of the recent past faded away; the loss of his job, their money troubles, the death of close loved ones, all lost in a whirl of memories and time. He felt the house pulling at him, a strangely physical ache.

Glen Ridge.

He was still standing there, ghosts chasing themselves around in his head, when he heard the car making its way up the drive.

THE DEVIL, AS they say, is in the details. The house was a shambles, with gra.s.s high enough that, as he drove toward them, Rodney Talbot could barely make out the child wandering through it, or the attractive woman who chased after the little one. Aside from the new master of the house, the only one he could see clearly was the daughter, a beauty in her own right, and the one who had what his old friend Arthur had always called "the sight."

That left Christian Burr, father, husband, and only surviving heir to Arthur's estate, standing alone by his car.

How long had it been since Talbot had seen Christian? The boy had been a teenager. It was after Arthur had made Talbot his business partner but before he'd become the executor of his estate, and certainly before Talbot knew Arthur was . . . well, that the man he called his best friend was different.

Arthur Burr was not normal. He never had been. But he'd been a good man in his own way. He'd owned this little mountain town once upon a time, supervising the construction of nearly every home and providing protection for generations of families-while receiving valuable things in return, of course.

And where was the money that the man had earned over that very long lifetime? Talbot's lips pulled into a thin, weary smile. He knew, of course, but was not allowed to say. Not yet.

Christian was staring at his Cadillac as Talbot came to a stop, a puzzled expression on his face. Arthur's grandson was older now, but his expression was much the same as always. That was the boy's trouble, really. He was as much a dreamer as his grandfather but without the resources to allow him that sort of mentality. Talbot was familiar with the problem. It was the way of the blood, trickling down through the line until it found a pool in which to gather.

Problems could also present opportunities.

Talbot slid out of his comfortable car and stood on legs that preferred sitting whenever possible. Getting old was never a pleasant notion, and he had done all he could to delay the inevitable, but just lately it was worse. Arthritis guaranteed that. The wind caught his thinning hair and tried to pull it from his scalp. The appropriate level of hair gel made it stay in place, even if it also gave him a slightly greasy look that he disapproved of, not that it mattered anymore. He still dressed himself in finery, but he also knew that no woman was looking at him with an eye toward courtship.

There had been a time when he would have made Christian stand on the other side of his ma.s.sive oak desk and wait patiently while he sorted through a thick sheaf of papers in his briefcase. That too had changed with age. These days he preferred to be done with theatrics and merely handle matters quickly and efficiently. The time for drama was long past in his eyes. Not so with Arthur. Talbot had every intention of following the rather obscure demands of his best friend-at least at first-but he didn't have to enjoy it.

Very well, Arthur. One last time we shall play your games. Talbot reached into his custom-tailored suit jacket and pulled a thick envelope from the inside pocket.

"Can I help you?" Burr was looking at him with a slightly perplexed expression that would have never been found on his grandfather's face.

Talbot smiled. "I think, my good man, that you have that the other way around. I'm the executor of Arthur's estate, and I'm here to help you."

Burr smiled, his face a full decade younger as the expression eased the tension in his features. "Mr. Talbot? We spoke on the phone. I wasn't expecting to see you." Burr offered his hand and Talbot took it, pleased by the firm grip. d.a.m.n, but he looked like his grandfather had in his prime: the bright, piercing eyes and a strangely icy tint to his skin, as if he was perpetually cold. It was almost haunting.

Talbot smiled back. "I thought I would give you the keys in person." He patted the envelope in his other hand and the metallic tinkle of the ring of keys sounded dully through the thick paper. "Along with a few final words from your grandfather. Arthur requested that you read it yourself." He paused a moment. "He wanted to make sure that no one else confused the matters he wished you to consider."

"I'm afraid I don't understand." Burr took the envelope and seemed surprised by the weight.

"Well, you know your grandfather, Christian. He was a man who liked to handle things a certain way, with a bit of mystery thrown in."

Burr nodded. "I meant to ask you, Mr. Talbot: what happened to my grandfather's body?"

Rodney Talbot looked away, his eyes moving over the gra.s.s and line of trees that stood like motionless soldiers about to march upon the helpless interlopers. "He asked to be buried out there, in the forest he loved," Talbot said. "An unmarked grave. It was his dying wish. I didn't see any reason not to grant it." Talbot motioned to the envelope. "Now, go ahead and open that, if you like. You may be surprised at what you find."

COLORS SWIRLED BEFORE her in the air like oil on the surface of a pool. She reached out and dipped her fingers through them, watching streaks of blue and orange trail from her fingertips, mix, and form faces with mouths open in silent screams.

Sounds a.s.sailed her from all sides, the tick of sunshine off pebbles, a hiss of insect legs moving in the tall gra.s.s, the squeal of dust dancing beyond the pa.s.sage of the car that had stopped near her father.

A few more steps and she reached the edge of the abyss. Somewhere beyond her feet was the source of the strangest sensations, wafting up like a cloud. The darkness before her was only a wall, built to protect and conceal; she could see that much clearly. But she could not see all that lay beyond, and it puzzled her.

The rage early in their journey had been about this change, her frustration over her inability to see what was coming. But something was coming, something important. All her life, she could sense things that others could not. Inanimate objects spoke to her; music played through living creatures; spirits gathered in places of death. There was a world beyond the one that most people knew. She felt it, every day.

Just as she felt the others gathered within the forest, thousands of them, watching from places that hid them.

Waiting for her to arrive.

CHRISTIAN BURR TOLD Talbot to head home, that he preferred to read the letter later and on his own terms. Looking for privacy, he left Susan to tend to the children outside and found his way into the house.

Once inside, he felt better almost immediately. Past the sagging remains of the porch, the structure appeared to be fairly sound; remarkably so, in spite of its appearance. The interior was in much better shape than the porch. Immediately ahead of him the stairs led up to the second floor. To his left was a study, to his right an archway into the living room. They used to have the Christmas tree in there during the holidays, Burr thought. Memories flooded over him. He could remember them wheeling the piano into this little front room and they would all gather around near the tree and sing carols in his grandfather's native Czechoslovakian tongue. That tree was always a living one; his grandfather had insisted on it. After the opening of presents and the meal, Arthur would take him alone into the forest and they would plant the tree somewhere in a weighty and somber ritual filled with words that Burr did not understand. He had always sensed the ritual was more important to his grandfather than the holiday itself. Arthur Burr filled nearly every other waking moment with jokes and wordplay, winks of an eye, riddles that left everyone stumped for hours on end. But he never joked about the planting of that tree.

Strange. He had forgotten about that until now. Another memory flitted at the edges of his consciousness, something important he couldn't quite remember. Distracted, Burr stepped into the living room, dust swirling in the still air. All the furniture was exactly the same. He could hardly help feeling angry at the state of everything. Why hadn't somebody notified him sooner? His grandfather had loved this house. Perhaps Burr could have seen to it that the place was kept up.

Of course he could never have afforded that, not after being downsized and their recent money problems. Everything had seemed to happen all at once, the bad news rolling in day after day until he'd very nearly broken under the weight. His own parents' death in a terrible car accident six months ago had been the worst of it. He'd tried to reach his grandfather then, without success. Now that made more sense; Arthur was already gone himself, as it turned out. The news of the old man's death had been another blow, and to find out that he had actually died years before had made it even more bizarre and disturbing.

They had had no other choice but to come here, city slickers forced to relocate to this isolated mountain community five hundred miles from home. Driving through the town center had felt like going back a century in time. People had stared at the car as they rolled by. They had stopped for gas at the only station available, and a mention of Arthur Burr had gotten nothing but a shrug and muttered breath from the attendant. Christian's grandfather had practically built Glen Ridge with his own hands, and had been beloved, as far as Christian had ever heard, but apparently the courtesy always shown him did not extend to his descendants.

This is our home now, for better or for worse. Fate had seen to that.

The envelope could not be put off any longer. Burr took a chair and sat down in the sunshine, pulling the contents free with trembling fingers. The letter he set aside for now, drawn to the other papers; at first, genealogy reports that appeared to trace the Burr lineage back to the Czech territories. It appeared that his grandfather had changed the family name from Burian to Burr when he came to America around the time of World War Two. With that came the memory that had eluded him earlier: his grandfather telling him Czechoslovakian legends as bedtime stories. One in particular, about a giant forest creature called a Leshy that could take any shape, had terrified him to the point of sleeping with the light on and the covers pulled up to his chin, quaking at the blackness beyond the bedroom window.

But all that was lost as Christian Burr focused on the bank statements beneath the genealogy reports. For a moment his brain refused to process what he was seeing. The number seemed to be a mistake. Eight million dollars? How was that possible? Arthur Burr had been a builder, overseeing construction of a good number of the houses in town, and had certainly been comfortable enough, although Christian had never really bothered to understand the details of his business. He had never imagined that his grandfather had been this successful.

My G.o.d. He let out a sigh, then a small whoop. This changed everything. Everything.

Only then did he turn to the letter.

My dear boy, where to begin? There are secrets that you must understand. I am gone, and yet I remain, a tree that has lost its leaves but still stands tall and rooted to the ground. Now I must provide Braille for a blind man. So, to begin, riddle number one: What bends without breaking, gives shelter without roof and walls, warms after death, sighs without breath?

Forgive me for my wordplay, but that is my nature. It is too easy to be handed the answers before you begin. There is power in the journey and the discovery.

I remember your father's awakening after you were born. He was born blind too, much to my chagrin. I could not travel to your home (I never traveled in that way, do you remember this?) and so I met you when your parents came to visit when you were three months old. Your father said the light of stars was held in your eyes, that he saw this when you came from the womb. He was right, and yet he was wrong; it is not just the light of the stars, but the sun and moon and all that is holy about this world. That is what is kept within you, within all of us.

That light is pa.s.sed, one to the next. And once every few generations, it is allowed to shine forth. It is your job to a.s.sist with the transition.

I have rules for you. You must rebuild this home, and once it is rebuilt, you must live here with your family for the rest of your life and never leave. You must allow the children access to the woods at any time, no matter how dangerous that may appear, and accept without hesitation whatever happens as a result.

You must become, my dear boy, a steward of the blood.

Once you have settled here you can never leave Glen Ridge again.

That may seem harsh, but I think you will find everything you need at your fingertips, and more. If you do this, the account I have set up for you is accessible; if you do not, Mr. Talbot will remove that access permanently.

One last riddle for you: Reaching stiffly for the sky, I bare my fingers when it's cold.

In warmth I wear an emerald glove, And in between I dress in gold.

Find the answers, and you will see the light.

BY NOW THE boy had likely seen the details contained within the envelope. Talbot had hoped to watch Christian's reaction and gauge how to proceed from there. But plans change, of course, and Rodney had already decided that it was time to move things along a bit more quickly.

Talbot walked through the woods as the bite of arthritis began to fade away, feet settling exactly where they needed to in order to avoid the thorns and nettles catching on his fine suit, shoes never once falling prey to mud or stones that would have scuffed the polish. He had been trained in the ways of the woods. He had learned many, many things over the long years.

When Arthur Burr had first settled in town as a young man, before everyone's perspectives had changed, he had been ridiculed for being different. Arthur had been much like his lovely great-granddaughter. Back then they'd called a man like Arthur "slow-witted" and "addled." Now they might say "autistic." None of the terms were right, of course.

Things had certainly changed, all right. Talbot smiled. He'd been a child when they met seemingly by chance in these very same woods. Back in those days he had never even dreamed of owning a suit. He'd had exactly two pair of pants and neither had been owned by him the first time around. He let his fingers drift across the leaves of the closest tree, a birch with peeling bark that looked like flaking, mummified flesh. The wind sighed around him and several wasps buzzed nearby. He did not fear the wasps, never had and likely never would. Arthur had shown him a great number of secrets over the years, and he understood the woods better than most could ever comprehend.

Things rustled through the trees, and then came the soft, careful padding of a wolf. He waited patiently for the animal to come closer. The beast was a large one, old and scarred. It looked at him with clear, intelligent eyes, and he looked back. "It's been a while since I saw you, hasn't it?" The wolf brushed itself along his hand, and he rubbed his fingers through the thick fur. The winter coat hadn't completely fallen away yet, but it would soon enough. He tugged a soft tuft of shedding fur from the animal's flank and let it drift away in the wind.

"Arthur knew your name, didn't he? Your real name, I mean. Of course he did." The wolf gave no response save to nuzzle his hand.

Arthur had shared a great number of his secrets, but not all of them. It wasn't a matter of friendship; it was a matter of keeping the trust of others. With the right names, a man could very well make demands of the creatures of the wild. If a man knew the right words, the right way to go about it.

That was why he never feared the wasps. He'd learned the right words to deal with them a very long time ago. Arthur had taught him that and many other things.

He thought of the man's smile, the simple, carefree actions that had caused so many people to think that Arthur was deranged. What was the word that people used that made them both laugh so often? Bedazzled. That was the one. As if the world around him was simply too much for him to comprehend.

He closed his eyes and looked at the world the way Arthur had shown him so long ago. It was a very different world indeed. With his eyes closed and his sight open, he stood and walked, and the wolf walked with him.

He covered the distance-almost a mile-with ease. And finally, although it took some time, he found the right spot.

Despite his advanced years, he crouched close to the ground and then leaned back against the coa.r.s.e bark of the gigantic tree, resting the side of his face against the wood. The wind sighed across him, a gentle caress that made him think of the red-haired beauty both he and Arthur had loved so dearly. In the long run, she had chosen Arthur, had borne him a son. That was all right. There had been a time when the love he felt for her was reciprocated, and he had never held much of a grudge for her choices and couldn't have held a grudge against Arthur had his life depended on it.

Nearly two hours pa.s.sed before he let himself rise from where he'd been squatting. Most would have been in agony from sitting in one place, in so awkward a pose, for as long as he had. Rodney Taylor was not most people.

The wolf was long gone. Where it had been, the ground was cold to his touch. That was all right. He had not been napping. Nor had he been lost in dreams. He had been doing as Arthur had asked.

He allowed a tight, small smile. There was warmth, and a little sadness too. Soon he would have to depart from Arthur's well-laid plans. It was regretful, but necessary. But not yet.