by John Coyne
Barbara stood behind the bedroom curtains, looking down at her husband. First he shoveled, then he went back and swept away the remaining patches of snow, doing it meticulously, as if a perfectly swept sidewalk really mattered. It was the way he did everything-a maddening obsession with detail. Barbara had told him he had the mind of a proofreader. Barbara left the window. She couldn't bear watching him. She knew she was being obsessive herself, watching, waiting, fearing that he'd keel over. And she was tired. Her sudden panic had been exhausting. She went to their bed and, slipping off her shoes, stretched out, pulling the comforter up and over her. The house was not cold; it was only her fright that chilled her. She felt as if she were standing in an open doorway, exposed to the weather. "Darling?" Warren was standing at the bottom of the front stairs, shouting up at her. "Yes, dear...?" She rolled over on the bed but otherwise did not move. "The front walk is clean and I'm still alive." "Warren, don't kid around!" "Well, it's done and I'm fine. Can I get you anything?" He sounded energetic, as if he wanted to keep busy. "Nothing, dear. Why don't you just relax? We're both going to be up late this evening." She smiled, hearing his voice. "Yes, I think I will. I'm going to get a drink, then watch the news in the den. You sure you don't want anything? I'll bring a glass of wine up to you." "No, sweetheart, but thank you. I'm going to take a nap." And she rolled over and drew the pillow to her, still smiling as she cuddled it close. Everything was fine. Warren was safely inside the house, and she had time for a long nap before preparing dinner. She fell asleep thinking of how happy she was with her husband and son.
Mr. Speier flipped through his Dealer's Guide, searching for the attack points. He was going slow, Scott saw, building tension while they all waited. What did 112 attack points mean against a Brobdingnagian? Had Brian Boru killed the giant? "Brian missed," the Dealer announced. "Missed!" The outcry was in unison. They all knew that in Hobgoblin a roll of over 100 on the pyramidal dice usually meant a direct hit, most often an immediate kill. Mr. Speier raised his hand, silencing the students, then read from the new supplement to the Dealer's Guide. "Brobdingnagians have existed for thousands of years, but the world first learned of them in 1703 when Lemuel Gulliver was shipwrecked on their native land. He said they were `as tall as steeple spires.' "The Brobdingnagians are not native to Erin and their presence in the land of Hobgoblin is curious." Scott smiled. For a moment he forgot his fear of losing Brian Boru as he lost himself in the story of how the Brobdingnag came to Ireland. This was what he liked best about Hobgoblin: all the details, so much physical description of the locations, all the background information on ancient times. "We suspect," Mr. Speier went on, "that the first Brobdingnagians came from an extensive peninsula on the coast of California. Gulliver, the only westerner to visit the place and return, is embarrassingly unclear about its exact location, but then again, he was shipwrecked and we can't expect him to be precise. "At the time of the first great California earthquake their thin elbow of land was cast into the sea, and a handful of them managed to survive by setting sail in long ships. They were carried around the world by the North Atlantic drift and their ships arrived in Erin before the time of Tara, approximately 200 A.D. "These long ships were wrecked on the rocky coast of western Ireland, and to this day their remains can be clearly seen in the shallow waters of Blacksod Bay. "Despite their great strength and size-Gulliver said they could cover ten yards with every step-few of the Brobdingnagians were able to survive the cold and hostile climate of Erin's northern latitudes. "Those few who have survived are rare beings, easily provoked to battle, but nevertheless faithful and trusted friends, as worthy as any knight of Erin, if treated with respect and camaraderie." Speier stopped reading. "You shouldn't have attacked, Scott." It was Evans finding fault again. "If you had talked to him instead, he could've been your friend. He could've helped us." "Fuck off," Scott answered back. "Come on, you two," Mr. Speier interrupted. "I'll call a fault in this game if you keep it up. What if Dean Campbell comes into the lounge and hears this language?" He took in all the students with his glance. "All right," the Dealer went on, picking up the dice. "The Brobdingnagian has seen Brian Boru, has taken the full force of the paladin's blow and survived. Now he attacks!" Speier checked his Guide. "I need to throw only a 34 to hit Brian Boru. And any number over 100 means a mortal hit." A howl went up from the crowd of students. Several of them leaned down to catch Scott's eye, to shout that Brian Boru had finally met his match. Even Evans, whose character couldn't rescue Billy Blind without Brian's help, seemed perversely pleased that Scott's Hobgoblin supremacy was about to end. "Wait! Wait!" Scott shouted over the noise. He raised his arms for silence, and yelled loud enough to be heard. "Brian Boru has something to say. Brian Boru humbly requests everyone's attention. Brian Boru will not die."
The silence woke Barbara Gardiner. She knew she had heard a noise. A crash. A heavy thump, as if someone had pushed a grocery bag off the kitchen table. She was jerked fully awake out of her brief, deep sleep. "Warren?" she asked. Then louder, "Warren, do you hear me?" It was a large house and if he was in the kitchen or study she knew he would not hear her. She tossed off the comforter and went to the doorway, her footsteps silent on the thick carpet. From the top of the stairs she shouted his name into the house. Now she was frightened. She raced down the steps and at the bottom she nearly fell in her panic, her stockings slipping on the polished hardwood floor. She kept shouting his name, shrieking it. She could hear the television in the den, hear the voice of Walter Cronkite say, "And that's the way it is on the four-hundred-thirteenth day of captivity for the American hostages." The sentence stuck in her mind, stayed with her forever, as if burned into the membrane. The den was empty. The television played to an empty room. Warren had probably turned on the set, then gone into the kitchen to fix a drink. A perfect Manhattan-always a perfect Manhattan. He made them himself. No one else knew how, he insisted. "Warren!" She wailed like a lost child, but she was thinking furiously as she headed for the kitchen. He had taken out the trash. Gone out the back door and dumped the garbage in the cans by the drive. That was it. That was why he wasn't answering. Her body shook. She could barely wait, trembling now from relief.
Scott Gardiner waited for silence. He had their attention. He saw the puzzlement in everyone's eyes. Even Mr. Speier frowned, unsure of what Scott was planning. "I know what Brian Boru is capable of, Scott," Mr. Speier warned, picking up the Dealer's Guide. Scott grinned. It was so simple. Brian Boru would not die. Scott had kept him alive for another attack. "Well, what is IT!" Evans demanded. "Mr. Speier, you said this was an enchanted forest, right?" Scott asked, knowing the answer. The English teacher nodded. "All right," Scott went on, "it is already established that Brian Boru, because of his attacking victories, is a twenty-fifth-level paladin. And he comes into this game with over 400,000 battle points." Scott had already pulled out the computer listing of Brian's achievements. The results of all the Hobgoblin games were stored on the school's computer and Scott displayed the readout as if it were evidence. "That means," he continued, speaking quickly, excited by the knowledge that he was right, "that my paladin has arcane powers. Right?" He hesitated a moment to wait for Mr. Speier to agree, to let everyone realize what Brian Boru was about to do. Mr. Speier nodded, still unsure of what was happening. It was true, according to the guide: a paladin at the twenty-fifth level had secret knowledge and magical powers. "Okay. According to Hobgoblin rules, if I roll higher than four on the cube dice I am granted one wish. And because I'm so proficient, I can roll for a wish at any time. It doesn't constitute my taking an extra turn." Scott glanced up at the other students and added, "If you don't believe me, it's on page 108 of the Player's guide." Mr. Speier looked up from his book and gestured to Scott to proceed. "You're right," he said. "Roll the dice." Scott took his time. He held the small cubes loosely in his cupped hands and shook them slowly. He knew he could roll a four, but he heightened the suspense by making them all wait. A moment ago the other students had thought Brian Bore was finally finished
, about to be killed by a Brobdingnag. Scott ducked his head, grinning with pleasure. It was so easy, he thought, and still they hadn't guessed how he could outsmart the giant. The Battleboard was an enchanted forest-a Brigadoon world where time stopped and could be played again. If he won the right to make one wish, he would reverse the game, bring it back in time to the moment before Brian Boru attacked the Brobdingnagian. Then he'd have Brian negotiate with the giant instead, win him over as a comrade. It was within Brian Boru's power to sway the Brobdingnagian. Brian had enough charisma points to influence humans and nonhumans alike. "Come on, Gardiner!" Evans yelled. "Brian Boru can't miss. Roll the dice!" Scott glanced at the other boy and casually, confidently tossed the dice onto the Battleboard. "Read 'em and weep," he said smugly.
At the door to the kitchen Barbara saw Warren. The sight puzzled her and it took a moment for her to comprehend why he was sitting upright on the floor with his eyes open and staring across the room, as if he were trying to recall what he had wanted. His hand still clutched the glass of ice. "Oh, darling," she whispered, falling against the doorjamb. In an instant she visualized what must have been the last moments of his life. The rye was on the counter, the cabinet door was open. He had walked across the kitchen to the refrigerator and placed the glass under the ice dispenser. The cold ice tumbling into his glass must have been the last sound he heard. When he turned his heart gave out. He fell back against the refrigerator. That was what she had heard. Her husband's body sliding down the length of the refrigerator as he died in silence.
The dice spun to a stop on the Battleboard. "Snake eyes!" Evans shouted. A roar went up from the students crowded around. Scott had not made enough points to gain a wish. The paladin could not reverse time. The giant would attack. Brian Boru would be slaughtered. While Scott sat stunned, the Dealer inexorably threw the dice. The giant's twenty-foot sting pierced the armor of Brian Boru and the legendary knight arched his back, crying out silently against his fate, then slowly crumpled to death on the floor of the enchanted forest.
Two
Fall, 1981 The boy who called himself Brian Boru stood in the glen and waited for the Bugganes, the small, headless ogres that lived in the marshy creek below the castle. The creek ran diagonally across the sloping hill, and its course left a ragged scar in the carpeted lawns as if the rocky mansion were a craggy face, and the long green grass a neck with its throat cut. In his hands he held firmly the leather slingshot the Irish blacksmith had made, carving the handle from one solid piece of black walnut and using a strip of cowhide for the long strap. "Here," he had said, giving it to the boy. "The king of Ireland himself killed the giant of Loch Lein with the selfsame weapon." Brian placed a small hazelnut in the deep pouch, as the old man had shown him, and whipped the sling about his head. It whistled in the wind, frightening the golden finches from the oak tree. The boy spotted the headless Bugganes, watched the little ogres crawl from the rocks, scamper across the creek, and pause again by the thick woods. He kept whirling the sling, holding fire, seized with both fright and pleasure as the cruel creatures metamorphosed into snarling dogs, then screaming goblins. The evil fairies kept changing shape, but Brian tracked them to where the creek disappeared into the oak woods he called Lough Mask. It was to this very spot yesterday, after school, he had tracked the giant Gore, lolling the stupid creature with his battle axe, hacking away bits and pieces of the twenty-foot giant until finally he had chopped it down to his own size. In a single swoop he had lopped off the monster's head, severing it like a sunflower top. He had the Bugganes in sight and he edged forward carefully, getting into range, keeping downwind from them. He was dressed for the hunt, camouflaged in gray leggings and a leather vest made from the skin of a young elk. In his other hand he carried a knobbed shillelagh. The shillelagh had magical powers, Conor had told him, but Brian had not yet tested it. He would wield it in battle someday, he knew, but for these weasellike demons he needed only his courage and the singing slingshot that whistled near his ear. On the rocks the fairies popped up, looked alarmed, searched the woods until in the morning fog they spied Brian Boru, heard his footsteps ruffle the thick bed of yellow maple leaves, and they scampered off, running like gray squirrels across the open lawn. Brian Boru's sling whipped around once more, and the hazelnut shot from the pouch with the force of a crossbow bolt. He had aimed at the leader, but the hazelnut missed and smashed against the rocks, scattering fragments in a fine spray, and the woods were silent. The boy stood at the bottom of the landscaped lawns, breathing deeply, thrilled by the near hit, the sense of adventure. His leather sling hung loose in his hand and he sighed, exhausted by the early morning hunt. The autumn sun had reached the fields and was shining against the facade of the mansion, burning away the mist with the smooth, even hand of warmth. He was late. It was time for school. His mother would be calling him soon, and he ran up the hill toward the guest house, his sneakers leaving a straight path in the wet dew as if he were making his way through a magic world.
"You just have to control your imagination, Scotty," she insisted. Barbara returned to the kitchen table and sat down across from her son, pausing for a moment, as if to invite a response. She never ate breakfast, but while she waited she lit another cigarette and glanced up at the kitchen clock to see just how late she was. The mansion would be open soon. "It's only a game, Mom," the boy answered nervously. He knew he was delaying her. "It's more than that, Scott. It's not healthy, especially when you're out at dawn tramping through the woods, dressed up in that weird costume and chasing after squirrels." Barbara glanced at her son. She would have to call Dr. Frisch long distance, she decided; he might have something to suggest. "Bugganes, Mom. I was hunting Bugganes, the evil fairies that live in the woods of Lough Mask." Scotty tried to explain, taking a certain pleasure in detailing the nuances of the game. It would be smarter, he knew, to keep quiet, to let her yell at him and get it over with, but he couldn't stop himself. He wanted his mother to understand. But she just shook her head impatiently. "You're too old for cowboys and Indians. You're sixteen. You have your driver's license...you'll start going out with girls soon. It's absolutely ridiculous to be playing children's games." "Adults play Hobgoblin, mother. Grown-ups. Doctors and college professors. People like you play this game. Old people." "Thanks, darling." Barbara smiled curtly. "I didn't realize I was already a member of the geriatric society." "Ah, Mom, you know what I mean. Look-it's a game. Everyone at the academy plays it" He was leaning forward, gesturing with both hands. "Even Mr. Speier played. You didn't mind when I played with him. You never told me I had to stop." "In Connecticut you didn't play all by yourself." She hesitated. "In Connecticut you didn't refer to yourself as Brian Boru." "Mom, for cryin' out loud!" "I'm sorry, but it's true." She kept shaking her head. "Besides, I thought you told me Brian Boru died in your last game at Spencertown. How can he still be your character?" Scott didn't answer. His mother was right. According to the rules of Hobgoblin, a dead character could in fact be resurrected. But he had to begin all over again, at the first level, and Scott couldn't bear to do that to Brian Boru. He couldn't stand to lose both his father and his mighty, twenty-fifth-level paladin. That had been the wrong question, Barbara saw, watching her silent son. But she had to get through to him. "You're just too involved in that game, Scotty. I've seen you spend endless hours painting those silly miniatures." "You're never home long enough to see me spend endless hours working on anything," he answered quietly, not looking up. For a moment Barbara didn't reply. She stamped out her cigarette and studied her child, thinking. Then she said softly, "That's unfair, Scotty. I explained to you already that this is a difficult time for me. We only have this nine months at Ballycastle and I have to finish the report." She could hear the frustration in her own voice, and she stopped talking. It was only ten months since Warren's death, and she had promised herself that she wouldn't burden Scotty further by talking about her career problems. She had upset his life enough by taking him out of the academy and leaving Connecticut. But she ha
d had no choice. Warren had borrowed against Gardiner & Sons to buy new plant equipment. His death had left her with a lot of debts and little savings-certainly not enough to keep Scotty in private school. This job didn't pay much, but it was the only one she'd been able to find. Women with M.A.s in art history were not in great demand. "Let's not fight, Scotty." She reached across the table to hold his hand, but the boy moved his arm beyond her reach. He did not like to be touched. Even as a child, he had resisted her hugs. He just wasn't very affectionate. Beyond his clean, blond looks, his quick, effortless smile, there was a coldness to him, as if his heart were packed with arctic ice. "I'm not fighting," he insisted, but tears flashed in his eyes. She always misunderstood him. "Just because you don't like Hobgoblin, you think it's silly and stupid and anyone who plays it is crazy. Well, it's not fair!" He pushed back his chair and stood, rushing into his bedroom to find his book bag. He wanted only to get out of the house, to get away from his mother's voice. "I'm sorry," Barbara shouted after him. "I'm sorry to upset you, but these games are just fantasies, and you have to begin facing reality-you know what Dr. Frisch said." "Mom! For chrissake, that was months ago!" He was back in the kitchen doorway, a tall, slim boy who looked out of place in the cottage, too big for the small rooms. At times it seemed to Barbara he was a stranger in her house, an intruder she did not even know. He had grown so quickly in the last year that she no longer recognized him. I have to buy him new clothes, she thought, seeing how uncomfortable he looked in his old corduroy jeans. "Dr. Frisch didn't blame my problem on Hobgoblin," Scott went on. "He said I was emotionally disturbed about Daddy dying. I was experiencing a psychic seizure, a disassociation from reality, and I was acting out violently." He tossed off the psychiatric jargon sarcastically, knowing she didn't understand half of it. Barbara shrugged helplessly. She had never thought much of psychiatrists and knew very little about them. It was only her desperation over Scott, in those first nightmare weeks after Warren died, that had led her to seek out the best psychologist she could. Dr. Frisch had saved Scotty, she knew, but still she feared she had lost her child forever. "Scotty, you're too upset. Let's talk about this later," she asked, backing away from the confrontation. "I'm not upset!" he insisted. "All right, you're not upset!" Barbara sighed, exasperated. "But it's 7:20. You're late. And I don't want you racing the car to school," she added, feeling the need to exercise some maternal control. "I have football practice after school," he said calmly. "I'll be home late." "Fine." The crisis was over. She picked up his breakfast dishes and went to the sink, stacking them with the unwashed dishes from the night before. She would come back at noon, she promised herself, and straighten up. But immediately, at the thought of housework, she felt depressed. She needed help. The house was getting out of control. "Are we going to eat at home tonight?" he asked. "Yes, Scott, we are eating at home. Don't we eat at home most nights?" She turned to see what he was implying. "I mean, are you going to cook? You never do anymore." "Come on, Scott, give me a break. Stop this whining. You know that's not true." A hot flash of anger swept through her. "Well, it is true," he answered. "We had pizza last night, and the night before that..." "I think we've had enough family discussion for the moment." She glanced again at the wall clock, thinking she had to be careful with Scotty. His transferring schools was turning out to be just as difficult as his doctor had warned her it might be. "I've gotta go," the boy said, moving toward the kitchen door. They confronted each other at the doorway; she blocked him from hurrying outside. Close up he towered above her, taller by at least six inches. His body was all long arms and legs, and he moved with the quick, jerky motions of a puppet on strings. "Let's not fight," she asked, trying to be conciliatory, whispering as if she were his lover. She slid her arm about his waist, hugged him briefly. She expected him to pull away, but this time, tentatively, he wrapped his arm over her shoulders and made an awkward gesture at an embrace. They went outside that way, walked across the small patch of lawn to where he had parked his small MGB the night before. The car had been Warren's, a present to himself after one particularly successful year. Barbara knew she should have sold it, but it meant so much to Scott that she'd let him keep it and sold the last of their stocks instead. A businesswoman she would never be, she sighed. Beyond the car the lawn swept up to the mansion itself, to where the huge Gothic castle was built across the hilltop. Like a dark cloud on the landscape, it dominated the countryside. Barbara did not like the mansion. She found it ominous and grotesque, out of place on the river. It had been a rich man's perversion. In the 1920s Fergus O'Cuileannain had imported the old castle from the west of Ireland, then rebuilt it stone by stone on the bluff overlooking the river. The castle was at the summit of two thousand acres of woods and farmland and several curved roads led up to it, cutting through maple woods, pine forests, and natural fruit groves. The thick foliage had a way of concealing the massive castle from anyone driving up, and it wasn't until a car came out of the woods, reaching the crest of the hilltop, that the castle suddenly appeared, as if conjured by magic. The guest houses were below, tucked away in a white birch wood between the mansion itself and the river. From the Gardiners' house, Barbara looked up at the facade of the castle and could see the full length of the front side. The castle was a massive collection of towers, turrets, buttresses, bays and pinnacled roofs. Seen from the disadvantage of the lower lawn, the building seemed hostile and impenetrable. It only lacked, Barbara thought, a moat and drawbridge. Yet the castle did not create a sense of awe or wonder. She had expected more from the mansion, when three months before, an Irish genealogical foundation contacted her through a friend at the Metropolitan Museum of Art who was helping in her job search. The Foundation asked if she would come to Ballycastle and write a history of the estate, including a catalog of the art and furnishings. She hadn't wanted the job. Driving up from the city that spring, she had spotted the castle from several miles away, looming like a vulture, blotting the horizon with its gray turrets and towers. She had slowed down, stopped at the entrance gates, thinking she didn't want to spend nine months of her life inside such thick, depressing walls. But Warren was dead. And she needed to get on with her life. "Do you want me to stop off and pick up a pizza on my way home?" Scott was asking, trying to make amends. "No, sweetheart. I'll cook veal scallopini," she offered, naming one of his favorite dishes. She hugged him tightly and let him go. Everything was all right again. The crisis had been averted. She would just have to be more careful, she realized, less judgmental. She was forcing him to react, upsetting him needlessly. "It's okay, you know, if you want to ask someone from the Foundation over for dinner," Scott said offhandedly, folding himself into the tiny English sports car. "Why, Scotty, aren't you nice!" Barbara smiled, pleased by his suggestion. "Thank you, but I think the two of us should have dinner together." "No, it's okay." He glanced up at her. He was worried, she saw. His gray eyes showed the fear. It was as if he had swum out too far into the deep water and realized he couldn't save himself. "Another time," she suggested, and she leaned forward on impulse and kissed him on the cheek. It had been awhile since he had allowed her to kiss him-not since the funeral, not since the terrible last moments at the grave site. "Have a good day at school," she said, smiling down at her son, then she stepped away to let him drive off. A third-level Barrow-Wight, he thought, looking up at his mother and listening to her voice. An inhabitant of rivers and seas. A subterranean monster capable of magical powers and psionic abilities. That was what she reminded him of. "And when are you going to ask some of your new friends home?" she asked, suddenly feeling secure enough to intrude into his private life. "I don't have any friends," Scott answered flatly. He reached over and turned on the engine. But as a knight, as a fourth-level magic user, he ought to be powerful enough to outwit a Barrow-Wight, he thought, and extract two wishes. He hesitated, deciding what to demand of her. "Oh, Scott, I'm sure you have some friends. What about your football buddies?" "They're all assholes," he stated, gunning the engine. He would make her grant him
the ability to cast spells. "And girlfriends?" Barbara asked, trying to sound jilted. "They're all dumb, Mom. The girls, the boys, and the teachers. Everyone at that crummy high school." He shifted into first and popped the clutch. The small green sports car shot off, tearing up gravel as it raced onto the drive. The second wish, he decided, would be to make his mother invisible, to get her out of his life. Barbara watched the car as it followed the curving drive below the castle and disappeared into the woods. The morning sun swept across the edge of the woods, spotlighting the blaze of fall leaves. It made the hillside a canvas of bright colors sweeping down to the river in straight, clean brush strokes. What a strange child, she thought in a moment of dispassionate appraisal. She wondered if all teenage boys were that difficult. He needed a girlfriend, she decided. A girlfriend would persuade him to cut his hair, help him with his manners. Best of all, a girlfriend would get Scott away from his daydreams, away from Hobgoblin, and warming to the idea, Barbara Gardiner walked uphill, following the cinder path to the castle, feeling better about herself, feeling better about her son. She would find Scotty someone, she decided. She would find him a girl.