Hobgoblin

by John Coyne

  Derek swung his car around in the cul-de-sac and his headlights swept across the cottage windows. Barbara stood in the doorway with her arms folded, watching him leave. She did not wave. He raced the car out of the drive, up toward the main building. He had planned to do an hour's work upstairs before driving home, but now he was too depressed. He drove right past the mansion, down the long curving front road to the main gate. Halfway there, in the middle of the woods, he hit the brakes and stopped. He had just remembered what Barbara said when he asked her about the photo album. She hadn't jimmied the lock, she said; she hadn't stolen the album. But how did she know the desk drawer had been jimmied, the lock busted? Derek sat staring ahead. The headlights glowed into the trees, casting a bright patch of light for a few hundred feet, then fading in the distant dark.

  Eighteen

  "Where are they, Barbara?" Derek asked calmly. He stood before her desk the next morning, his attaché case resting on the edge. "I have them," she admitted. "They're safe." She was surprised at her own coolness. It pleased her, this new sense of confidence. "Well, what are you going to do with them?" he asked, still casual, as if it were no big deal. Barbara shrugged. "I'm not sure, really. I just don't want anything to happen to them." Derek stepped away from the desk and loosened his tie, which meant he was nervous. She realized with some surprise that she had become familiar with his ways. It was like being married, knowing another person's habits. "And what do you think might have happened to them?" he asked, as if he wanted only to know the weather. He had gone to stand by the windows, to look out across Ballycastle's lawns. "I'm not sure. Maybe they would have been stolen." "But they were stolen. From my desk drawer." Barbara nodded, unsure for the moment of what to say. "I'm the director here, Barbara." He left the windows and came closer. "Dealing with those photos is my decision and my responsibility." "But you aren't dealing with them, Derek. I'm sorry, but in my opinion you are not being responsible. I don't like saying that, but it's true." "I disagree," he said sharply. "I made a mistake with Maeve Donnellan, yes, but I've already admitted that to you." "Why did you?" she asked curiously. "Why didn't you keep me totally in the dark?" "After she came into your house, I couldn't keep on lying about her existence. It wouldn't have been fair to you or Scotty." "Well, what about those personnel files? You didn't have to make Conor give them to me." Derek nodded. "I thought they would be enough to satisfy you." He smiled wryly. "I didn't realize you were a natural sleuth. In any case, I misinterpreted your commitment. You're obviously determined to find out the truth about those graves on Steepletop." "And you?" She raised her eyebrows, poised herself for his challenge. He could stop her very easily, simply by firing her from her job at Ballycastle. "Last night," he began, "when I saw it was you who had taken the albums, I was really furious, and for a while I couldn't quite understand what was upsetting me." He smiled sheepishly, shrugged. "Yes, I admit I was angry because you'd outsmarted me. But that wasn't really the problem. Last night I also realized I didn't want to lose you." He paused a moment, waited until she looked directly at him. "I finally figured out that you and I were on a collision course, and that if I kept this up you'd hate me. Barbara, this job means a lot to me, you know that, but last night I admitted to myself that you mean more. Losing you isn't worth it. Hell, there's more than one foundation in the world, but I'm not sure there's another Barbara Gardiner." She looked down, blushing from his declaration. Then she pulled herself up in the chair and, sighing, said, "Well, if Richard Nixon can reform, I guess you can." Derek laughed, and reaching over, touched her cheek. Impulsively she kissed his fingers. "Thanks," she whispered. "It isn't every day that one gets such a vote of confidence. At least, I don't." "Well, what do we do now?" he asked. "God, I have no ideal" "Okay, then, let me make an executive decision." He stared off; out her office door. Tourists had already begun to arrive at the castle and he could hear Karen DeWitt giving them directions. "How about lunch? We'll table all important decisions until then." "A deal." Derek stood and picked up his attaché case. At the doorway he paused again. "Promise me one thing. Don't go off investigating on your own any more. Before you take any steps, at least talk them over with me first, okay?" Barbara nodded, agreeing, and gave Derek a brief salute. Still she did not tell him what she planned to do next. He wouldn't let her, she knew. He would say it was too dangerous. But there was still one person alive at Ballycastle who had been to Fergus O'Cuileannain's bedroom-and had been driven mad by it. And Barbara was going to find her.

  "Are you almost ready?" Valerie asked from the door of the library. She had her jacket on and was carrying her lunch. "In a minute." Scott continued to tap numbers into his pocket calculator. "What's all this?" she asked, seeing the stacks of papers. "LOAs. I'm doing them for the game." "LOAs! You mean levels of achievement? I've never been able to understand them. God, Scott, it's going to be too complicated. No one will want to play." She dumped her books on the table and slid into a seat. Everyone would go crazy at the dance if Scott made them sit down and concentrate. Scott kept working, mathematically determining the character of each player. "At Spencertown," he explained, "we used the school computer. If I had a program I could just rip through these LOAs." "Scott, please don't make it too hard," she pleaded. "The kids are only going to get bored. Everyone isn't as smart as you. Besides, it's a dance, too." Scott stopped writing. When he looked up, he was grinning. "Hey, Val, I know. I know. There's no way seventy-five kids who've never heard of Hobgoblin before are going to play it for the first time at a dance. I've worked out characters for everyone, but that's really just for flavor. What we'll really play is a simple game I just made up, based on one of my favorite Hobgoblin characters, the Lady with the White Hand." "Are we going to have to roll dice and everything, like we did the other night?" Valerie asked suspiciously. "No. I told you it was simple. I've broken up all the characters into two teams, and the game is just a fancy, competitive version of Hide and Seek." "Well, how does everybody know who they are and how they're supposed to dress?" "Because this afternoon at homeroom everyone who buys a ticket to the dance will get one of these white sheets and a map of Ballycastle. That tells them everything they have to know. Here, look at Borgus's. I made him a Raging Banshee."

  Type: Banshee (A Death Spirit) Frequency: Common Armour Class: 3 Moves: 60 feet Size: 5 feet Intelligence: Low Alignment: Evil Magic Resistance: High Weapons: Magic (Spells and Poisons) Special Attack: Teeth Special Defense: Shrieking, Screaming Language: English Handicap: Sightless in Daylight

  At the bottom of the page Scott had written: "Banshees are wailing women with long, streaming red hair, dressed in gray cloaks over green dresses. Their eyes are fierce and they weep continually. They are death spirits that wail for family members and can foretell the death of someone who is either holy or very important." "What am I?" Valerie demanded, curious now. "I don't want to be Marie again. People are always after her; it's creepy." "You're much better than Marie; you're the Lady with the White Hand." Scott fingered through the stack of papers and handed a chart to Valerie. "What about Tracy?" Valerie asked. Scott ran his finger down the long list of students. "She's a Fideal, a water spirit. They look like girls, but they drag swimmers down and drown them." "She's not going to like that. Can't she be someone nice? She'll be mad at me if she isn't." Scott shook his head. "It's all worked out; if I change her it'll take hours to balance the teams again. Besides, she'll like the Fideal's costume-it's all gauzy, like the dress the White Rock girl wears." "Okay, that's good. But what about Borgus?" Valerie glanced at the Raging Banshee sheet. "He's not going to want to wear a dress." "Then he doesn't get into the castle. Mr. Russell promised me that everyone has to come in the right costume or he won't let them in. Not even onto the grounds. He's going to check everyone at the front gate." "Well, what's my costume?" "You have to wear a long gown, either white or pink," Scott answered, looking at the Hobgoblin book. "And you should wear a circle of green leaves on your hair. But you also have to frighten people, so I want you to paint your hands an
d arms white..." Valerie took her sheet and studied the costume description. This wasn't so bad, she thought. She could wear the pink bridesmaid's dress that Karen had worn three years before to Linda Pettit's wedding. It looked terrific on her, but there were never any formal dances at Flat Rock that she could wear it to. She began to get excited, thinking about all the possibilities. She would go up to Ballycastle after school and get Karen to start planning with her. "What team am I on?" she asked next, getting herself organized. "You're not on a team," Scott answered, keeping his voice low, as if not wanting to give away a secret. Valerie frowned, looked puzzled. "You're the Lady with the White Hand," he whispered. "If you catch a player by surprise and touch him, he becomes a zombie and not even a high-level cleric with arcane powers can resurrect him." "But what about you?" Valerie interrupted. "Are you coming as Brian Boru?" "Yes, of course." "And which team are you on?" "Neither," he answered happily. "I'll be the Dealer and you'll be the Hobgoblin. Together we'll wipe out every student at Flat Rock High School."

  Conor Fitzpatrick could not keep his mind on his work. He started up the fire in his small forge, then forgot why. Lately he had found himself waking in the morning and not knowing where he was. He couldn't concentrate, couldn't remember what he wanted to do that day. He would make a list, something to help remind him, and then misplace it. Now he went back to the forge and stirred the coals, as if to jar his memory. Then he remembered. He had just finished the sword that Scotty had asked him to make-a sacred sword, the boy had told him, long and thin and light enough to carry into battle. A sword like the one given to Brian Boru by the first king of Erin. The old man smiled. The lad reminded Conor of himself as a boy, before he had left the old country, before he had ever met Fergus O'Cuileannain. "Conor? Conor?" Scott appeared outside the blacksmith's shop, leading Valerie by the hand. "Ah, lad." The old man tipped his cap to Valerie as if he'd never seen her before, then reached behind him into the shop and brought out the sacred sword. "It's done!" Scott ran forward. "It's worthy of any knight, lad," Conor grinned, pleased with his work and the boy's pleasure as he tested the long sword in the wind. "Now, let me go get the sheath." He went back into the shop, moving quickly, but with the short, jerky steps of an old man. Scott turned to Valerie, slashing the long, thin sword through the air. "Be careful, Scott," she asked. "You'll hurt someone." "It's like a claymore," he explained. "Both edges can cut. But it's longer and lighter than a real claymore and much more elegant looking." "You didn't need a real sword, Scott," Valerie said. She set her books on the long bench outside the shop and sat down. The afternoon sun touched that end of the building, making it a warm spot on the cool day. "Yes, I did. Brian Boru doesn't go into battle with a plaything." "Boys," Valerie thought. "It goes with my outfit," Scott said, still parrying. "You already have a costume?" "Sure. Once a year at Spencertown they have this big convention for games like Hobgoblin. Everyone dresses up. Mom made mine. It's an authentic paladin's costume, just like in the manual-a leather vest, green tunic and gray leggings. I also have this golden cloak." "How neat. Scott, why didn't you tell me?" She loved the idea of Scott having a costume. They would look terrific together, he in his tunic and cloak, she in her long gown and coronet of leaves. "Here you be, Scotty." Conor came back carrying the leather sheath. "You can cut the mist off the moon with a blade as keen as this, lad, so be careful with it, hear me?" He took the long sword from Scott and slipped it into the tight, homemade sheath. "There now, buckle it on, my boy. You're looking more like Brian Boru every day." He sat down on the bench beside Valerie and slapped his knees with enjoyment. Scott whipped out the long sword and slashed the air, parrying and thrusting. The sun flashed off the bright metal. "Be careful," Valerie cautioned again. She hated sounding like his mother, but the sword looked dangerous. "Ah, Brian Boru could use a sword well enough in his day. There wasn't his match in all of Erin. Would you be knowing about Brian Boru, lass? Scotty, have you told your sweetheart about him?" "She's not my sweetheart, Conor." Blushing, Scott busied himself with resheathing the sword. "What about Brian Boru, Mr. Fitzpatrick?" Valerie asked, warming a little to the old man. "Ah, Brian was a great knight in the old days, a great man, as fine as Jack Kennedy himself. But there was a warrior from Connaught, a man called Diarmuid Timcarna, who hated Brian for the great respect in which he was held. "So one day off he went in his chariot to visit Brian Boru, and he took a wise old warrior from Ulster with him for protection. "Brian Boru was playing draughts at the time. Now, that's like a game of checkers, and his back was to the road but nevertheless he said to his friends, `I see two chariots coming here. There is a big, brown-haired man in the lead, wearing a crimson cloak with a golden brooch on it and a hooded tunic with red embroidery. His shield is ornamented with a rim of white bronze, and the sword that lies across his thighs is as long as the rudder of a boat'" "Is all this true?" Valerie asked impatiently. "Come on, Val." Scott had squatted down on the ground before Conor, forgetting even his new sword in the excitement of the tale. "Well, it's true enough, lass. True enough," Conor said, continuing. "Now the two chariots arrived at Brian's castle and he recognized at once the good old warrior from Ulster. `Welcome, father,' said Brian. `If a fish swims into the river, you shall have a salmon and a half; if a flock of birds comes to the plain, you shall have a wild goose and a half; a handful of watercress, a basket of brook lime and a drink from the sands.'" Conor glanced at the two teenagers, adding, "That's the way one was greeted in the old days, no `hello and good-by' and what have you. But then Brian saw this Diarmuid Timcarna staring at him, which was a great insult. `What are you staring at?' he asked. `Yourself,' Diarmuid answers coolly enough. `I do not know why anyone should be afraid of you. I see in you no horror, no terror, no overpowering of odds. You are a pretty boy only, with weapons of wood and impressive tricks.'" "Brian thought about this a moment, for he wasn't a rash man, and then he replied, `Even though you abuse me, Timcarna, I shall not kill you, for the sake of this good old warrior beside you. But if it were not for his protection of you, your stretched entrails and your scattered quarters would reach from here to Dingle Bay.'" "Now at this," Conor went on, "Diarmuid challenged Brian to combat the very next day and drove off in his chariot. But he hadn't driven three miles when he said to his charioteer, `I have boasted to fight with Brian Boru tomorrow, but I cannot wait for it. Turn the horses back again.'" Valerie's attention began to wander. She didn't understand the point of the story, or any of that old Irish stuff, and she tried to catch Scott's eye, to signal him that she wanted to go. But Scott never saw her, so enrapt was he with Conor's story. "Now Brian says to his friends, `Here comes Timcarna back again. Let us down to the ford to meet him as he deserves.' But Brian did not wish to kill the man, so he took only his long sword, like the one you have there, Scotty, and cut the sod from under Timcarna's feet and he fell on his back with the sod on his belly." Valerie grinned, amused in spite of herself at the absurdity of the tale. "`Go away,' Brian said, `I cannot bear to wipe my hands on you.'" "`We shall not part this way,' said Diarmuid, `but fight until I take your head or leave my head with you.'" "`That is what will happen,' said Brian, and struck Timcarna with his sword about the armpits, so that his clothes fell off him, but he did not wound the skin. `Go now,' Brian said, dismissing the fool. "Well, he wouldn't leave," Conor went on, shaking his head at the foolishness of Timcarma. "So Brian passed the edge of the sword over Diarmuid's head so that it cut his hair off as clean as if he'd been shaved with a razor. But still the oaf continued to be troublesome. And so, at last, Brian wheeled about and struck him so the man was split in half from his crown to his navel." "Oh, gross!" Valerie cried. She had gotten herself caught up involuntarily in the story. "And that wasn't half of it, missy," Conor continued. "Still angry with the boorish cur, Brian dragged the body back to the castle behind his own chariot, and as they drove over the rocky ground, the one half of the body separated from the other, and they buried him in two graves, side by side, so people would always know what becomes of men who challen
ge Brian Boru." "All right!" Scott exclaimed, applauding the story. The old man nodded, pointed toward Scott's new sword. "Many's a man will be wise and wary of coming up against that new sword of yours, Scotty. You can slice them into bits as well as Brian Boru with such a weapon." "Oh, wouldn't that be great," Valerie said disdainfully. "Scott, I'm going. You can stay or not; it's up to you." "Oh, come on, Val, it's only a story." Scott, too, stood up, fixing his sword so the blade hung easily at his side. "But don't you think it's gruesome, all that killing?" "Ah, they were violent in them days," Conor pointed out, moving into the shop. It was chilly outside, and he wanted to be inside, closer to the warm forge. "Come on, Scott, let's go," she asked. "Okay," he agreed. Then he unsheathed the sword once more and pointed it toward the blacksmith's shop in a salute. "Thanks again, Conor," he called, and the old man waved as he stepped inside. Caught up again in his toy, Scott pranced about for a moment in the dirt outside the shop, flourishing the sharp, thin blade. "Would you please put that away?" Valerie demanded, angry with him suddenly for being so silly about the sword and Hobgoblin. She was glad none of her girlfriends could see him now, whirling the sword, parrying with imaginary warriors. One minute he seemed so smart and mature, the next he was acting like some grade school kid. She shook her head, not understanding. "What's the matter with you?" he asked, coming over to where she stood in the sunlight. He was out of breath from his playacting. "You look silly," she said. "What do you mean, silly?" he asked, but he knew exactly what she meant. "Playing with the sword. Like you were one of the Three Musketeers or something." "You sound like my mother. If it isn't something you would do, then it's silly or childish." Again Scott raised his sword, fenced with it. "That's right. I'd never do such childish things." "What about your big dance? Isn't it childish to dress up like Hobgoblin characters and have a party? Or is that all right because you and my mother dreamed it up?" He raised the sword, pointed it at her. "That's different." She backed away from the long, thrusting sword. "Put that away, Scott, please. It's dangerous. I can feel the point." She retreated another step, and found her back was up against the barn. "Take it back," Scott demanded. The tip of the blade was pressed against her throat, hard enough to hold her to the barn but not hard enough to draw blood. "Scott, this isn't funny." Her long neck was stretched, her head flat up against the boards. "Come on, you boorish cur. I warned you once. Now I'll shave your hair off, cut the clothes from your stinking body." "Please..." Valerie whispered, beginning to cry. She dropped her armful of books. "Lad! Good God, what are you doing? Let the lass go." Conor had come back into the doorway. "You'll hurt the poor child. If I had known you'd be carrying on like that, I'd never have made the sword for you in the first place. Now put it away, you little gypsy." "Even though you abuse me, Valerie Dunn, I shall not kill you for the sake of this old warrior. But if it were not for his protection of you, your stretched entrails and your scattered quarters would reach from Ballycastle to Flat Rock." Scott backed off, sheathed the sword in its leather case. "Stupid!" Valerie answered. "Hey, Val, I was only playing," Scott said, trying to be friendly now. He bent to pick up her scattered books. "You could have cut my throat, Scott Gardiner, do you realize that?" "No, I wouldn't have, Val; I knew what I was doing. It was just fun, that's all." "Fun for you, not me!" She turned and walked away angrily, with Scott tagging after her. "How was I supposed to know you weren't crazy or something?" she went on. "You're always threatening to kill Nick Borgus. Maybe you'd kill me too." She could still feel the sharp blade against her neck, see the gleam in his eyes, as if he were enjoying himself. "Come on, Valerie, you know Brian Boru wouldn't hurt you. He's a twenty-fifth-level knight. A paladin." Valerie came to a halt and turned to face him. "Scott, I'm not talking about Brian Boru," she said. "I'm talking about you. You know, you do that all the time." They were standing in the open fields below the mansion, out of Conor's hearing, but still she spoke softly, as if what she had to say was secret. "Do what?" Scott pushed his wire glasses up the bridge of his nose. "You know what I mean," she insisted. "The way you're always saying Brian Boru this, Brian Boru that, as if you were the same person or something." "Val, come on, it's just a game." He slapped his thighs impatiently. "I mean, give me a break. I know I'm not really Brian Boru." "You just like to pretend you are. You like being him better than you like being Scott Gardiner." For a moment they were both silent, embarrassed by her sudden insight. They began walking again, up toward the white birch woods and Scott's house. "Sometimes," he began, not looking at Valerie, "it's more fun to be someone else. When I start pretending I'm Brian Boru, I get this feeling like I'm really strong and everything. It's cool." "But you always know it's a game, don't you?" Valerie asked, still not convinced. "Oh, sure. I guess." He shrugged and started down the hill. "Hey, what do you mean: I guess?" Valerie stopped walking. "When you had that sword up against my throat, did you know you were just playing or were you really ready to cut me up and leave the pieces from here to Flat Rock? Did you know or didn't you?" Scott tried to walk on, but she grabbed his arm and held him. "Sometimes I know," he finally answered. "Sometimes I'm having fun, pretending, carrying on, and other times..." He thought a moment, looking past Valerie toward the woods. Valerie had dropped his arm, letting him go. "Sometimes I am Brian Boru. I mean, I know him. I made Brian. I rolled the dice, fought his battles, put him up against the Boobri, the Blue Hags of the highlands. We had to fight the Spottoggins, the Were-rats and the army of Klippes." "Oh, Scott, stop!" "It's true. I mean, you don't know because you've never played the game, not really. When your life is in danger and you have to keep Brian Boru alive, it's not a game." He was excited now, finally putting his feelings into words. "But when you win...when you roll the pyramidal dice and Brian slices a gang of Bugganes in half, or destroys the Deenee Shee, the fallen angels of Ireland, well..." Scott smiled, remembering. "Let's go," Valerie finally said. But she wouldn't give up. She was determined to understand his obsession. Maybe she would feel it at the dance, when he dressed as Brian and she was playing the Lady with the White Hand. Maybe on Halloween she would finally understand Hobgoblin.