by Jan Siegel
The side road where the pub was situated had no markings for Gaynor to follow, but when she turned onto the main road there were reflectors winking at her like cats’ eyes through the dark. She clung to them as if to a guiding thread in a labyrinth, craning forward over the wheel. Wind gusts shook the chassis until every joint rattled; the battery of the rain eased for a short while only to return in force, hitting the car with all the violence of a monsoon. Gaynor told herself there was nothing supernatural about rain, but after the horror in the restaurant even the elements seemed untrustworthy, and it seemed as if she was having to contest every yard of her progress with some invisible power. For all her resolution, she felt weak willed and helpless. A quick sideways glance showed her Fern’s head drooping against the back of the seat, her eyes closed. Gaynor was half-relieved to see her sleeping, half-afraid because now, with Fern unconscious, she was completely alone. She drove more slowly, checking the verge constantly for road signs. Sooner or later, she knew, she must reach the turning for Yarrowdale. A spiky belt of conifers loomed up to her left; she tried to fit them into her recollections of the drive out but could not. There was no other traffic. She had almost convinced herself she was on the wrong road when the sign appeared ahead of her. And there was the turning, veering sharply to the right, undefined by any white lines. She swung the car around, leaving the friendly cats’ eyes behind, the headlights picking out only the black gleam of tarmac, the long streaks of rain.
The drive had taken on the qualities of nightmare: it had become a timeless striving for an unattainable goal. The momentary hope that had flickered in her heart when she found the turning shriveled as the car crawled on into the darkness, following the twin beams that peered myopically ahead. Gaynor’s mind was in suspension: all her senses were concentrated on the car. She was never sure exactly how it happened—something hurtling into the radius of the headlights, the judder of impact, the crack of breaking glass. The right-hand beam was abruptly extinguished. She stopped the car, her pulse thumping. When she summoned the courage to get out she barely noticed the rain that transformed her long hair into rats’ tails and made her skirt cling heavily to her legs. A broken branch lay in the road, though there were no trees around. The thick glass that had shielded the light was gone. She kicked the branch aside; there was nothing else to be done. Then she got back into the driver’s seat.
The other headlight went minutes later. There was no flying branch this time, just a sudden explosion—a flash of brilliance that faded swiftly, leaving her in utter dark. She pulled up again but did not get out, clutching the wheel, her breath coming in gasps. Gradually her eyesight adjusted to the blackness. She became aware of a faint pallor all around her, a change in the nature of the rainfall. Instead of somber curtains, white flecks showed against the brooding shadow of the sky. And in a landscape that had been treeless she saw horned branches uplifted like the antlers of a watching stag. She had switched off the engine, and the snow-silence wrapped her like a pale blanket. She shook Fern, gently at first, then harder, but without result. She called her name: “Fern! Fern!” but her own voice sounded alarmingly close to panic and the sleeper still did not respond. Her fear for herself was replaced by another, far more deadly: the fear for her friend. She had seen plenty of drunks who passed out but none who could not be roused, if only to a grunt of acknowledgment. She restarted the engine, knowing she had little alternative. She might get out of the car and seek help on foot, but where? And outside the car was the snow, falling steadily, snow in April if it was April, if it was snow. Azmordis could summon an illusion of the past, Fern had said. In front Gaynor saw a cart track where the road had been, the defining ruts partially smothered under a white mantle. “It’s a road,” she said out loud. “It’s tarmac; it’s wide and smooth and safe. There’s no snow, no trees. It’s just bare road and bare moor.” She released the brake, let out the clutch. Nervously, as if imbued with her terrors, the car inched forward.
The ground felt level beneath her wheels, like a modern road. Gaining confidence, she accelerated a little. The wipers had cleared the windshield after her halt but now the snow was falling faster, piling up around them, slowing them down. She had to resist a desperate urge to press hard on the pedal and speed away from the thickening snowfall, the illusion, the fear. She found she was saying to herself, over and over: Don’t panic. Don’t panic. It might have been funny if it hadn’t been real. Idiot, Gaynor. Cowardly idiot. It’s just snow. How can you be afraid of snow?
The owl came at her so fast she had barely time to swerve. She saw the wide tilt of its wings rushing toward her, the ghost face with its staring eyes. It appeared bigger than the windshield, almost as big as the car. Reflexes betrayed her: she jerked the wheel into a spin, swinging the vehicle around, off the track, out of control. Uneven terrain bounced the chassis—a stag was charging straight at her, its vast antlers filling the sky. It’s an illusion just an illusion—Her foot was on the brake and they skidded to a halt; hood met tree trunk in a terminal crunch. Gaynor tried to reverse but the tires would not grip, sliding on slush or mud. The owl had vanished. She shut off the ignition, leaned her forehead against the wheel. Beside her, Fern still slept, secured by the seat belt, soundless and undisturbed. Gaynor’s hammering pulse gradually subsided: she sat back in her seat, gazing around her with night eyes. There was only the one solitary tree; the white snow mantle made the world formless and unfamiliar. I’m near Yarrowdale, she thought. A mile or two. I could go for help. Fern might die of hypothermia. Gaynor didn’t want to start the engine again in case there was fuel leaking somewhere: she almost imagined she could smell it. But above all, she didn’t want to get out of the car. A glance at her watch told her it was well past midnight. Someone will come looking for us, she thought. I have only to wait.
Time passed, and she grew colder. When she touched Fern’s hand it was icy. She couldn’t flick the wipers on to sweep the windshield but she wound down her side window to clear it. Then she reached across Fern to do the same with hers. But when she went to close the window again, it jammed halfway. Bitter air sliced through the gap. She was seized with a fresh dread, a frenzy beyond all reason, unlike anything she had felt before. She yanked in vain at the handle, got out and floundered around to Fern’s side of the car. But the door, too, was stuck fast. She beat on the roof, crying out for help. But the snow deadened her voice, and no one came. A mist was rising, mingling with the snowflakes, and in the mist was something like a shape, changing, billowing, elusive as smoke. Boneless arms uncoiled like tentacles; where the face might have been, skull features wavered like a pattern on water, yawning eye sockets and nose hole, a jaw that narrowed into nothingness. She remembered Will’s description of the thing Bradachin had witnessed emerging from the mirror, the thing she had seen as Alison. In front of her the skull melted briefly into the semblance of a woman, mist strands fanning out behind it like hair. But the features drifted, unfixed, and teeth showed through the shadowy lips. Gaynor was backed up against the car, trying to cover the window gap, inadequate fingers spanning the remaining space, but the smoke shape poured through every chink, and its touchless contact made her too cold to resist, weak and faint. She saw it wind itself around Fern, pulling her upward, drawing the spirit from her body. Now there were two phantoms, twining mist with mist, though one seemed inert, its head hanging as if still in slumber. Gaynor beat at them to break their bond, but her hands numbed, and they floated away from her. She strained to recall the word Fern had used in the restaurant, dismissing Azmordis. Envarré …? “Envarré!” But she had not Fern’s Gift, and the command sounded brittle and ineffectual: the tannasgeal barely faltered. She tried to follow them, slipping in the snow, crashing to her knees …
She never saw from where the owl came. Huge pinions pounded the air, beak and talons slashed the mist into shreds. Snow whirled in a blizzard around it. The incubus disappeared with a thin wailing sound like the wind in a hollow tree. As the owl wheeled, Gaynor thought she glimpsed th
e phantom Fern, wide-eyed and blank-faced, just behind its shoulder. Then the wings dipped and rose, feather tips brushing the ground, and it was gone in a cloud of frosty spray, dwindling like a snowflake into the night.
Gaynor ran after it, screaming until her breath failed. She forgot the damaged car, and Fern’s body lying inside, and the perils of this world into which she had strayed. On she ran, up toward the road, or where the road ought to be. The wolf loomed up suddenly ahead of her. It occurred to Gaynor, somewhere at the back of her mind, that there must have been wolves in Yorkshire long ago, in the dim past that enmeshed her. There was no snow on its ragged fur, and its fire-opal eyes shone with a glow of their own. Gaynor stood rigid as it trotted over to her, lifting its muzzle to fix her with a steady gaze. And then the truth dawned, and she slid to her knees, burying her face in the wet ruff, repeating: “Lougarry, Lougarry,” while tears of thankfulness spilled down her cheek. She was kneeling in mud, and the snow was gone, her clothing was drenched and her hair matted, and the rain poured down on them both.
VII
Will saw her first. She pushed open the back door into the kitchen where he was sitting at the table with Robin, a tumbler of whiskey at his elbow. His expression went blank with shock. She stepped inside, and the water ran off her into puddles on the floor. There was mud on her shoes, on her skirt, on her hands where she had tried to stop herself from falling, on her face where she had reached up to sweep the sodden hair from her eyes. She looked dazed beyond speech, exhausted beyond fear. Will sat her down on a chair and pressed the tumbler to her lips. “Drink it,” he ordered. “All of it. Now.” She gulped obediently, coughing as the raw spirit seared her throat, the blood flooding to her cheeks. Robin kept saying: “Where’s Fern?” but Gaynor did not answer. Will said to him: “Get Abby,” and began to towel her hair vigorously with the nearest dishcloth.
“But Fern …” Robin persisted. “Has there been an accident?”
“Not bad,” Gaynor managed. “Came off the road—hit a tree. Fern wasn’t hurt.”
“Should have got a cab,” said Robin. “Big mistake, drink and drive, even on these quiet roads. Where is she?”
“I wasn’t drunk,” Gaynor said. “Fern was drunk. She’s asleep… in the car. I think.”
“You think?” said Will.
“I couldn’t wake her. She…”
“Finish the whiskey. Dad, for God’s sake do something useful. Go and get Abby. We want a couple of large towels, a bathrobe—there’s one in my room—and a hot-water bottle. Fern will be all right for the minute. If she’s in the car she’s dry.” When he had thrust Robin from the room Will turned back to Gaynor. “Did you see Lougarry? She’s been restless all evening; I assumed she’d gone to look for you.”
“She found me,” said Gaynor through a falling wave of hair. Having saturated the first dishcloth, Will had set to with a second. “When I was sure I knew the way I sent her back to the car. I thought—she would watch over Fern. Thanks,” she added, referring to Will’s drying efforts. “That’s enough, honestly. As long as it’s not dripping … I must get these clothes off.”
Once Abby had appeared to minister to her, Will and Robin set out to find Fern. Gaynor’s directions were vague—she had no idea how far she had walked—but she maintained that if they followed the road and stopped at intervals to call Lougarry, the she-wolf would come to guide them. Robin was dubious, finding it difficult to believe that a half-feral mongrel, the property of an eccentric tramp, could be, as he put it, sufficiently well-trained. But Will waived his reservations aside and, clad in weatherproof clothing snatched from the hall closet, they went out to Robin’s car. In the kitchen, Gaynor was mopped clean of excess mud, stripped, dried, enveloped in Will’s bathrobe, and padded with hot-water bottles. She wanted to have a bath, but Abby dissuaded her. She was shivering in spasms now, her teeth chattering from the aftermath of cold and shock. “The main thing is to get you really warm,” Abby said. “Will’s very sensible. It always surprises me—although I don’t know why it should, because, of course, Fern is sensible, too.” She scooped up Yoda, who had followed her downstairs. “Perhaps you’d like to stroke him? It’s supposed to be awfully therapeutic. Oh, well … have some more whiskey. There’s always lots in this house, though no one drinks it much. I’m never sure whom it’s for.”
Bradachin, thought Gaynor, but she only stammered, through her shivers: “M-medicinal.”
“I’ll make you some coffee,” said Abby, depositing Yoda on a spare chair. He promptly jumped down and wandered around the kitchen, looking for scraps that he could chew and spit out again in disgust. It was the bad habit that had earned him his name, after Yoda’s first screen appearance where his rooting about irritates Luke’s fragile patience. “Are you … are you quite sure Fern wasn’t injured? It’s so unlike her to drink too much, and I’ve never known her to pass out before.”
“N-nor me,” said Gaynor. She saw no need to elaborate.
“I do hope she’ll be all right for tomorrow,” Abby said.
To that, Gaynor made no answer at all.
It was nearly three when they brought Fern home. By that time, Gaynor was dry and the men were wet. Lougarry endeared herself to no one by shaking her coat heartily in the middle of the kitchen, soaking Yoda who had appropriated her place by the stove. The small dog fled into the hall, for once ignored by Abby, who had other things on her mind. They carried Fern to her room and put her to bed. Her condition appeared normal: her pulse was steady if slow, her breathing ditto. She was cold from her long sojourn in the damaged car, but assisted by Gaynor’s discarded hot-water bottles she warmed up fairly quickly. Yet she made no sound not the wisp of a snore, not a grunt, not a sigh and her body stayed where it had been placed, unmoving, inanimate as a broken dummy. Robin wanted to call a doctor but the others overruled him. “What would you tell him?” Will demanded. “That she had too much to drink and slept through a minor car crash in which she wasn’t hurt? There isn’t a mark on her.”
“Perhaps we should tell Marcus …”
“Good God, no,” Gaynor murmured faintly.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine in the morning,” Abby said. “She’s just sleeping it off. Anyway, there’s nothing more we can do now. We ought to go to bed before all this bother wakes Aunt Edie.”
“I’ll stay with her for a bit,” said Gaynor.
Abby herded Robin down the corridor to their own room and Will and Gaynor were left alone with Fern. Gaynor took the chair, Will the low stool from in front of the dressing table. “What haven’t you told me?” he asked.
Carefully, pausing often to ask or answer extra questions, Gaynor went through her story. At some point Lougarry came in and began to lick Fern’s hand, a typical doglike gesture that was rare for her. When Gaynor had finished Will stood up and went to the window, pulling back the curtain. But whatever he was looking for, it wasn’t there. “We need Ragginbone,” he said, moving irresolutely to the bedside. “He probably won’t know what to do, but he might be able to explain this. Well… if she doesn’t wake up at least the marriage is off. Funny: that seemed such a good idea earlier on, and it seems such a bad one now.”
“She won’t wake up,” said Gaynor. “She isn’t there.”
Fern’s still face appeared no longer tired, or strained, or tense. It was just a face, arranged into features, unmarked by thought or dream, with less expression than a statue. Gaynor had once done some voluntary work in a hospice and she knew that peaceful look that comes after the passage of death, when the vacant body subsides into a semblance of tranquility. But here was no peace, no death; only vacancy. The full realization was so horrifying, there in that quiet, safe room far away from the perils of an illusory past, that panic rose in her, and she had to fight herself not to start screaming. Instead she demanded, in the age-old cliché of helplessness and desperation: “What can we Jo?”
Will put his arms around her, and said nothing.
The following morning was one that
all of them would later prefer to forget. No one had slept well, except Aunt Edie. Abby was the first to try to rouse Fern; Will and Gaynor knew it would be fruitless. Subsequent events unwound with a combination of chaos and inevitability, disaster broken with moments of pseudo-comic relief. Afterward, Gaynor remembered everything as a blur, shot here and there with highlights of detail, where her mind would focus briefly on some trivial point before losing its grip again. She found herself thinking, idiotically: If only Fern were here. She would be able to manage. The half-world on the shady side of existence, a world of dark magic and ethereal horror, had become a hideous reality.
They telephoned the doctor, they telephoned the vicar, they telephoned Marcus Greig. They telephoned a garage to tow away the smashed car. An ambulance came and went, taking Fern, accompanied by Robin, to a hospital for tests, and thence to a private nursing home specializing in coma patients. Marcus followed in his Saab. Meager information percolated back: She’s doing well. There’s nothing wrong with her. The doctors are baffled. Abby, supported by Gus and Maggie Dins-dale, struggled to unarrange all the arrangements, delaying, canceling, collapsing into confusion when asked for definite directives. Stray guests arrived at the house and were rounded up by Will, who dispatched them, in default of other entertainment, to enjoy the Yorkshire countryside. Yoda located the wedding cake and ate a portion of the bottom tier, since that was all he could reach. Lougarry went to fetch Ragginbone and Gaynor took him into Will’s studio to relate the saga of the previous night. Mrs. Wicklow astonished everyone by bursting into tears. Endless cups of tea circulated, but nobody appeared to drink them, lunch sank without trace, morning staggered into afternoon, afternoon trickled into evening. The tent removers refused to remove the tent. Aunt Edie drank an entire bottle of sherry and claimed to have had a conversation with a hirsute Scottish gnome, thus convincing Abby that she was even farther down the road to alcoholic senility than they had realized. Yoda was sick.