by John Saul
Ahead of her, Miranda was walking, and though Cassie couldn’t quite see her, she knew she was there.
There was someone else there too. Cassie could feel a presence in the darkness, but she didn’t know who it was.
The night sounds of the marsh were loud in her ears, and she could distinguish every separate noise, from the soft thruppings of the tree frogs and chirpings of the crickets, to the restless rustling of sleeping birds as they ruffled their feathers. The marsh was filled with odors, too, odors that brought vague images to her mind and made her want to leave the trail and investigate.
But she never did. Instead she stayed on the path, quietly following Miranda.
She had no sense of time, but after a while she began to feel a sensation of foreboding.
Something had gone wrong. Miranda was no longer moving ahead of her.
She moved faster, and as she came around a bend in the path, everything suddenly changed.
The reeds were broken and the grasses crushed down.
Then, a little way off the trail, she saw it.
Miranda was on the ground and there was a shape above her, staring down at her. Miranda was staring back at the looming figure, but neither of them was saying anything. Then the peaceful sounds of the night were interrupted by a stream of angry curses, followed by a loud, broken laugh.
It was the laugh that awakened Cassie.
She sat bolt upright in bed, shivering against the clammy chill of cold sweat that covered her body.
Sumi was sitting in the darkness beside her, his eyes fixed on her as if he knew she’d just awakened from a nightmare. Then he ran to the window, leaping up onto the sill. But instead of disappearing out into the limbs of the tree beyond, he looked back at her, mewling anxiously.
At first she didn’t understand. Then, slowly, the realization of what the cat wanted became clear. He wanted her to follow him.
Instantly she knew that this dream was like the other one—the one in which she had seen her mother die and first met Miranda.
It wasn’t just a dream. It was a vision. It was real.
Miranda needed her.
But where was she? It didn’t matter—wherever Miranda was, Sumi would lead her there.
Slipping out of bed, she pulled on her clothes and went to the window. A moment later she was gone, climbing down through the tree to the ground, following Sumi into the night.…
Rosemary’s eyes blinked open and she stared for a moment at the glowing numerals of the clock on the bedside table.
Midnight.
She wasn’t sure what had awakened her; she wasn’t even sure how long she’d been awake. All she knew was that something in the house felt wrong.
She told herself it was nothing, and turned over. Keith stirred next to her, then rolled over on his back and began gently snoring.
She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the strange feeling of something amiss. But the feeling only grew stronger. At last she sighed, slid out from under the covers, and shoved her arms into the robe that hung over the chair in front of her vanity. Slipping out of the master bedroom, she moved quickly down the hall and opened the door to Jennifer’s room. By the bright glow of the moon she could see Jennifer sleeping peacefully, one arm cuddling her favorite doll, a large Raggedy Ann. Her chest rose and fell in the deep steady rhythm of sleep. With a soft click Rosemary pulled the door closed.
She paused outside Cassie’s door, listening for any sounds from within.
There were none.
She rapped softly, then hesitantly twisted the knob and pushed the door open.
She caught her breath, then stepped inside. The bed, its covers piled at the foot, was cold. At the far end the window stood open. The screen had been removed from its hinges and stood next to the window, leaning against the wall. Her heart beating faster, Rosemary hurried back to her own room and shook Keith. He mumbled, rolling over, then sleepily opened his eyes.
“She’s not here,” Rosemary whispered urgently. “Keith, Cassie’s gone.”
Keith blinked, then sat up and switched on the lamp next to the bed. “Gone?” he repeated. “What do you mean, she’s gone?”
Quickly she explained. “We’d better call Gene Templeton,” she finished.
Ten minutes later the False Harbor police chief appeared at the front door, his eyes red with sleep, his uniform rumpled. He listened to Rosemary’s story silently, then shrugged. “Lots of kids take off like that,” he told her. “She’s probably just poking around town, having herself an adventure.”
But Rosemary shook her head. “She’s gone out to the marsh,” she said. “I don’t know why she’s gone out there, but I’m sure that’s where she is. I can feel it.”
Templeton sighed, and wondered why it was that women always “felt” things. Never men. Men had “hunches.” But it was the same thing, and Templeton had long ago learned to act upon his hunches. So now he would act on Rosemary Winslow’s feeling. “Okay, I’ll go out and take a look around.”
“I’ll go with you,” Keith said, but the police chief shook his head.
“No you won’t. You’ll stay right here with your wife. The last thing I need is having the father along while I look.”
Keith started to protest, but the look of determination in Templeton’s eyes stopped him. And, of course, the chief was right. His job was to find Cassie, not deal with Keith.
As Templeton left the house, Jennifer, rubbing her sleepy eyes, came downstairs. “Something woke me up,” she said, reaching up to her father. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s okay,” Keith assured her, lifting her into his arms and kissing her on the cheek. “Cassie just went for a walk, and Mr. Templeton’s gone to find her.”
Jennifer screwed her face into a worried expression. “Did she go back to Miranda’s house?” she asked.
“Now why would she want to do that?” Keith asked.
“Because Miranda’s a witch,” the little girl said solemnly. “And I bet she cast a spell on Cassie.”
Templeton swung the police car into the parking lot at the end of Oak Street, then maneuvered it in a wide curve so the headlights swept out over the marsh like twin searchlights. A few birds, disturbed by the sudden brilliance, burst into the air then settled down again. Seeing nothing, Templeton turned off the ignition and the headlights, then sat for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the pale glow of the full moon above. At least the night was clear and the moon high, he reflected as he released the flashlight from its clip beneath the dash. He left the car and started toward the marsh. If Cassie Winslow was out there, she wouldn’t be too hard to spot.
Unless she didn’t want to be spotted.
If that was the case, his job would be the next thing to impossible, for all she would have to do was stay low and there would be no way for him to see her among the reeds. Unless, by sheer chance, he happened to stumble across her.
He chose the widest path he could find and started into the boggy morass, moving carefully but swiftly, his easy grace belying the bulkiness of his six-foot-four-inch frame. He searched for anything that might be construed as fresh footprints, but in the saturated soil even his own tracks disappeared almost as soon as his feet left the ground. After a few minutes he stopped looking at the trail ahead, letting his eyes constantly flick out over the marsh itself, looking for a movement or a silhouette that might be Cassie. Almost without making a conscious decision, he found himself moving in the general direction of Miranda Sikes’s cabin. The paths began to grow narrower, branching off in a haphazard fashion dictated more by the contours of the marsh than any particular destination. Around him Templeton could hear the night sounds of frogs and insects, and twice he saw snakes slither across the path to disappear into the tangled safety of the reeds.
He was halfway to the rise on which Miranda’s house stood, when he suddenly froze.
Off to the left there had been the barest flicker of movement, then nothing. He stood perfectly still, his eyes flicking back an
d forth as he searched for the source of the movement.
It came again, and then from out of the gloom a shape emerged. Twenty or so yards away, almost lost in the reeds, a figure was making its way carefully along one of the paths.
Cassie, or someone else? Miranda?
Templeton couldn’t be sure. But whoever it was, the figure moved very slowly, head tipped down slightly, as if watching something on the trail. Templeton watched for a few moments, then silently began working his way closer. He circled around, always keeping the dark shadow of the figure within his range of vision, until he was ahead of her.
The trail she was following intersected his own a few steps ahead. He crouched down, waiting.
Suddenly a shadow darted across the trail ahead, but it was gone before Templeton could identify it. Then the figure of the person stepped into the intersection of the two trails, and Templeton, every muscle in his body tensed, rose to his feet and switched the flashlight on.
“Hold it!” he said, his words snapping in the quiet like the flick of a whip.
The figure froze, then turned slowly toward him. In the brilliance of the flashlight’s halogen bulb, he recognized Cassie Winslow, her skin pale and her eyes frightened. He relaxed and took a step forward.
“It’s all right, Cassie,” he said gently. “It’s Chief Templeton.” He turned the flashlight off, and in the shimmering moonlight saw Cassie blink as her eyes tried to adjust to the sudden darkness. He reached out a hand and took her arm to steady her. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.
For a moment Templeton wasn’t sure she’d heard him, but then she spoke. Her voice was barely audible, and tears were streaming down her face. “Miranda,” she whispered. “She needed me.”
Templeton frowned in the darkness. “Miranda needed you? Why?” Cassie made no reply, but her eyes flicked away from Templeton, scanning first the path ahead, then the sky above. “Where is she?” Templeton asked. “Isn’t she in her house?”
Cassie slowly shook her head. “There,” she said, and her right arm slowly came up, pointing into the sky. “She’s over there.”
Templeton studied the sky in the direction she was pointing, and at first saw nothing. But then, in the blackness, he saw a sudden flicker of light, then another. Slowly a ghostly shape took form in the darkness, and after a few moments Templeton realized what it was.
The white hawk, sailing silently on the air currents, was slowly circling a spot a hundred yards away. “Come on,” Templeton said quietly. “Let’s take a look.”
Guiding Cassie with his free hand, Templeton started along the trail, lighting their way with the flashlight. Every few seconds he looked up at the hawk, half expecting it to have disappeared. But it was always there, and as they drew closer, its circle seemed to tighten. Ahead Templeton heard a soft mewling.
“Sumi,” Cassie breathed. “He’s already there.”
There was a bend in the trail a few paces farther on, and as they came around it, the flashlight’s beam trapped the cat in a circle of brilliance. It was sitting in the middle of the path, its twitching tail curled around its feet, its eyes glowing with an almost unnatural brightness. It suddenly squawled loudly and bounded away. Above them the hawk screamed once then folded its wings and dropped down out of the night sky.
Templeton’s eyes followed the hawk, watched it plunge downward into a small area to the right which was free of anything except a thin sheen of shining water. At the last moment it spread its wings to break its fall and landed on something that protruded out of the marsh. Clucking softly, the bird settled its feathers then fell still and silent.
Templeton played the light out over the open area. The bird, red eyes glowing like embers, blinked, but made no attempt to fly away. And then Templeton realized what it had perched on.
From the depths of the quicksand a human hand protruded upward into the night. On its crooked fingers—frozen in death—the hawk had found its roost.
“She needed me,” Cassie said once again, her voice cracking. “She needed me, and I had to come. I had to …”
Chapter 11
At three o’clock on Tuesday afternoon Cassie, wearing a navy-blue skirt with a white blouse and dark blue sweater that her stepmother had bought for her the day before, walked up the steps in front of the Congregational Church. Keith and Rosemary were on either side of her, and Jennifer, clutching her mother’s hand tightly, did her best to keep up with Rosemary’s quick stride.
The four of them walked down the aisle and slipped into the front pew. In front of the altar a plain white coffin containing Miranda Sikes’s body sat on a small catafalque. Its lid was closed, and on top of it lay the spray of flowers that Rosemary had ordered that morning.
Other than that single spray, the church was barren of any decoration whatsoever.
The organist sat at the console, staring straight ahead, her thin lips forming a disapproving line across her face. As soon as the Winslows had seated themselves, she began playing. The music echoed oddly in the silent church. A moment later the little door behind the empty choir box opened and the dour-faced Congregational minister stepped out, a bible held tightly in his hand. As he closed the door behind him and stepped to the pulpit, Rosemary glanced over her shoulder.
Except for the Winslows, the church was totally empty.
His reedy voice sounding hollow in the nearly deserted church, the minister began the short service in memory of Miranda Sikes.
There was no choir, no eulogy, only a short prayer and brief recounting of the life of a woman to whom the minister had never spoken in all his years in False Harbor. Twenty minutes later it was over, and the doors of the church were opened. Six pallbearers hired for the occasion by the undertaker in Barnstable marched quickly down the aisle, picked up the coffin, then began their slow retreat from the church.
The Winslows rose to their feet.
Cassie, with her family behind her, followed the coffin and the minister out into the spring afternoon. The bearers carried the coffin around the church to the graveyard, where an open grave awaited, the newest—and last—in the even row that contained the earthly remains of all the generations of Sikes women. As the Winslows gathered around the grave, the minister began intoning the prayers for the dead.
It was during the prayers that Cassie first felt eyes watching her. The skin on the back of her neck began to prickle. Finally, when she could stand it no longer, she turned around.
Just beyond the fence separating the graveyard from the sidewalk, she recognized Wendy Maynard, pulling at her mother’s arm. But Lavinia Maynard was ignoring her daughter. Instead she was staring at Cassie as if examining a bug on the end of a pin. As soon as their eyes met, though, Mrs. Maynard turned away, then she hurried down the sidewalk with her daughter, the two quickly disappearing around the corner. Cassie turned back to face the minister again, but in a few moments felt her skin begin to crawl once more. When she looked back this time, she saw Lisa Chambers standing across the street in the square with some of her friends. They were whispering to each other while watching Cassie.
She felt a tear well in her eye, but didn’t brush it away until she’d turned her back on Lisa.
At last the minister finished his prayer and reached down to pick up a clod of earth. He crushed the lump between his fingers and the dirt dropped onto the casket the pallbearers were lowering slowly into the grave.
As the casket disappeared from view, Sumi slipped out from behind one of the gravestones and darted over to peer into the open grave. The fur on his neck rose, and a soft mewing emerged from his throat. Then he backed away, his eyes fixed on the yawning chasm in the earth, until he came in contact with Cassie’s leg. She bent over slightly, and he leaped up into her arms and licked gently at her cheek.
As the casket touched the bottom of the grave, Cassie had a sudden urge to look up into the sky.
So high up it was barely visible, the white hawk was floating above the graveyard, its wings fixed as it effortlessly
rode the wind coming in off the sea. As Cassie watched, it turned and soared away.
Finally it was over, and with Sumi still cradled in her arms, Cassie was led out of the cemetery and back around the church to the house on Alder Street.
Before she went inside, she glanced out toward the marsh. It wasn’t fair, she thought. She’d barely met Miranda, and already she was gone.
Except that deep within her Cassie had a feeling that Miranda wasn’t gone at all.
This funeral—Miranda’s funeral—hadn’t been at all like her mother’s. All through the ceremony she’d found herself reliving once again those few moments she’d spent with Miranda, feeling once again the power of the connection between them, hearing once again the words Miranda had spoken to her.
“You are mine. You’ve come home again, and now you belong to me. Forevermore you belong to me.”
And Cassie knew that she had heard those words before. The memory was becoming clearer, though it was still not complete.
But Cassie knew that though Miranda was dead, she wasn’t gone. Not the way Cassie’s mother was gone.
Miranda’s spirit, the spirit to which Cassie had felt herself drawn from the moment she’d first seen the strange woman who lived in the marsh, was still alive.
Alive within Cassie herself.
Gene Templeton tipped back in the large chair behind his desk and propped his feet up on the open drawer which had been designed to hold an array of files but had long since been converted into a convenient storage bin for the endless snacks with which he filled his stomach. Someday, he supposed, he would pay for his constant grazing, and his stomach would begin bulging out over the wide black belt of his uniform. But it hadn’t happened yet, despite the dire warnings of his wife Ellie. His weight hadn’t changed an ounce from the two hundred ten pounds he’d carried when he graduated from college thirty-odd years ago. Though Ellie liked to tease him that forty of those pounds had converted themselves over the years from muscle to fat, Gene knew it wasn’t true: his body was as hard as it had ever been. Metabolism, he always told her. That was the key to it: a good, healthy metabolism.