by Myers, Karen
Jake looked at George speculatively. “Do you ride?” At George’s nod, he continued, “Well, then, maybe you know what it’s like with girls and horses.”
George supplied, “If you’ve got horses, then you’ve got girls, too.”
“That’s right,” Jake said, and flushed. “Well, Charlie sure appreciated workin’ with them horses, but he never paid no attention to their owners. And it was a shame, ’cause they sure liked lookin’ at him.”
“Good looking, was he?”
“Well, we used to kid him about keepin’ his looks instead of getting fat and losing his hair, but he hated that like poison. I didn’t do it but once.” He looked up at George, shyly. “Looked a lot like you, so he did.”
A shiver ran up George’s spine. “One last question… I kind of wonder if Miz Lydia paid him off the books, so to speak.”
“You mean, did she pay him cash?” Jake said. “I ’magine so. I never saw him with nothin’ but cash in his pockets. No bank cards or checks or like that.”
“Thanks, Jake,” George said. “I appreciate you telling me. I won’t get her into trouble or anything.”
He walked around the cabin one more time, but the books were the only stamp of personality he could find. But oh how revealing they were, to his mind. Animals of the world, and how to avoid a paper trail. It had to be him, had to be his father.
Benitoe joined him. “A man who liked his privacy,” he commented.
George agreed, ruefully. “I know how he feels.”
He probed internally. Any thoughts, lord Cernunnos, he asked. Silence replied.
The tall, thin, dark-haired man finished cooling out the horse he’d been working with all morning and led her to the stable to put her up. The barn terrier trotted alongside, and the mare made a half-hearted attempt to shy away from him and aim a back hoof, which the man suppressed with a thought.
“None of that, my lady,” he said, in a low, soothing voice, and she yielded. He’d been working on her fear of dogs for a couple of days now, stopping her panic each time, letting her get past that so she could learn to tolerate them. The family that owned her hadn’t known about the fault when they bought her, and they had three dogs of their own.
He removed her tack and began brushing her down, encouraging her to become drowsy in the safety of her stall. Another day or two, and she’d have started to form new habits.
He felt the presence of another groom before he heard her bootsteps on the concrete flooring. At the taste of her thoughts he suppressed a sigh. At least the horses had a season—they weren’t in heat all year long.
September wasn’t that far off, the time the rut began, but he’d had no interest since he broke away from his heritage, and certainly this one was no temptation.
The young woman leaned against the stall entrance, twisting her body to make the most of her assets. “Is she behaving any better, Hughie?” she asked.
He hated that nickname, but there was always a limited choice of suitable names to adopt from the infant death certificates. He promised himself to take better care next time, before he needed a new one.
“She’ll be fine, Sally,” he said discouragingly, turning his back to her.
She lingered a moment, miffed, then fired a parting shot over her shoulder. “Frank said he wanted to see you when you came in.”
What did his new boss want, he wondered. He missed the easy relationship with Lydia. It had been an ideal arrangement in many ways. All cash, and she even ordered the books he wanted online, under her own name. Didn’t blink an eye. He knew she’d thought he was on the run from something, but she didn’t make it her business to find out. If only…
But that was pointless. Ten years was more than long enough, too long, really, to stay in one spot. If he couldn’t get a similar relationship with Frank, there were aways other places that could use someone with his skills, people who weren’t too particular about his paperwork.
He didn’t need identification to use the computers in the library. He already had a shopping list of books, but he could wait.
He straightened up and took a last look around the stall. Was this all there would ever be for him? He’d broken away once to settle his own destiny, and look what happened. A fine trap Cernunnos had set for him. Well, he’d successfully hidden his trail, hadn’t he. Next time he’d find a job in Virginia and see if that one whelp of his was still alive. Might have to tie up that loose end, too. Then Cernunnos could threaten all he wanted to, that would be the end of his line.
CHAPTER 23
Benitoe looked at the computer screen over George’s shoulder at the State College library. His friend was tapping away like mad, taking notes, but it all moved too quickly for him to make out. He glanced around cautiously. There wasn’t anyone close by, so he took advantage of a momentary pause to grab George’s arm and whisper urgently, “Tell me what you’re doing.”
George started, as if he’d forgotten Benitoe’s presence. “Sorry, I got carried away.”
He leaned back and consulted his notes. “Look, I’ve found out where this Shandaken is. It’s about three hundred miles from here.”
Benitoe was dismayed. “So far?”
George laughed quietly. “That’s only a five-hour drive. We’re not on horses. Or I suppose Mag could take us there directly, if she wanted to. But I think we ought to keep the car.”
He recalled himself. “That is, if we were to check out this lead.”
“Of course we should,” Benitoe said. “You can’t get this close and walk away.”
George rubbed his face. “You see, I really think it has to be him. The picture, the line of work, the lack of documentation.” He glanced around to check if anyone could hear them, then whispered intensely, his raised fist beating the air over his keyboard, “He’s alive, Benitoe. My father is alive.”
He turned back to his notes. “The only listings I can find for Charles Tremont in New York State can’t be him, but I’ll bet he’s changed his name again. That’s going to make it hard to find him, but he’s probably in the same line of work. There are only so many horse facilities in the area, and I’ve been tracking them down.” He pointed at his screen to show Benitoe.
“I figure if I call each of them and ask about horse training, say that someone recommended a new fellow in the area but I’ve forgotten his name and where he works, that might turn him up.”
Benitoe followed his reasoning, if not all the details. He marveled at the process, though. How could George get all that information by just sitting there? He’d explained that the internet was just a sort of pile of words, but it seemed to Benitoe that he was asking questions of a living scholar like Ceridwen and getting answers. It might as well be magic, he thought.
George’s excitement made him uneasy. The huntsman was usually calm and unflappable, but he supposed the news would be enough to unbalance anyone. He’d stand by him for the next steps.
“When do you want to leave? Today?” he asked.
“No, no, I need to make these phone calls, and I might not reach everyone right away. I should discuss this with Mag, too. The morning will be soon enough.”
George pulled off to the side of the highway on Interstate 80 to admire the tremendous exposure visible where the Nescopeck Creek cut a water gap in the Nescopeck Mountain. After two hours on the road this Saturday morning, he was ready to take a break and stretch his legs.
Mag would like this, he thought. About a thousand feet of mountain exposed down to the level of the road. He told Benitoe, who had joined him, staring upward, “That creek joins the Susquehanna, the river we saw on Thursday, and it’s just as old. The mountains came up afterword, and the creek just kept wearing ’em down.”
“How long did that take?” Benitoe wondered.
“I have no idea. Millions of years, anyway, probably hundreds of them. Long enough for the continents to collide and push up these mountains, and long enough for them to wear almost all the way back down again. The river is older
than that.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at his companion. “I’ve traveled this part of the country many times. I knew this spot was around here somewhere, but I’d forgotten just where. When we change highways, which will be soon, we get to cross right back over this same ridge, right through a gigantic road cut. Mag would love it.”
They got back in the car, and the scent of roses greeted them. George had excused his stop for yet another rosebush with a muttered, “Third time’s the charm.” This one was white, with broad double blossoms, from a strain that was introduced more than a century ago. He liked the name—Rosa Rugosa Blanc Double de Coubert. It had a nice ring to it.
He felt compelled to buy these roses for Angharad, and it made him nervous when he tried to examine why. Benitoe put him on the spot this time, and the best he could come up with was, “It’s an investment in the future.” It was like a promise to see them grow, to see his family grow with them.
Before he turned the engine on, George tried again to prod Cernunnos, and got no reply. He attempted to invoke the form of the horned man, cautious in case he succeeded in this enclosed space, but he needn’t have worried. That was gone, too.
He felt for the ways and found none, but he couldn’t tell if they were just out of range, since there weren’t many here, in the human world, or if that skill was waning, too. He’d felt Mag last night, well enough, and the way she’d made to come see them, back behind the motel.
His beast-sense turned up the small roadside rodents, and the various hawks that preyed upon them. At least that seemed intact. He wished he could settle down more, stop probing for Cernunnos like a sore tooth, but he missed him. With Mag away and Cernunnos silent, it felt… lonely, in his head.
Mag had assured him Cernunnos was still there, whatever his reason for silence. *I can taste him* was what she’d told him privately, when he asked.
He’ll have to come around, he thought, starting up the car and easing back onto the highway in a traffic gap. Just imagine, to have my father back again, after almost twenty-five years. Cernunnos will understand.
He remembered Angharad’s warning, “Don’t be so trusting. Why didn’t he come get you, if he’s alive?” It was true, he wouldn’t have been hard to find.
He shrugged that off. It’ll be worth it, to have him back, he thought. I know it will.
“Think Mag will have any problem finding us tonight?” Benitoe asked.
“She zeroed in on me across the ocean,” George reminded him. “I don’t think three hundred miles is going to bother her any.”
They crossed the Delaware at Port Jervis and took old route 209 up from there, following the line of the old canal between the Delaware and the Hudson. It was a small country highway, sparsely settled, but George remembered it well from fishing expeditions up to the edge of the Catskills.
The scenery was glorious, miles of low, steep ridges in their summer foliage, but he barely noticed. He was too focused on the upcoming meeting with a man calling himself Hugh Dimick. He’d spoken to a Frank Garrett at a stable outside Shandaken—he had a new trainer everyone recommended. The timing sounded right, and so was as much of the description as he could naturally introduce into the conversation, “a tall fellow, dark hair.”
He swung up the back road from Pine Bush to the Ashokan Reservoir and turned left, hugging the wooded western shoreline at the base of the low mountains until he joined Route 28 at Boiceville and followed the line of the Esopus west from there. His fishing trips hadn’t taken him quite this far into the mountains. He’d usually gone southwest of there, to the Beaverkill at Roscoe and the area around it. He hadn’t been up the Esopus before, and wasn’t sure he’d heard of Shandaken, but like many fans of the Catskill streams, he bitterly resented the drowning of the downstream river in the reservoir to keep the heedless thirst of New York City at bay.
As he drove the last few miles west, he tried to prepare himself for an encounter. There was no way to phone the man—he’d have to go visit him at the stable where he worked. It was late afternoon already. Do it now, or wait till morning?
“What do you think, Benitoe,” George said, breaking the silence of a long drive as he passed through the little town of Phoenicia.
When the response was slow in coming, he glanced over to see the lutin blinking awake. He laughed at himself—not everyone was so preoccupied.
“We’re almost there. That next wide spot in the road will be Shandaken.” He could already tell that this was going to be a very small hamlet. Well, if we can’t find a motel here, we can always go back to Phoenicia, he thought.
“What’s the choice?” Benitoe asked.
“I don’t want to wait. There’s still plenty of daylight. Tell you what, how about we find a place to stay and set that up, then head on out to the stable and see what’s what?”
From the signs, it was clear the town lived off the tourist trade, skiers in the winter, hikers and sportsmen the rest of the time. He followed the directions to the Catskill Seasons Inn, just north of town, and pulled up outside the wood-built motel. He noted with approval that the parking lot was half-empty. Wrong time of year for most of their visitors, he thought. No hunting, too warm for fishing, no skiers.
When he went inside to book a pair of rooms, he asked about riding opportunities in the area, and was pointed to a rack of brochures. Sure enough, Frank Garrett’s place was represented with a simple slick trifold entry, and he picked one up.
They dumped their backpacks in their rooms. Everything smelled faintly of rose, after the long drive. With a restaurant in the building, he didn’t need to worry about where they were going to eat, so George was running out of any reasons to delay. He reminded himself to take the rosebush out of the car and put it in the shade next to his outside door so it wouldn’t be exposed to heat inside the parked car on the following morning. He didn’t think anyone would bother it—it only had value to him.
Benitoe came back into his room through the open adjoining door, with an unasked question on his face.
“Yeah, let’s go,” George said, not wanting to put it off any longer. “I’ll tell Mag where we’ve ended up.”
Mag, he thought to her, we’re going to stay here tonight. It’s out in the country, so we’ll need to meet you in the woods nearby sometime in the evening after we get back.
*You go to find your father now?*
If it is him, George thought to her. I’ll know more when we see you tonight, after dinner. How’s it going with you?
*I am ready to leave. These few days have been helpful, but slow and inefficient. Your idea of a private workshop is more appealing, and I want to discuss that with you.*
We’ll need to find just the right person, George warned her. Someone who can handle a class he never meets or even speaks to. I think it can be done, but it may take a while to set up.
*I understand. I will try to practice some of my new skills in patience.*
George smiled at her little joke. Wish me luck, he thought at her.
George stood in front of the Mountain View Equestrian stables with Benitoe, restless with anticipation. The owner, Frank Garrett, had sent someone to bring Hugh Dimick over to meet him, to discuss his imaginary horse’s problems. Meanwhile he was extolling the benefits of his establishment in the hopes of bringing in another customer.
Without knowing if Dimick was Charles Tremont under another name, George couldn’t use the “cousin” relationship as his cover story. If it was the same man, all he could do was hope that Garrett didn’t notice a resemblance. He hadn’t wanted to have this meeting with a stranger present, but he hadn’t been able to think of any better way to set it up.
He barely heard Garrett’s ongoing pitch. “We connect to a very extensive trail system throughout the park, and some of our boarders make multi-day expeditions into the mountains.” He broke off as a man stepped around the far end of the stable block. “There’s Dimick now,” he said.
“Hugh,” he called out,
as the man approached, “this is Mr. Traherne, the fellow I told you about. Seems you’re famous.” He chuckled good-humoredly.
George hadn’t missed the stutter in the approaching man’s step when his name was announced. He walked forward several paces himself, while Benitoe lingered behind and tried to distract the owner with some questions.
George stopped, ten feet from the man, and stared at him. There was no doubt in his mind who this was—only the age was wrong. He hadn’t changed. He seemed to be in his thirties, forty at most. “Father?” he said, quietly enough that Garrett wouldn’t hear him.
The man’s face had frozen, but now he recovered and walked forward. “Not here,” he muttered, for George’s ears alone. Louder, he said, “Good to meet you, sir. I’d be glad to answer any questions you might have about your horse’s treatment.”
“All set, Hugh?” Garrett called, and Hugh nodded. “Alright, folks. Come drop by the office and we’ll get you all set up.” He took himself off to a second stable block. Benitoe closed the distance with George, but left them some space for privacy.
Hugh, or rather, Corniad, watched George impassively. “Tomorrow I run errands for him,” nodding in the direction of his employer. “We’ll meet in town.”
No look of welcome, George thought, aghast. Surprised to see me, but not pleased. Something’s very wrong. What have I done? For a moment he searched his conscience for any misdeeds like a guilty child, and made himself stop. This couldn’t have anything to do with me. There had to be some other reason.
“Lunch?” he suggested. “We’re at the Catskill Seasons. We could do a picnic out-of-doors where no one can hear us.”
Corniad glanced over at Benitoe, a question in his face.
“My friend,” George said, “Benitoe.”
“Let’s do this alone, just the two of us,” Corniad said. “At noon.”
His father nodded to him expressionlessly, turned on his heel, and walked away as if nothing had happened.