by Farris, John
Staring at the centaur's form, the seamless conjoining of man and animal, a tragic prison for both, Whit nodded.
"You've talked to Jacob," the centaur said. "Then you must know something of the history of Wildwood; and the inevitability of the love of James Travers for Sibby Langford. Your mother."
"He showed me pictures of her. Jim—I have to tell you. Jacob is dead." Whit explained everything that had happened in the caverns. The centaur listened quietly, his sentient eye upturned, chestnut flanks quivering intermittently.
"There have been two hundred and sixty-three Walkouts," the centaur said. "We will count you as number two hundred sixty-four, but your case is unique in my experience. All of the others appeared in these woods, in one form or another, within a few miles of the chateau. The first was in 1921; the last may have been Jacqueline, your nursemaid, whom we buried only a few hours ago."
"I met another near the aviary tonight. And I—I had the feeling that the chateau was close by. I only needed to look hard enough, in the right direction, to see it. But I was afraid to."
"There has been so much activity in the past three weeks. The veils of time are disappearing one by one. The Revelation is at hand, I'm convinced of it. But you are most interested in the matter of your paternity. For my part, I would like very much to know how you survived almost certain death, that deadly Midsummer Eve."
Chapter Thirty
Wildwood, June 23, 1916, Midsummer Eve
An hour of daylight remained when Edgar Langford ascended to the lantern to pay his last respects to Faren Rutledge, whose metamorphosis he had been observing, despite the many distractions of the past few days, with ever-increasing excitement and fascination.
As it had been for the past several weeks, the lantern was open to the sky, a sky half-filled by turbulent, purpling cloud shot through with the rays of the sun. No storm yet; but thunder mumbled in a promising way, and the air around the lantern was agitated, prickly from cosmic energy. The speed of the supernatural machine had increased in this vividly charged atmosphere. Its countless synapses composed a red starfield in a universe of quick shimmering silver. Looking into it was like looking into the mind of a god; to be close to the machine for any length of time was to be transformed, even deified (should the magician choose). Yet she was still resisting, although, he saw at once, with a gratifying shock of the pulse, her resistance had weakened since his last visit.
Kálanu, the Raven: deservedly she belonged in a cage, a Stout one; this he had provided. Not a cage made of steel bars bolted to the floor of the lantern, but a field of his own energy, which emanated from the walking stick with the serpent's head. He had left it floating a few feet above her. From its influence her only escape was into the mind of the machine, which already had begun to do that wondrous work for which it had been designed. Although she stubbornly clung to human form, Kálanu was inevitably changing: he saw a sleek black wingtip materialize before she gathered her waning force and willed the return of flesh and finger bones. He looked into the sternly beautiful Cherokee face, so wearied from the ceaseless struggle as she pitted her own will, her nearly useless magick, against the will of the machine.
He smiled, drawing forth her hatred, and her fear. The bones beneath her taut russet skin seemed to be moving, reshaping themselves inhumanly.
"Let . . . me . . . go," Faren said, naked, on her knees, but still able to demand, not to plead.
His smile thinned; he gestured in a manner that emphasized her essential powerlessness, and his control.
"Why should I? I think you are lacking in gratitude. You came across time for the purpose of causing me harm, to disrupt my valuable work. I might have had you strangled and thrown into the woods, to become a hack of bones for the lowest of creatures. Instead, I give you the opportunity to seize immortality; you need only humble yourself, and accept the transformation that inevitable."
"And when I do . . . your serpent . . . will eat me," she said, glaring momentarily at the hovering walking stick, the avid ruby eyes.
"The strength of the Serpent versus the speed and cunning of the Raven. It should be an interesting contest."
Momentarily he saw riffling feathers, an awesome dark wingspan, before she denied, again, the metamorphosis. The gold head of Edgar Langford's walking stick, having expanded to meet the challenge, shrank back to its normal size.
"Ah, well," he said, disappointed by her temporary return to equilibrium. "We shall have to wait a little longer. But I'm sure before the night is over. . ." He looked up, at the darkening clouds, at a flash of light-fling barely brighter than the aura of the silver machine. He gazed again at her tormented, glistening body, the heaving breasts, and felt something rare for him: sexual stimulation. The impulse was distracting. To couple with her would have been dangerous, he had realized that on their first meeting. She could diminish his magick. Even now the involuntary twinge of lust was clouding his clear vision of triumph over those poor specimens of humanity who had come flocking to his Revels. Leave her to her losing battle, he thought, as she groaned at his feet and shook her head, trying to rise from the floor of the lantern, her hands splayed, the tendons of wrists and shoulders standing out like the cables of a suspension bridge.
The doors of the lantern closed solidly on her despair, a strangled cry. Edgar Langford turned to find Taharqa waiting for him.
The Ethiopian, already wearing the goat's-head mask assigned to him for the Revels, began signing rapidly; Edgar frowned, interrupting him.
"I have no time for Sibby now."
Taharqa put a hand urgently to his throat. Edgar's frown deepened.
"She cannot be dying?"
Taharqa nodded, then made the sign for "doctor."
"He is with her? Very well, then, perhaps it is a crisis; I'll go at once." He dismissed Taharqa with a nod and proceeded, as quickly as he could without his walking stick, to the apartment where his wife had been bedfast since giving birth to a daughter several months ago. For the convenience of their guests, the slick marble floors and stairs of the chateau had been overlaid with thick plum-colored runners loomed in Turkestan, but still he was afraid of a misstep, a fall that would be disastrous for his brittle back. How inconvenient of his dear wife to die at this time, he thought dispassionately. He had already resolved to keep the unpleasant news from her brothers and other revelers until they were past caring what had become of her.
But, to his dismay, he found Sibby fully conscious when he entered her bedchamber. Dr. Burrough was not there; only Pamela attended her.
"Edgar, I must speak with you."
"How deceitful of you, Sibby, to imply a crisis."
"In order to gain your attention."
"Taharqa was most convincing. Who else have you enlisted in this conspiracy to waste my time today?"
"Please, Edgar. Don't leave yet! All I am asking of you is your permission to go home."
"Home?" Edgar replied, genuinely perplexed. "Wildwood is your home."
"I wish to return to Boston, my birthplace, so that I my be with my family when—" She began to cough, ianly pressing a pale yellow handkerchief, darkly flecked, toher dry, earthworm-colored lips.
"I will not discuss this," Edgar said, ruthlessly ignoring the state she was in.
"I would like—for my children to accompany me. But I realize—Alexander will choose to remain with you."
Edgar turned to Pamela and said in a soft frightening tone, "Leave us alone."
Pamela, reluctant, glanced at Sibby, then lowered her head and hurried past Edgar Langford.
As she was closing the thick bedroom door, Edgar said, "Pamela, go and change now. Everyone is required to be in costume by sunset."
"Yes, sir."
Sibby was coughing again. Edgar waited, patiently enough, for her attention.
"You are far too ill to travel. Even if I thought you could survive the journey, I would not allow you to leave Wildwood. Nor will anyone else leave. All of my guests are to be permanent guests."
"It is only a matter of a few hours until the Transformation takes effect, so you may well live to see what I mean."
"Why—would you wish to keep anyone here—against his will? My brothers—"
"You will never see them again, dear Sibby . . . in a form that you might recognize. But perhaps they will recognize you, and cry out in the voices of exotic beasts as you are driven through the animal park under glass, on the way to your tomb."
"What are you going to do?" Sibby sat up, swayed, fell back against a silk pillow, eyelids drooping. She gasped for breath.
"I have devised an entertainment for my son's birthday, far more ingenious than anything that has been seen on earth during the past five thousand years. My guests will participate, with drunken delight and wonder; but then, when they realize what is happening to them, there will be screams and frenzy. For years I have heard them screaming in my sleep, all of my detractors and betrayers; I have never forgotten a single one of their sneers and slights. Nor have I forgotten your infidelity of long standing."
"What difference—can that make to you n-now?"
"The fact is, I have every reason to be grateful. Because of your affair with Travers, I have a son whom I love, and who worships me."
"He is—your son. I c-carried him—a full nine months. So I—I m-must have been mistaken when I thought—"
"When you thought you had become pregnant by your lover and hastened to seduce me, after so many months of neglect."
"B-but Laurette—I f-feel so confused. I do not know—which of you—"
Edgar Langford shrugged his sloping shoulder and limped to the windows. He had heard a meaningful crack of thunder.
"I am indifferent. Only Alex matters to me."
He pulled back a heavy brocade drape, looked at a massive storm cloud, veined with lightning, that was almost directly above the chateau. He relished the display of lightning for a few moments, then limped to her bedside.
"Because I have a reason to feel gratitude, instead of hatred, I decided weeks ago not to subject you to the animal park or the aviary. Instead, I offer you a quiet release from this life."
He looked into Sibby's eyes for a few moments, then reached for one of the oversize pillows on her bed.
Ill as she was, he was surprised to learn that she had the strength to scream so loudly.
When James B. Travers rode into the stable courtyard on Cyclops, Pamela was waiting for him, half dressed in her costume for the Revels; she pulled off the tiger's mask, glittery with sequins, identifying herself in the morbid twilight.
"Mr. Travers, thank God!"
"Pamela, what is it?" But he felt a shock of fear in his heart for Sibby.
"You must come! Mr. Langford, sir, he—he—" She began to cry.
Sharp thunder caused Cyclops to shy and wheel about, flinging up damp tanbark from his hooves.
"Get hold of yourself, Pamela! What is wrong?"
"I am sure that—he means to take her life tonight." Travers grimly reined in his skittish horse and reached down for Pamela.
"Ride behind me," he commanded. She was wearing tights and had no trouble mounting the horse. She held him around the waist with arms gloved past the elbows; the gloves were of thick velvet and, like her mask for the Revels, tiger-striped. Travers galloped his chestnut gelding toward the chateau, luminous in the threatening night. On the grounds a parade with floats outlined in tiny twinkling lights had begun to form. But he was most aware of the brilliantly silvered lantern, around which a terrifying web of lightning crackled almost continuously from the depths of one of the blackest clouds he had ever seen.
"Tell me what happened!" Travers shouted.
"Mr. Langford came to visit not a quarter of an hour ago. You know that she wishes to return to the East with her brothers—"
"Yes. I should have taken her myself, weeks ago, no matter what the consequences."
"He was angered by her request, and said that he would not discuss it. He then ordered me to leave the bedchamber. I was apprehensive, sir, and so stayed by her door; but as they spoke in low tones I heard nothing of what was said. Then she screamed. At that I flung the door open. And saw him, sir, s-saw him—"
"Pamela!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Travers. Could we not go more slowly, I am afraid I will lose my seat."
"Just hold on tightly, you can't fall. Now tell me what you saw."
"Mr. Langford was standing over the bed, a large pillow in his hands. He was holding it only a few inches from her face. When he turned and looked at me, I swear to you there was—murder in his eyes."
"What did he do?"
"He threw the pillow down and came toward me, holding out his hands as if he meant to seize me by the throat. He is a strong man, as you know, for all of his ills. I was numb with fright and could not move. But instead of strangling me, he pushed me aside and left the apartment at once—surely you do not intend riding through the gardens, sir!"
"Like hell I don't. Was Sibby conscious? Had he—"
"Oh, yes, she called to me and I went immediately to her side. She was struggling for breath, and asked for a sip of water. When I had given it to her she seemed—almost calm, peaceful-like, though her fever was high. It was she who soothed me, with a pat of her hand. 'Now, Pamela,' she said, 'you must go at once and find Mr. Travers.' I was mortally afraid to leave her alone, but she insisted. 'Never mind. I will be all right for now. My husband will not dare come back tonight. We have a little time, Pamela; and we must use our time for all of our lives depend on that.' Her exact words to me, sir and I— oh, lud!"
Travers had jumped Cyclops over a low privet on their way to the chateau. The horse then forded a goldfish pond and galloped past a lighted jewel box gazebo exhibiting a number of startled houseguests in animal costumes. Pamela pressed her cheek hard against Travers's broad back, closing her eyes as they neared the chateau.
"Pamela, I want you to prepare Mrs. Langford to leave here immediately. I will be back for the two of you as soon as I am able. Have you ever fired a pistol?"
"No, sir, only a fowling piece of my brother's."
"It is quite easy to do. You must steady the pistol in both hands, point it, and pull the trigger slowly. When it goes off you may be confident you have blown a devil into the hell which he so patently deserves."
"But—I have no pistol, sir."
"I will give you mine."
"And where are you going?"
"To find the boy," Travers said, urging Cyclops carefully up the steps to the front entrance of the chateau, then through the open doors of the corps du logis, scattering the members of a strolling string orchestra and more guests who were mingling at the base of the massive circular staircase.
If it hadn't been for the plush runners of carpeting, Travers's horse would have slipped on the marble floor as if it were a sheet of ice. As it was, the architect was able to ride Cyclops up the wide spiral stairs to the second floor of the chateau, and straight to the apartment of his mistress.
The doors to the sitting room of the apartment were standing open. There was no sign of Edgar Langford. From the bedroom they heard Sibby Langford calling feebly for her maid.
"Thank God," Travers said, and turned to Pamela. She was so frightened her teeth were chattering. "Get down!" He drew the Colt's revolver he always carried beneath his coat while riding in Wildwood. Pamela slid off the back of the horse. Travers handed the cocked pistol down to her. "Don't dawdle," he said.
"Sir, you mustn't leave us—!"
"I'll be back in a few minutes." There was no faster way to get around the chateau than on horseback; he turned Cyclops and galloped him down the hail toward Alex's apartment. It was a two-minute ride. Servants and guests in the brightly lighted hallways again went to the walls as the horse appeared. There was a tremendous crack of thunder above the chateau.
At the doors to the boy's apartment Travers leaned down and depressed one of the bronze handles with the butt end of his whip.
The door swung open. Cyclops balked momentarily, then squeezed inside.
They were face to face with Taharqa, wearing a goat's-head mask for the Revels, his loincloth, and his hand ax.
Alex Langford, hearing the horse in his playroom, came out of the bath wearing only underwear shorts, a piece of his costume in his hands.
Travers said to the boy, "Your father has gone mad. He tried to kill your mother. For your own good, you must come with me."
Lightning outside the playroom windows turned all their faces to chalk. The windows were open. A strong but rainless wind had twisted the drapes.
Alex shook his head and backed away.
Taharqa drew his hand ax.
Travers's blacksnake whip hissed and cracked. The ax flew from Taharqa's hand and rang off a stone wall. The black man sprang toward it and was lashed around one ankle, held fast. He fell hard on one shoulder, rolled, clawed off the binding whip, crawled in pain toward the gleaming ax a dozen feet away, able to use only one arm.
Travers cut off Alex before he could dart into his bedroom. He leaned out of the saddle, scooped the wiry boy off the floor, and pinned him facedown across the gelding's shoulders, holding him there with one hand. Then he reined Cyclops around in the doorway, Alex screaming lustily for his father.
Taharqa had reached the hand ax. And Edgar Langford was standing in the doorway with a face of rage.
"Cut the horse's throat!" he said to the Ethiopian; with all of his strength he turned and slammed shut the big door.
Travers's whip hand also held the reins. He had all he could do to keep Alex from wriggling off the horse.
When Cyclops saw the crippled black man coming at him with the ax, he snorted in fear and backed away.
Taharqa swung his ax, but the curved blade missed the long throat of the horse by less than an inch. Cyclops reared in panic and Travers was nearly unseated. His horse fell rump-first against a wall, staggered, but kept his footing. And then there was nothing behind them but the open window, black cloud, bleak lightning.