The Stone Bull

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  So I climbed the path through the woods that grew close on either side, with maple and oak branches interlocking over my head. It was cool again in these shadows where the sun hadn’t penetrated and I slipped on my jacket as I walked, following twists and turns, climbing little rises, till the path leveled off. And at last I reached the clearing.

  This was not the one I had glimpsed from the tower, as there was no house to be seen. I came upon it unexpectedly and it had nothing to do with nature. Human hands had cleared this space, yet it seemed to belong to the forest like some hidden, magic circle of green. All about it dark hemlocks crowded in, hiding and protecting its secret. The circle of the arena was free of all growth except that rough carpet of grass that covered it.

  “Arena” was the proper word—because in the very center of the ring, his head lowered for the charge, hoofs spurning the ground, stood a great stone bull. Entranced, I moved into open sunlight—the old feeling that I used to have as a child engulfing me. That strange, unreal feeling that I could dance as beautifully as Ariel. Here, surely, was Europa’s bull, and inside me I was all grace and flowing movement that would conquer stumbling feet and elbows that never rounded. The stone bull had been waiting for me all my life in this enchanted wood and I dropped my sketching kit to the grass, raised my arms and ran toward him.

  If he had been alive he could have gored me with those wicked horns as I came on in my rush. But the lowered head with its heavy mass of neck muscle did not move, and the snorting nostrils made no sound, the galloping hoofs never left the earth.

  He had been carved—hewn—from granite and I could see the marks of the tools that had been left on the stone. There had been no effort to smooth and make him realistic in every detail. He was more like the spirit of a bull charging across a ring with a suggestion of enormous energy and anger, so that all his tremendous force drove him with one intent—the killing of his enemy, the man. I wished that Ariel could have seen him. Ariel, who had danced her make-believe ballet of maiden and mythological bull to Maurice Kiov’s Zeus.

  I walked around the great stone animal—he was more than life-size—admiring the power and skill that had wrought him. In New York he would have brought crowds to view and applaud his magnificence, yet here he stood at the end of a mountain path marked Private and there was no one to see. Except for myself, who came as a trespasser. Ariel would have danced before him, worshiping at his pagan altar, but I could not. I could only manage that one dash of delight that I had made in his direction.

  Circling him, I saw that on his far side, close to the lowered head, a large stone had been placed. Surely a stepping stone, since it invited my foot, and when I stood upon it, I found that I could raise my other foot to his head, balancing between the horns, until I had pulled myself up over the rough hump at his neck, where muscles swelled. In a moment I stood in triumph on his broad back, and the flat rubber soles I’d worn for walking clung firmly to the stone surface so that I had no problem of slipping.

  I was once more enchanted, moving out of instinct, unself-consciously, as though the bull was male and I female, and yet it was I who had conquered him.

  Above me the sky was cerulean, with a single billow of white cloud, and all around the magic circle green hemlock arms reached out in protecting secrecy. From this high place, I could glimpse the rocky top of Rainbow Point above the trees. I could have danced on that broad back—almost. Amused by my own fantasy, I raised my arms, rounding them in ballet’s fifth position. My long black hair fell back from my lifted head, and I felt beautiful—invincible.

  The voice that shouted at me in an angry bellow might have come from the bull himself, and it shocked me completely.

  “Get off!” he roared. “Get down off there!”

  A dreamer must never be awakened so rudely. My sense of grace, of mastery over my balance, vanished and I wobbled on the stone, felt myself plunging. I would have struck the ground like a weighted stone if great arms hadn’t caught me. There was nothing gentle about their clasp. I was simply engulfed in hard bands of muscle and flesh, and set rocking upon my feet with a jar that clattered my teeth.

  For an instant everything blurred before my eyes and I stumbled on solid ground. This time he made no effort to steady me, and I braced my own feet apart and looked up at him. He stood well over six feet tall, with a massive chest barely restrained by a denim shirt, arms like the stout branches of an oak tree and great thighs encased in denim jeans. His hair was red and it curled long at the back of his neck, while an expanse of curly red beard covered the lower half of his face. Set deep in that massive head, his eyes reflected the green of the forest behind him, and they seemed to spark angrily as he stared at me.

  With an effort I recovered a semblance of equilibrium—both physical and emotional. “I—I’m sorry. I know I’m trespassing. I’m Mrs. Brendon Mc—”

  “I know who you are,” he said roughly. “And you’ve no business here.”

  There was no possible way in which I could explain that I had only been living out a fantasy, yet I had to try.

  “I have—I had—a sister who was a dancer. I was—I suppose I was pretending I was Ariel Vaughn. He’s so marvelous—your bull. He put a spell on me.”

  Strangely, unexpectedly, his look softened—almost as though he understood what could not be understood. But he said nothing, merely waiting for me to go.

  I picked up my sketch box and started away from him across the expanse of green, only to stumble again. Somehow, with the force he had used in setting me on my feet, I had twisted an ankle, and I found myself limping ignominiously as I moved away.

  “You’re hurt,” he said curtly.

  I bit my lip against pain and showed him my back, trying to move with dignity. He came after me at once.

  “Don’t be a fool. You can’t go down that long road with a hurt foot. Now that you’re here, you might as well come inside and have a cup of coffee. I’ve got some fresh on the stove.”

  I tried not to wince as his meaty hand took my arm, turned me about as though I’d been a kitten in his grasp and marched me toward an opening in the trees, opposite the one from which I’d entered. Though “marched” isn’t exactly the word. After a few stumbling steps, he picked me up like a sack of meal under one arm and carried me through to the other clearing. I knew there was no use squirming against this further humiliation and I let my hair hang over my face to hide my rising fury. Not until I felt him mounting steps did I push the hair aside to see that I was being carried into a cabin of rough-hewn logs.

  The cave man was bringing home his captive, I thought indignantly—except that he didn’t want me here in the first place. Inside the big rustic room he dumped me without ceremony on a couch and went to the stove to pour coffee. I set my sketch box on my knees and looked around. The big room, though rough, was not without grace. At one end was a huge fireplace, with a cooking pot suspended over it in the old way. On the floor were worn Indian rugs, and an Indian blanket had been spread against a wall. The stove at which Magnus Devin stood was wood-burning and the graniteware coffee pot that rested on it was immense.

  With an effort I wriggled my foot. The ankle felt sore, but I didn’t think it was serious, and I could make it down the mountain all right. I didn’t mean to stay an instant more than I had to with this bear of a man, but just for now I would sit still until I could recover my strength and wits. Then I would gladly leave him to his stone bull and never come near this place again.

  4

  “Have you ever tried honey in your coffee?” Magnus asked over his shoulder.

  I blinked, thrust off balance again. “It sounds horrible.”

  “It’s not, and it’s better for you than sugar.”

  I watched in dismay as he dipped a dollop of honey from a jar and stirred it into my coffee.

  “No cream,” he said. “Dad hasn’t brought up the milk from the farm yet, and we don’t have refrigeration here—just the springhouse out in back.”

  He brought
me the mug with remarkable care in those huge hands, and I held it, letting it warm my fingers. It was cool here in the cabin and the fire in the open hearth had died to red coals.

  “Drink it,” he said.

  With a feeling of repugnance I brought the cup to my lips and sipped. There was a faintly different taste, but sweet was apparently sweet, and it was strengthening and not unpleasant.

  “It’s even better in tea,” he informed me, and I looked up to see that the red beard had parted to show a smile as gentle as a child’s—and in this man astonishing.

  “You like my bull?” he asked.

  On this friendlier level I tried to respond. “He’s splendid. Magnificent. As good as anything I’ve seen of yours in New York. But isn’t he wasted out here in the woods where no one can see him?”

  “I can see him,” Magnus Devin said. “And you’d be surprised at how many adventurers from the hotel pay no attention to signs and wander up this hill.”

  “Do you treat them all so furiously?”

  The smile faded and I could see the straight line of his mouth between red fur.

  “Most trespassers don’t climb on his back.”

  “But how could I hurt him? There’s even a stepping stone near his head. Why were you so angry?”

  He let that go and leaned forward to touch the box on my knees, recognizing its import. “You’re an artist?”

  “Not really. Just for my own amusement.”

  “Let me see.”

  I had no desire to show this man my amateurish work, but he waited for no permission, simply taking the box from my knees and opening it. When he found my sketchbook he spread it on a table and looked at the paintings and sketches one by one, while I sipped my coffee nervously—like a novice at an audition.

  “It’s obvious you like wild flowers,” he said after a time. “What are you going to do with these?”

  I wouldn’t tell him my vague plan for a book and be laughed at. “I’m not sure. They’re just for fun, really. I hope I can add to them here at Laurel Mountain.”

  He packed the sketches back into my box and set it on the sofa beside me. “Very nice,” he said, as though he spoke to a child.

  The words were polite and so unlike him that I felt slightly wounded. He didn’t approve of my work, and clearly didn’t feel it was worth commenting on.

  From outside came the sound of a truck and he strode to the door and looked out. “There’s Dad now. He’ll be able to take you down.” As Keir Devin came toward the steps, Magnus called out, “We have a visitor,” and a moment later his father entered the cabin.

  Big as Keir was, he was dwarfed beside his son. As he came in and saw me, he removed his broad-brimmed hat, his white hair like a light in the shadowed cabin. I wondered if it had ever been red, or if Magnus’ mother had had red hair.

  There seemed to be shock involved in Keir’s finding me here, for he stopped to stare, and then came toward me slowly. “Mrs. McClain?” he said, as though he doubted my identity, even though we’d already met.

  “Of course it’s Mrs. McClain,” Magnus said impatiently. “She likes signs that say ‘Private.’ She thinks they mean ‘Come in.’ Maybe we’ll have to take that one down and put up something else. Like, ‘Beware the bull.’”

  I was feeling more and more like a chastised child and my resentment was rising. When I’d finished the coffee I stood up with all the dignity I could muster and spoke to Keir.

  “Will you drive me down, please? I seem to have given my ankle a twist. It’s nothing serious, but I’d rather not walk.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Of course.” Then he turned to stare across the room at his son and the two exchanged a long, strange look, in which something close to antagonism bristled, and perhaps a warning. I was beginning to suspect that Magnus got along with very few people.

  “Thank you,” I said to my host, sounding stiff and unfriendly—which was all right with me.

  He grinned at me through his thick red beard, as though he knew quite well that my dignity was assumed and entirely false. I turned my back and walked toward the door, managing not to limp as badly as I’d done at first.

  “Hold on to my arm,” Keir said, and we walked together to the truck, where, with his help, I hauled myself into the high front seat and looked back at Magnus, standing in the doorway, his deep-set green eyes sardonic, neither liking nor disliking me—but still distrustful.

  At least I needn’t see him again, and I would take care not to invade his privacy. My only regret was that I hadn’t had another chance to look at that tremendous stone bull, and I thought again of how Ariel would have loved him.

  “Your son isn’t very friendly,” I said as the truck turned down the winding road.

  “He likes the woods to himself. He likes solitude. And he has his work.”

  “Wasn’t his wife lonely, shut away like that?”

  There was a faint hesitation before Keir answered, and beside me his profile seemed as chiseled as though it had been something his son had carved from stone.

  “Floris managed,” he said.

  “What was she like?”

  Keir turned his head and looked at me carefully. “You ask a lot of questions, Mrs. McClain.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. You see, it’s just that I want to learn everything I can about Laurel Mountain. And of course the people are Laurel.”

  We went slowly in the truck, in low gear down the grade.

  “Magnus hasn’t been the same since Floris died,” Keir said. “You know about the accident, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Brendon told me. It must have been tragic for your son.”

  “He was glad,” Keir said calmly. “Relieved. She was the sort you’d call neurotic nowadays. Plain, and energetic enough. Hard-working. But twisted inside. Mixed up. She made Magnus’ life hell the last few years. He married her too young, when he didn’t know any better. Magnus once worked for her father—that’s how he met her.”

  “What business was her father in?”

  “Tombstones,” he said shortly.

  I don’t know why the skin should prickle at the back of my neck. Someone had to carve tombstones, and it seemed somehow appropriate for Magnus Devin.

  “How old are you?” the man beside me asked.

  “Twenty-six. Why?”

  “You seem younger. You and Brendon haven’t known each other long, have you?”

  Brendon had warned me that I would have to earn my spurs with Keir Devin.

  “If you want to know,” I said, “I love him very much, and I think I always shall. It was such a lucky chance that brought us together, and I’ll always be grateful.”

  He gave his attention to his driving and I couldn’t tell whether my answer had satisfied him. Something he had said earlier still puzzled me and I asked another question.

  “Forgive me, but what did you mean when you said that Magnus has changed since his wife’s death? How could that be if, as you say, he was relieved?”

  “He’s not one to accept his own relief. He can torture himself.”

  That gave me something in common with Magnus, I thought wryly. But I wanted the man beside me to be my friend because he was devoted to Brendon, and there wasn’t much time left, since we were nearing the driveway to the hotel.

  “Thank you for talking to me, Keir. May I call you that? And I’d like to have you call me Jenny.”

  His hand left the wheel and patted my arm. “Just step softly for a while, Jenny. Raw wounds have to heal over. Given time, they grow a new skin.”

  But what raw wounds had affected Brendon? I wondered. If Floris had been plain and neurotic and unpleasant, I couldn’t believe that her death could have meant all that much to Brendon.

  “Do you think Floris’ death was an accident?” I asked.

  His foot must have trod hard on the gas pedal, for the truck made a little jump on the drive before he braked it.

  “Of course it was an accident, Mrs. McClain. Jenny. Don’t go thinking anythin
g else or this whole place may blow up like a volcano right in your face. And you wouldn’t like that. Everyone’s playing it safe, and you’d better too. We can’t afford the publicity. Maybe nobody wants to know what might have happened. You should want it least of all.”

  He could be as intense as his son, and I could only nod uncomfortably, having no idea what he meant.

  We were in front of the hotel entrance and I put my hand on the door handle.

  “Mrs. McClain—” His tone was quiet, and I turned. “Don’t go up there in the woods anymore, will you? Stay away from Magnus.”

  I didn’t understand, but this was not the moment to probe for more answers. I offered my thanks again for the lift back to the hotel and got out of the truck. Keir didn’t look after me when I turned to wave, and I knew I had been clumsy again, totally without finesse. I was a klutz—just the way I’d been as a child. Nearly falling off that bull because someone shouted at me. Annoying Magnus, annoying Keir. And Brendon? Was he annoyed with me too? Why did I have to go around being a thorn, when I wanted only to be a lovely rose? Brendon had said I had no layers to peel down. But I had, and I’d never really got down through them myself.

  My foot still hurt a little when I walked, but by favoring it I could manage fine, and it was the least of my problems.

  Brendon wasn’t about when I wandered through the lobby, and his office was empty, so I set myself to an exploration of the ground floor of the hotel. A few guests were about, in all stages of dress, though probably wearing a little more than they must have in summer. I smiled vaguely at those who smiled at me, realizing that some of them knew who I was.

  The small library room was empty and offered a place where I could sit and rest my foot while I pulled out books and turned pages in a desultory fashion. The chair I chose was near a reference shelf and I bent to read the titles of several volumes. One of them gave me an idea and I pulled out the fat tome of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations. When I looked up “guilt” I found nothing pertinent, but the word “guilty” came right beneath and I quickly found the complete quotation I was looking for.