At one point Brendon stopped me and gestured up the hillside. “Do you see that door up there?”
Since it was partially overgrown with Virginia creeper, I hadn’t noticed the metal door set into the hillside. “What is it?”
“There’s an underground tunnel in there big enough for a man to walk through. It carries electric cables and water pipes up to the tower. I’ll tell you more about it when we get to the top.”
Now the way steepened in places, though the climb was never difficult. I filled my lungs with the glorious, pine-scented air and was hardly out of breath by the time we neared the top and stepped out upon a rocky plateau. Here the granite tower, built on a circular outcropping of sheer rock, rose against the sky.
“We can climb to the top of the tower, if you like,” Brendon said. “If you don’t mind stairs.”
We went through the arched door of the tower, with its memorial inscription overhead. Inside, the stone cavity echoed deafeningly as several boys came running down the stairs, shouting to rouse the tumultuous sounds of voices crashing against the stone. They grinned at us, unabashed, and rushed outside. I was grateful when the echoes quieted and we could climb the wide, open stairs in silence.
Out through the door at the top wind rushed upon us, whipping my long hair into a tangle, snatching my breath away. Brendon steadied me as I leaned against his arm. He bent his head to kiss me lightly, and my spirits rose because I knew he was glad to have me with him, showing me the places he loved.
On all sides around the tower spread the tremendous view. Toward the east the Hudson wound away beyond hills that hid Kings Landing on the river, and we could look out over the countryside beyond. To the south lay sun-swept valleys and more hills. As we turned to the southwest I saw two slanting mountain peaks that seemed to fling themselves into the air at a perilous angle, their stony crowns thrusting outward as if they were flying. Eons ago some mighty upheaval had launched these rocky crests into space, so they would stand alone like twin waves rising to break at their very peak—yet frozen for all eternity.
“It’s so beautiful.” I whispered the words I’d spoken before.
His arm tightened about me. “Yes. The earth and sky, the water and those dramatic mountains! It’s only men who can be ugly.”
The words sounded an unexpected bitterness and I pressed my hand upon his arm. “At least you furnish a counterbalance here at Laurel. That’s worth accomplishing, isn’t it?”
He turned from me, withdrawing his arm: “Sometimes I think it’s all been spoiled, contaminated. Sometimes I’m afraid it will never be the same again.”
“Because of—of that woman’s death?”
“That’s part of it.”
“Please tell me,” I said. “Don’t shut me out, Brendon. I don’t want to live here wondering about some mysterious happening that is being kept from me and that seems to turn you away from me.”
He had moved on along the stone parapet and stood looking out toward the lake and the Mountain House, not answering. I went to lean against his arm.
“Please tell me.”
He put a light finger to my lips. “Hush, darling. Not now. Don’t spoil what we have. What’s past has to be forgotten.”
I couldn’t forget what I didn’t know, but I had been silenced, and I could only stand beside him looking down at the jewel of blue lake and that red-roofed fantasy at the far end, dropped into a sea of green forest that rolled away on every hand. In the distant valleys I could glimpse twisting roads, with small houses sprinkled here and there like white sugar, but no towns to be seen. The quiet and the loneliness were complete.
Again he pointed. “Do you see where the rock cliff across this end of the lake ends in a sheer precipice? That’s another walk you must take, Jenny. To Panther Rock, where you’ll have a magnificent view of High Tower.”
Once more the panther. I wondered why the Laurel emblem made me faintly uneasy and inwardly I rebelled against the curb that had been imposed upon my questions. I knew my thoughts would never be still until I knew the answers. I could sympathize all too well with Bluebeard’s wives—though I hoped I wouldn’t meet such a fate if I persisted in asking for answers. Brendon was no Bluebeard, and for now I could only go along with what he wanted.
“Were there really panthers here?” I asked.
“There used to be. In the West they’re called mountain lions, but here people called them panthers. They’re long gone from the area now, of course, because men have driven them out, just as most of the snakes have been driven away.”
“I’m glad of that,” I said, but now I wasn’t thinking of snakes. Or panthers either. All my questions had to do with men—and one woman.
“Don’t be sad, Jenny.” His words were unexpectedly pleading. “I remember how sad you looked that day when I saw you standing in the Opera lobby before your sister’s picture. I remember thinking that I wanted to see you smile. You’ve smiled a lot since then. Smile for me now.”
So I smiled a little tremulously, and he kissed me again.
“Bear with me, Jenny. I’ll tell you about everything when the right time comes. Right now—” He let the words drift off into the silence and I knew that I dared ask him nothing more.
When he knew he’d stopped me his tone grew lighter. “Even the most sensible men can have aberrations,” he went on. “My father built this tower years ago to honor Geoffrey McClain, my grandfather, who did so much for Laurel Mountain. It was Grandfather Geoffrey who looked ahead and started our conservation program. But when the tower was being constructed, my father had a room hollowed out of the rock underneath. There’s still a door into it where the stairs begin, but we keep it locked. That tunnel I showed you opens into it.”
“What was the room for?”
“It was going to be a sort of grand ballroom and meeting room. But it proved to be too far for guests to come without transportation, and the project was given up before it was finished. Bruce’s Folly, they call that room.”
It was strange to think of a huge, closed-off room still existing beneath High Tower.
“Isn’t the room used for anything now?”
He looked away from me, and for a moment seemed to hesitate. “No, it’s not used. Not exactly.”
“I’d like to see it sometime.”
His gaze returned to my face. “I really don’t think you’d enjoy what’s down there, Jenny. Forget about that room.”
Once more his sudden evasiveness puzzled me, but I asked no more questions.
As we leaned on the parapet, the clopping of horses’ hoofs reached us, and I looked down to see that a horse-drawn carriage, with cross seats holding several passengers, had pulled up below the tower. I watched as the passengers got down and walked about, exclaiming over the view.
“So there is transportation?”
“For sight-seeing purposes. Those who don’t want to climb can take buggy rides all over the grounds. We keep a stable of horses, though not as many as in the past. That’s our hotel stage—right out of the century’s turn.”
“There’s a wide enough road?”
“Of course—the slower way we didn’t take. Our own trucks have to get about, in order to take care of the place and patrol it, though they are the only motorized vehicles allowed. The roads have to accommodate Keir and his rangers.”
I had moved on around the stone enclosure to where I could look out over thick woods of oak and maple that grew up the northern slope. At one place another rocky outcropping rose above the trees, and down the slope from it a clearing was visible, with a peaked rooftop showing among the trees.
“Is there a house down there?” I asked. “I didn’t know anyone lived up here on the mountain.”
“It’s only a cabin,” Brendon said. “That’s Rainbow Point over there, where Loring wants to build cottages. There’s a level space of land on this side of the cliff.”
“How would anyone get to them?”
“There’s a road to the cabin, and it�
��s Loring’s idea to allow cars on it. Of course we’ll permit none of this to happen.”
His voice had hardened, and glancing at him I thought Loring had better watch out with his bold plans. I didn’t think my husband would be an easy man to deal with if he were roused.
“Are you ready to go down?” he asked.
I had another question to ask. “Whose cabin is that? Does someone live there?”
“It’s Magnus Devin’s log cabin. He lives there with his father.”
“Magnus Devin? I wonder why that name sounds familiar when I hear it?”
“Probably because it is,” Brendon said with that odd note that came into his voice whenever he spoke of Keir’s son. “He’s very successful. Out in the world his work as a sculptor is well known. Some of it is in museums around the country.”
“Of course! Magnus Devin! I’ve seen some of his outdoor work in New York. It’s on a rather large scale, isn’t it? But why does he stay up here?”
“Like the rest of us, I suppose he likes it. He’s also something of a recluse. We try to keep guests away from him. The road to the cabin is private. That’s another reason why Loring can’t build over there. Keir wants to keep it out-of-bounds to visitors.”
My eyes must have lighted with interest because Brendon shook his head at me firmly.
“Jenny! Don’t turn adventurous. Magnus doesn’t welcome visitors.”
“That must have been lonely for his wife. She was the woman who died?”
“Come along, let’s go down. I do have work back at the hotel. I’ll fix you up with a map so you can do some exploring on your own.”
We went down the stairs, meeting the more venturesome of the carriage passengers on their way up. Before we could return to our path, however, a truck rumbled up the main road and I saw that Keir was at the wheel. He braked beside us.
“Good morning, Mrs. McClain,” he said, and then turned to Brendon. “You’re wanted down below. They sent me up to get you.”
Brendon grimaced. “Okay, I’ll go back with you. Do you want to come with us, Jenny?”
“Thanks—no. I have my sketching things, and now that I’m here, I want to enjoy it for a while. I can find my way down by myself.”
Brendon climbed into the seat beside Keir, who was busy on the intercom to the hotel. I watched as they drove down the road, circling gently around the crown of the mountain. A few visitors stood about, and I smiled at them as I walked across the area below the tower. I was discovering that those who met on the trails were automatically friends, with all of Laurel in common. The views were almost as stunning from here as from the top, though I couldn’t see the far countryside to the same extent.
When I’d had my fill of gazing, I wandered a little way down the road. Overhead the sun was higher now, and though there was still a wind, the morning had warmed and I took off my jacket and spread it on a rock, so I could sit down.
Now I had time to make a few rough sketches of flowers that grew near the woods. Wild flowers always appealed to me more than their tame garden cousins. Naomi could have her formal flower beds—I would take these beauties that straggled like gypsies along the roads and through the woods.
I drew a quick sketch of yarrow with its ferny leaves and flowers like tiny daisies that would bloom till November. There was plumy goldenrod too, and my favorite of all—Queen Anne’s lace. I took the time to make a very exact painting of the last before I put away my colors and went on.
I could move at my leisure, savoring as I went. Since it would give me a different scene, I chose the carriage road down, and followed its winding, gentle descent.
Wind rustled through the trees, rattling leaves that had begun to dry, and here and there dead ones drifted down. I saw tall striped maples in the woods, green with visible stripes on the bark—a tree I hadn’t seen before, and I left the road and walked through underbrush to have a closer look. Poison ivy, already crimson, climbed a nearby stump, brilliant against the greens and browns. In these surroundings I could feel peaceful and happy again. This was my element, and once more I knew I wanted to stay here forever.
The things I didn’t understand about Brendon would be cleared up eventually. He had promised me that. I mustn’t worry. I mustn’t turn into a brooding female who never smiled. True, it was more in character for me to fly at problems and push for a solution. I liked everything to be set neatly in order as quickly as possible, and I must restrain this urge. For the moment I could only hope that we would both adapt compatibly when we came to know each other better.
For now, at least, I would be patient. Brendon was still as unknown a quantity to me in many respects as I was to him. So for now I would postpone all puzzling and think only about trees. Think safely about trees.
The forests at Laurel had a healthy, diversified look and I knew they had been carefully planted in the past. Sometime I must talk to Keir Devin about them and learn their history. Many of the chestnut oaks had been killed off in the last fifty years, I knew, and they had been replaced by hemlock, by gray and white birch and stands of pine. I paused before a grove of white birch, admiring the beauty of these northern trees. When I reached out to touch the papery bark, my hand came away powdered with white. How beautiful such trees were—more stalwart than the smaller gray birch that sprang up weedlike everywhere in neglected fields or burned-out areas.
Down the hill a little farther, I came upon a clump of gray birches, their heads all bent gracefully in one direction. Ice storms would cause that bending, and the trees often never fully recovered their upward stance.
As I walked on, back on the road again, I noted with approval that the woods were full of dead and fallen trees. Ecologically, this was the way it should be. In Europe there were forests where you could walk for miles with no interfering underbrush, but that was because the people of the countryside had been poor for generations, and wood was sought after to build fires, cook food, give warmth. Here there had been some obvious cutting where roads might be endangered, or a fallen tree might injure a live one, and undoubtedly wood was taken out to burn for fireplaces, but most of the dead trees were left to crumble into the organic matter that would enrich the forest floor and keep new growth coming. On fallen logs bright-colored fungi were already at work, helping along the necessary decay. Mingling with the pine scent, the scent of growing things, there was an earthy smell that was natural to a healthy forest.
I was moving happily along my way, comforted by the scene around me, when I came to an uphill path marked Private and I stopped before the sign.
Now as I walk in the night darkness beside the lake, I am forced to consider my actions of this morning. Were they wise? Unwise? Have I done any real damage?
Across water that is more silver than black, the hotel windows shine, and there are outdoor light standards as well. But there is no light here, except from the stars. I want to be alone to think my own thoughts, undistracted, undisturbed. Strangely, I am not afraid out here—because no one knows where I am. In our rooms I would be available, by phone and by door. Even by the balcony doors. Here water laps at the lake’s edge and I find that I can take a few careful steps and enter another gazebo—one of the many little summerhouses built above the water. I sit on a bench in the comforting darkness and listen to the night.
There are voices drifting across the lake from the hotel—sometimes laughter, or a woman’s high tones. Sometimes the rumble of a masculine voice. Music reaches me nostalgically. The pianist is playing “A Foggy Day … in London Town.” Nothing to do with me now, but a tune Ariel used to like. Because she professed to love London. She had danced there as a guest of the Royal Ballet. I had never seen her dance in London, never seen her dance Aurora in The Sleeping Beauty, but I could close my eyes and see her dancing now. She’d had a radiance on the stage, and a passion, a vitality that made other dancers about her fade by comparison. It was hard to believe that all her delicacy and grace and beauty were gone—gone forever.
I can weep now. I
can put my face in my hands and cry for my sister here in this spot by the water, where beauty is all around me—but never her beauty again.
The voices reach close to me now in the darkness. They are very near, whispering and eerie. Yet I know they are not human voices, and they are not whispering about me. Where lake waters lap into caverns beneath the rocks the hollow sounds they make are like a deep whispering.
I must go back soon. I must be in our room before Brendon comes up to bed. I haven’t told him yet what I did this morning. Or what happened during the rest of the day, and I am not yet certain how much I will say to him. If he must have his secrets, perhaps I will also have mine. And now I hold one almost too terrible to bear.
The word on the sign stopped me for a moment. Private meant to exclude me, as Brendon had indicated. It meant to exclude anyone who came this way and had no business following a path up through the woods. I knew where the path must lead. I had come down the road until I was undoubtedly opposite Rainbow Point, opposite that cabin whose roof I had glimpsed among the trees, and I had only to step around the sign and start up through the woods to come upon it.
There was no one about to see and I took the first step, and then another. It was not a well-worn path and weeds grew thick across it in places, but it must be a shortcut from cabin to road, if someone chose to take it. There was probably another way, a better way, since Brendon had said that Keir could drive his truck to the cabin, but this path was good enough for me.
I had no plan, no intention. Only curiosity and a faint, nagging worry drove me. Brendon did not like Magnus Devin. And it was Magnus’ wife, Floris, who had died here last May in a curious accident, killed by a falling rock that should never have fallen. All I really wanted at the moment was to look at the cabin. If the man came out and spoke to me, I would make his acquaintance. It was as simple as that. All to be played by ear, with no intention of harm on my part, or of any real intrusion.
The Stone Bull Page 6