The Hex Witch of Seldom
Page 21
“I didn’t until late last night. I was real worried.” His eyes, oak-brown and serious, never looked away from hers. “I felt like it was my fault, somehow, for letting you go—”
“Bull,” Bobbi interrupted.
“I guess.” Travis smiled slightly, a shy smile that lighted up his thin face. Someday, when he was not so thin, he would be handsome. “But I was worried anyway. A few days ago I run off myself to go find you.”
Bobbi’s lips parted, but she felt so astounded she couldn’t speak. There was something standing in front of her that she hadn’t seen … not only the form behind the form, but something more, and it had been there for the seeing all the time.
“I went down to the tracks and hopped a train,” Travis said, “and I hung around the hobo camps and the freight yards—”
Bobbi got her voice back. “You out of your head?” she demanded. Hopping trains was dangerous. Men got beaten up, killed, on the freights and in the freightyards. People whispered that things happened to boys in the boxcars, things worse than killing.
Travis said, “It was the only thing I could think of.”
“Are you all right!”
“Fine. I was scared a few times, but I’m fine. Anyway, I heard some talk. About a bad dude going after a girl and getting killed by a black horse. And about the gypsies hiding a girl and an old woman from the police. I was just about to go off and try to find the gypsies, when this—man came. And he sent me home.”
A hush in Travis’s voice made Bobbi look hard at him. “What man?” she asked.
“Just a, like, a vagrant. But not a bum, exactly. He didn’t walk like a bum, and he had this black leather jacket that must have been good once, and black jeans, and they fitted him slick. He came and found me before daybreak, woke me up. And when he looked at me …” Travis’s voice trailed away, and for the first time his eyes turned away from Bobbi’s eyes. They looked over her shoulder and far away; they became distant, unfocused.
“What!” Bobbi demanded.
“I—I don’t know. He was different. He had this really strange sort of a scar on his neck, like he had been in a prison camp or something. Anyway, he sort of hit me on the shoulder and told me to go on home.” Travis’s eyes came back to Bobbi’s. “He seemed to know all about me and what was bothering me. Told me you’d be along soon. There was a gypsy in a Cadillac waiting for me, brought me here, and I been watching.”
Bobbi walked up the lane. Fir trees stood tall above her. Travis walked beside her, silent.
“The stranger who woke you up,” Bobbi said finally. “Black hat.”
“Yeah,” said Travis. He looked straight ahead and kicked at a stone with his booted foot. “Took me a while,” he said, “to think where I seen anything like that scar of his before.” He looked over at Bobbi and asked in the same quiet tone, “You in love with him?”
The question didn’t startle Bobbi, nor did she mind Travis’s asking. It was almost as if he had a right to ask. “Yes,” she answered, “sort of,” and then she shrugged and gave Travis a smiling glance. “He’s too old for me,” she said. “About a thousand lifetimes too old.”
Silence for a while as they walked. Then Bobbi asked, “You said anything to Pap about all this?”
Travis shook his head. “He’d think I was crazy.” He looked over at Bobbi. “He’s been about half crazy himself since you been gone. Why’d you go off that way? I mean, I know why, but why?”
“Long story,” said Bobbi.
“Tell me sometime?”
“Sure.”
“OK.” The Yandro place was coming in sight. Travis stood still and let her go on alone. She walked slowly, trying to think of what she was going to say to her grandfather. “Get a move on,” Travis called softly after her. “The old man’s up in the orchard, last I knew.”
He wasn’t. He was in the house, sitting idle in the middle of the afternoon, staring at nothing. But when she opened the door he jumped up, his head thrust toward her.
“Pap,” she said, and that was all. Everything else she had thought to say to him vanished from her mind because of what she was seeing: tears coursing down Grant Yandro’s weather-toughened cheeks. Three strong strides, and he had her in his wiry arms.
“You crazy young’un,” he said when he could speak. “Where the hun you been?”
She could barely speak. “I been OK,” she managed.
“I knowed that. Mostly. I was scared—listen, you mulebrained kid.” He held her at arm’s length so he could look at her, but his big hands stayed tight on her shoulders, as if he was still afraid of losing her. “Don’t you ever believe me when I say such a thing. I was scared you wasn’t coming back.”
“I didn’t believe you,” Bobbi said. “Not really. I was just mad.”
“Huh,” he said. “God help me.” Then he did something he had never done since she could remember. He kissed her, awkwardly, on the side of her head. “Too damn Yandro,” he muttered, and he let go of her.
“That black horse,” Bobbi said. “He’s gone.”
“You think I care? Having you back is the only thing I care about.”
He had nearly said it, nearly said what she had always wanted to hear from him—
“I love you,” Grandpap told her. “I know I don’t show it the way I should, so I guess I’d better say it once.”
“You didn’t need to,” Bobbi told him, and she was telling the truth.
“After them mean things I said, felt like I better set the record straight.”
“You didn’t need to, though. I knew, once I thought about it. Came to me last night.”
Grandpap said slowly, “I dreamed about you last night. Scared me. You was in some sort of trouble. I wanted so bad to help you. But when I woke up I didn’t know where you was. It about drove me nuts.”
“I’m back now,” said Bobbi.
Epilogue
The old woman sat in the ladder-backed, cane-seated parlor rocker, admiring the room. She had just found runners in her attic, and she had put them down to protect her carpet. Between them and the braided rugs, the carpet itself hardly showed. It would last almost forever, like the seldom-used Kaiser, now back in its snug garage. The old witch at the wood’s edge had also placed slightly-used candles on the coffee table in pink ceramic holders shaped like flowers. The pink of the holders matched the faded pink of the swagged lampshades. The parlor looked nice, she decided, and she would have to invite Ethel over to admire it. She was glad to have the hay, the oats, the water buckets and the horse out of there.
“It’s good he’s back,” she remarked to Kabilde.
The staff stirred slightly in its urn but did not answer.
“The dark rider, I mean,” Witchie went on. “Riding the rails, now. This worn-out world needs him. He will catch some people by their hearts. The stranger, walking into their jaded lives. Widening their eyes. Making them remember the old words: pride, courage, honor. When he goes, they will say to each other, Who was he? Where did he come from? How did he get the scar on his neck? And they will make legends about him. But it is not the scar they will mostly remember.”
Witchie paused, and the walking stick said rather coldly, “What, then?”
“His eyes,” Witchie said. “No one can ever forget his eyes.”
The staff said even more coldly, “What of the girl?”
“Bobbi?” Witchie looked hard at Kabilde, then smiled, a gentle smile, for her. “She is all right. When you are feeling better, you will be able to see for yourself.”
Kabilde demanded, “How can you say she is all right?”
“It stands to reason. Her grandfather is ready to give her what she needs for the time.”
“Is she dreaming of a perfect lover, as her mother does? Is she expecting the man she calls Shane to come back to her?”
Witchie said, “She will have a lover. The dark rider made sure of that. She is all right, I tell you.”
“She had better be,” the stick said.
“Bobbi woul
d land on her feet in any event,” Witchie added. “She is a scrapper, and she is a Yandro. And she will find us if she wants us, old friend.”
The staff stood in its holder, silent and dreaming.
About the Author
Nancy Springer has passed the fifty-book milestone with novels for adults, young adults, and children, in genres including mythic fantasy, contemporary fiction, magic realism, horror, and mystery—although she did not realize she wrote mystery until she won the Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America two years in succession. Born in Montclair, New Jersey, Springer moved with her family to Gettysburg, of Civil War fame, when she was thirteen. She spent the next forty-six years in Pennsylvania, raising two children (Jonathan and Nora), writing, horseback riding, fishing, and bird-watching. In 2007 she surprised her friends and herself by moving with her second husband to an isolated area of the Florida Panhandle where the bird-watching is spectacular, and where, when fishing, she occasionally catches an alligator.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1988 by Nancy Springer
Cover design by Drew Padrutt
ISBN: 978-1-4532-9407-9
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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