by Patricia Bow
She could see it, spread below as if she hovered like an eagle: a vast hall thronged with dancers. Their clothes were like woven jewels and living flowers. Huge trees grew in that hall, and the pale green glow of their leaves mingled with the rose and silver of the lamps.
And there was music too, clearer every moment. A tangle of pipes and strings and a patter of drums that blew cold down her spine and at the same time made her twitch to join in the dance.
With so much to see, the people so strange and beautiful, and the patterns of the dance so intricate that they teased the eye to follow, Camrose did not stop at first to take a good, close look at any one thing.
And yet one thing did catch her eye in passing. She searched back for it and at last found it, a clot of darkness at the far end of the hall, where there were no rose and silver lamps, no glowing trees, no bright dancers.
There the light reached only far enough to pick out two rows of … soldiers, they must be. Tall figures with golden metal wrapped around their chests and arms and legs and golden helmets shaped like the heads of hawks and lions hiding their faces. They were the only still people in all that hall.
One row of seven faced out toward the dancers. The other row of seven faced in toward the darkness. And in that darkness … Camrose strained to see. The shadowy shape at the end of the hall grew clearer.
It was a door. Not a large door, not much taller than the soldiers who guarded it. But it was massive, made of timber slabs bound with plates of some dull metal. Across its two halves lay a bar of the same metal as thick as a young tree trunk. And all the soldiers stood with swords drawn.
15
Plain sight
Suddenly it was all gone, the hall and the lights and the dancers. Camrose blinked. The jacket sprawled on the rocks at her feet, and Mark stood, hands fisted, scowling past her at Terence.
“Never touch that again,” Terence said in a voice like silk.
Mark tried to push past Camrose. “Th en keep it to yourself after this!”
She grabbed his wrist. A still moment, then Terence laughed and bent to scoop up the jacket. “So, my Camrose.” He smiled down at her. “Can you see things diff erently now?”
“I don’t know.” Suppose what he said was true, and Rhianna really had loved him? Suppose what he said about Diarmid was true? Could Terence be the right claimant after all?
His eyes were so blue. They looked … not old, not like Diarmid’s, but ageless, as if he’d always been both young and wise. Easy to see how Rhianna could have fallen in love with …
With … Was it the reflected light rippling across his face that made it look so strange?
Ripple, ripple. Then … Ears long and pointed, eyes a narrow glitter, yellow as a cat’s, eyebrows a sharp V, joined in the middle.
And on his shoulder leaned a crimson hound. It raised a horned head to stare at Camrose with eyes that burned red.
Its one front paw flexed, showing long, sharp claws.
She took a step back, but the edge of the rock was under her heel. Mark caught her arm. Nowhere to run.
“So you saw.” Terence scratched his jaw. He looked human enough now, and the red thing on his shoulder was just a jacket. “I should have known. You’re becoming the Keeper, sure enough. Nothing but trouble. If I did not need you to get that flute, Sweetness, I’d have been rid of you long since.”
She folded her arms. “Maybe you wouldn’t have found that such an easy thing to do.”
But her words were hollow, and he knew it. He laughed. Then he stood up and stretched. “Oh, here.” He pulled a folded paper from his jeans pocket and handed it to her. “You might as well have this. It’s no use to me after all. When you come to make your decision, little cousin, think well on what happened to poor Gilda.”
He shrugged the jacket on. It slid up his arms with a deliberate movement and snuggled around his shoulders. After one last cheerful wave, he scrambled along the rocks to the shore.
Mark scowled after Terence’s dwindling figure. “Don’t ever trust that guy.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. What … what happened just then?”
“You tell me. He put that jacket on you and for a minute you looked … not all there. I didn’t like it, so I grabbed it off you.”
“I wasn’t all there. I was someplace else.”
“What?”
She shook her head. “And then? What did you see after?”
“Don’t get you.”
“His face. Didn’t you see how his face changed?” Mark squinted at her. “Never mind,” she said. “It’s nothing.”
He pointed. “What’s that he gave you?”
The paper was still crumpled in her hand. As soon as she unfolded it, the determined black handwriting leaped out at her.
“It’s page two of Gilda’s letter. So he did have it!”
“Huh. But why give it back now?”
“Not just to be nice, that’s for sure.” She looked it over. “Remember where the first page ended? At twilight go to the something, it said. So, here goes.
“... hollow in the woods at the west end of the park on McKirdy Street. That hollow, in case you aren’t already aware of this piece of family history, is all that remains of the house where I was born.
“Perhaps not quite all. A memory or image of the house on the night it burned, a ghost of that event, returns each time twilight comes to the hollow. I have never gone back inside, because the house is waiting for you, not me. It’s your task to take charge of the bone flute and keep it safe for the rightful claimant.
“Who are these claimants, and why do they want this heirloom of ours? That story is too long to tell here. You only need to know that they are two, and neither one will show you his true face. Be careful of them both! But so long as you hold the flute safe, you have the upper hand—they depend on you to hand it over will–ingly. It will be up to you to decide between them.
“I wish I could tell you how to choose, but the final judgement must be yours alone. In … ”
“In? What?”
“That’s the end of the page. I’m not sure it helps much.”
Camrose wished things were as clear now as they had looked this morning. Then, it was simple. There were two claim–ants for the flute, one right and one wrong. That was that. “I wonder if it’s true, that Diarmid knew it would kill Rhianna to bring her back?”
“Ask him.”
“I will. But even if that was true, and even if Gilda was right about him back in 1914, he could have changed since then, couldn’t he? It’s been a long time.”
“Maybe.” Mark looked over her shoulder. “Better be getting back. Storm’s coming.”
Camrose glanced back. Then she jumped up and led the scramble to shore. Thunder castles were building in the west and coming on fast.
It was just before three, the hottest part of the afternoon, and the sunshine was as thick as mustard, the air almost too heavy to breathe. Out on the rocks, surrounded by cool water, they hadn’t noticed the change.
“Better get inside before the rain starts!” Camrose said.
By the time they reached Market Square it was nearly deserted, except for storekeepers cranking down awnings, rolling in racks of T-shirts and folding up sandwich boards.
The edge of the cloud mass crossed the sun as they reached McKirdy Street. The thick yellow light shut off and everything went gray. Thunder boomed.
“Better run,” Mark said.
Camrose caught his arm. “Wait. Look!” The streetlights were going on all along the street. Streetlights in the middle of the day! “Mark, it’s twilight!”
“Yes, but—”
“If the storm lasts, this could work. Don’t you see? It could last even longer than a normal twilight!” She jigged with excitement.
“Or it could end any minute.”
“Only one way to find out!” She raced across the park to the band of trees and burst into the hollow with Mark close behind her. For a moment she thought she was wro
ng. The house wasn’t there.
And then, as the sky darkened to purple and thunder rumbled, one window appeared, glowing with the warm yellow of lamplight.
16
Inside the ghost house
It grew up out of the grassy hollow, stone on stone, story on story. Its tall windows were capped with carved lintels.
Ivy twined beside the wide, front door whose two halves were paneled with dark, polished wood and shod with brass.
Each detail was clear, yet sheer as gauze. Smooth lawns surrounded the house, yet cedar chips crunched under Camrose’s sneakers.
“Well?” Mark shook her arm.
“It’s almost real. Almost. Can’t you see it now?”
“No. Nothing.”
It was more solid now. Th e glow behind the window panes was brighter, but still warm and friendly. Th e dark green edges of the partly drawn curtains showed inside. A yellow tassel hung next to the glass. A rose bush by the front door carried blooms red as stoplights.
The lawn was a smooth sweep of green, still marked in parallel lines by the mower’s wheels. Camrose started forward. The turf was springy under her shoes. She drew in a deep breath and smelled not woods, with their undertone of composting leaves, not flowers run wild, but freshly cut grass and blooming roses.
“Camrose!”
She turned. Mark looked very far away. “I’m going in,” she called.
“But if it’s burning—”
“It’s not burning yet.”
She looked up at the house and terror swamped her at the sight of this thing, standing here where it didn’t exist, where it had no right to be.
Right ahead lay a path of flagstones, swept clean except for a few fresh grass clippings at the edges. She walked forward and climbed three stone steps to the front door. The brass handle was cold under her hand, and real as … as brass, she thought.
Deep breath. Heart, stop banging!
A click and a push, and the door swung open. She stepped inside. Mark called from the distance. The closing door cut off his voice.
Camrose stood perfectly still. She didn’t know what she’d expected. Something more sinister than this, for sure. A wide hallway stretched away from her with closed doors on both sides. The light was the blue of early dusk. To one side she caught a sudden movement and whipped around. Her own white-faced reflection stared back at her from a mirror that hung beside the door.
I’m really here, she thought. I’m inside the ghost house.
She walked on, silent, breathing shallowly. Suppose someone living in the house were to hear her, and come out, and say …
Someone living?
She pushed the thought away and concentrated on her task. Gilda said the flute was hidden. It wouldn’t be anywhere obvious.
The house was beautiful, what she could see of it. The high ceiling was edged with a border of raised plaster shells and scrolls. To her right on a polished table stood a Chinese vase full of roses, a splash of scarlet in the blue air. Their perfume was so strong it made her feel dizzy. She smelled wood smoke too.
The hall carpet was midnight blue. The thick pile was velvety to the touch, as she found out when she bent down and brushed her fingers over it.
Why was I so afraid? she wondered. Now I’m right inside the house, and it’s better than real. It’s wonderful.
At the end of the hall a broad staircase curved gracefully up out of sight. She wished she could see what the upstairs rooms were like. Why not go up and take a look? There must be so many beautiful rooms, full of amazing things.
Quick as thought, she found herself at the foot of the staircase. The top of the newel post was carved in the shape of a coiled dragon. She rubbed its polished head—the wood was lighter there—and began to climb. The banister was warm and smooth under her palm.
She was halfway up when a sound caught her ear, the first sound she’d heard in this place. Voices. She looked back. A door stood open in the hallway, though it had been closed before. A fuzzy light streamed from it.
The voices came from there. They had a distorted, echoing sound, like the noises you hear underwater. They startled the glamor out of Camrose’s head.
She walked down the stairs faster than she’d gone up, but still not very fast. There was a thickness in the bluish light that made it impossible to move quickly. And wasn’t it a deeper blue than before?
Something in the hall had changed. Camrose looked for it and saw the red roses shriveled and black. Their scent had gone bad. How had that happened so fast?
She stopped just outside the open doorway looking in at a room with silky yellow walls. The tall windows were dark blue with dusk and a chandelier, a blaze of quivering light, hung from the ceiling.
Then she saw the girl and forgot the room. She knew at once who she was: her long, dark red braid hanging down the back of her loose white dress. Gilda stood sideways to the door, her hands wrapped tightly around a wooden box. Her eyes were fixed on someone farther inside the room, someone Camrose couldn’t see.
“So you’ve made your decision.” A man’s voice, slow and lazy. Camrose almost knew it.
“So she has. Leave her alone,” said a second voice, deep and soft, a lovely voice. “Come along, wise child, let’s see it.”
Gilda looked down at the box. She glanced toward the door–way as if she wished she could run away and escape.
She doesn’t see me, Camrose thought. Well, how could she?
I’m not there. Or, she’s not here. Or … “Come now, you must choose.” An edge in the lazy voice now.
Gilda fumbled at the box with shaking hands.
Camrose watched her anxiously. She’s scared. Just like I would be. I should go in there and back her up, she thought. But her feet would not cross the threshold.
The box dropped from Gilda’s hands, hit the carpet and bounced aside. She held something thin, rolled in white cloth.
Then the cloth slipped off and the thing in her hands was brown and smaller than Camrose had expected. It didn’t look like much at all. Just an old bone.
“Bring it closer, Keeper!”
“Yes, child. Bring it here. Remember your promise.”
Gilda looked down at the thing in her hands, then at the end of the room, at the unseen speakers. “I can’t. This isn’t right. I need more time!”
She turned toward the door and for the first time looked straight at Camrose. Her eyes went wide. She took a step in that direction and flinched back as a curtain of flame whipped across her path.
Her arm swung. “Take it!” she yelled. “Whoever you are, take it and get out!” And the bone spun through the flames, through the doorway, and smack into Camrose’s outstretched hand. It was heavy, hard and cold.
The door slammed in her face. She leaned on the outside of it, coughing. She pounded on the panels. “Gilda!” Smoke seeped from under the door.
Wait a minute, Gilda got out. She lived to be mayor. But the others … There were other people in the house: a father, a mother, a sister. All would die.
Camrose ran to the stairs and started up. But the fire was there, too, reaching for her with red hands. She screamed for everyone to get out, but the smoky air sponged up her voice. And she knew they wouldn’t hear her because she wasn’t there.
The smoke was thicker. The fire had eaten through the wall and red-gold flames were biting chunks out of the ceiling. She fumbled along the wall farthest from the fire.
Now she knew how Gilda’s house had burned down. Because it was happening now, this minute. The house was burning down around her.
And she was slowing down. As if the air itself was holding her back. Each step was like pushing through deep water. She could be trudging along the bottom of a lake, drowning. Or would drown soon, if she didn’t get out fast.
She looked ahead, toward the doorway. It was closer, but how long had she been struggling toward it?
And then she saw, clear through the billowing smoke and the blue wall, a glimpse of treetops and clouds. The
storm dusk was passing. The house was fading.
If it fades with me in it, what happens to me?
Charred walls and ashy carpet blurred into a blue mist around her. Even the flames were sickly looking.
One step, then another. Now it was like dragging her feet though mud. Beyond the wall a branch tossed in the wind. Another step. A sketch of clouds surged above the ceiling. One more sluggish step … The door was closer now.
Sweat rolled down her face and splashed on her hand. At least that showed she was still solid. One more step, and she reached forward to grasp the brass handle of the door. It slid out of her grip like jelly.
She wedged her shoulder against the door and pushed. It inched open.
I’m going to make it, she thought. Her right hand curled around the stubborn nothingness of the door. I’m going to … Time, motion, the whole world trickled to a halt.
Then something stopped her breath. She looked right through her own left arm to the paneling behind it. The bone flute in her hand was opaque, and felt heavier than iron, colder than ice, but her own bones and muscles and skin were shadows.
I’m not going to make it.
17
Flute music
The door melted from her shoulder. At the same moment a hand gripped her fingers and yanked. Stone steps shot up at her. She fell through them, landed hard, and lay face down in long wet grass, too stunned to move. Somebody touched her head.
“I’m all right!” Camrose pushed Mark away, sat up and pulled in a deep lungful of air, cool and moist after the rain. Then she went into a fit of coughing. “’Cept my throat … feels like somebody’s been … skiing down it!” She blinked at him with watering eyes. “If you hadn’t pulled me out, I wonder where I’d be right now?”
He squatted in front of her. “Better not think about that.”
He sniff ed at her. “You smell like smoke.”