Sunshaker's War

by Tom Deitz

  “Either that or a rope and ladder?”

  A grin, not forced. “Good point. Maybe we’ll arrange an elopement.”

  Liz peered at him slyly from the corner of her eye. “You guys giving him a bachelor party?”

  David kept both his face and voice neutral, though his eyes sparkled mischievously in spite of his mood. “Why, Liz, what makes you think we’d do something like that?”

  “Any excuse for a party, of course: any reason to get loud and obnoxious and crude.”

  An eyebrow lifted. “And when have you seen me either way?”

  She paused. “Never, actually—but I have my spies!”

  “Ah, but how good are their sources?” David laughed again—and disgraced himself by trying to sing “Secret Agent Man” a cappella.

  The road was almost dry here, and Liz urged the little car onward at a faster clip, though she ignored David’s pleas for her to race when Aikin’s old Chevy Nova passed them. Their theoretical top speeds were about the same, he suspected.

  By the time they had started up the small mountain that was gateway to MacTyrie, the clouds were nearly gone; and when they crested the gap at its summit, the moon was actually shining. David fiddled with the PAUSE and VOLUME on the stereo, which was playing Saint-Saens’s “Organ Symphony,” arranging it so that the massive organ chord that heralded the final movement thundered in just as MacTyrie swung into view: a sparkle of lights embracing a curve of lake on the one hand and itself encompassed by an arc of mountains on the other. The ensuing strings complemented the twisting road on the downhill side nicely.

  An instant later they sped across the bridge, and two miles further on they were in town, passing Alec’s street and navigating the small business district, including Hudson BMW, before making a sharp uphill left just past the far city limit sign. They trundled along a narrow gravel road for a ways, winding first between pine woods, then among the steep roofs, exposed beams, and bogus plaster siding of Starshine Acres condominiums. An abrupt right put them across the saddle of a second small mountain, and the first left thereafter brought them, after a quarter mile, around behind Gary’s house. They were maybe a mile and half from Alec’s house. There were no dwellings further on.

  Hudson Hall—as David called Gary’s place—was not particularly remarkable to look at. Built before mountain architecture had succumbed to glass and angles, it was simply a sprawling ranch perched on the peak of a mountain so that one side peered down on MacTyrie, and the other, where Liz parked among a score of other cars, looked across the swimming pool and bath house toward another arm of lake. These last were what gave the place its special character, and it really was a palatial spread—one even Gary’s dad could not have afforded had the Baptist minister who had built it not been defrocked and forced to leave the county under circumstances so scandalous they’d required him to liquidate his estate at fire-sale prices.

  A bank of sliding glass doors fronted the patio, and those in the middle, which let into the family room, were wide open. David could see scads of classmates there already, as well as a steady stream of folks crossing the patio. Most were still in their dress clothes from graduation, though a fair number had changed to grubs or trendier garb. One—the foolish Darrell—was apparently wearing his graduation gown, boxer shorts, and nothing else to the consternation of a glowering Sheila Groves, who had switched to white jeans and a black The Cure sweatshirt.

  Gary met them at the door, beer clandestinely in hand, mortarboard cocked jauntily above his Tom Cruise grin, muscular physique displayed to advantage by a black tank top. A beaming Tracy Jensen was tucked under his other arm, an oversized man’s dress shirt masking her swelling belly.” Welcome to my camp,” he intoned. “I guess you all know why you’re here.”

  “My name’s not Tommy, though,” David gave him back, quaffing a quick, secret swig before raising a hand in salute to Gary’s dad, who was passing through with another bag of Ruffles, which he deposited on the (officially dry) bar before turning to glower at his only son.

  Tall and thin, clad in a BMW racing jacket and matching cap (leftovers of his glory days with Bryan Webb Racing), Harold Hudson had once been remarkably tolerant when it came to adolescent alcohol consumption—until one of David’s classmates had bought it big in an accident and word of the subsequent parental liability suit trickled down. Official policy for the party (and there were notices to that effect all over, though David knew there’d be exceptions) was therefore “don’t let me see it, and don’t do it on the property.”

  Harold’s glower turned to a smile when he saw David, though, and he pointed speculatively at a bottle of Coke, there being too much din to holler.

  David’s raised finger put him on hold. He gave Liz a quick kiss and headed for Gary’s bedroom, where he changed into the cut-offs and jersey he’d brought along in his duffel bag. The jersey, a graduation gift from Alec, was bright red and sported a gigantic V on the front and the number one on back, with a star emblazoned on the chest. The cumulation of David’s latest batch of academic honors.

  “Real modest, Sullivan,” Rob Marshall intoned as he emerged.

  “If you got it, flaunt it,” David replied smugly, eyeing Alec who was wearing a similar shirt with the number 3 on the back and its own symbolic esoterica scattered here and there.

  And then someone put Indigo Girls’s latest on the stereo and cranked up the volume. Liz, now in white shorts and David’s old Governor’s Honors jersey, grabbed his hand, and for the next forty-five minutes David lost himself in music (with occasional forays out to grab a Coke or a handful of nuts or chips). For a while, at least, he forgot about his disturbing theories.

  *

  An hour later the rain was still holding off, though the clouds were gathering again, massing above the flanking mountains like ominous guards hovering around a prisoner. Tired from a second bout of frenzied dancing, David and Liz had wandered out by the pool to cool off. His jersey was soaked through; she had pushed her sleeves to her shoulders. They flopped down on the redwood bench farthest from the house. A low brick wall behind them held out the forest and the night. Through the glass doors they could see multitudes of their friends still gyrating crazily—to Fine Young Cannibals, for the nonce. But more and more couples (mostly) had staked out parts of the great outdoors. The diving board had been an early casualty; others were leaning against, or reclining on, various cars. Their end, however, was fairly unpopulated. At least David could hear the cries of katydids above the buzz of voices and the thump of music. Liz took his hand.

  “Had enough?”

  He frowned. “Have you?”

  “I asked first.”

  “I’m still enjoying it, but…I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to leave now.” He glanced at the sky. “Might be wise, in fact, if those are any indication.”

  “Lord, I’m sick of rain,” Liz sighed.

  “And we’ve still got things to discuss—that really do need discussing.”

  Her eyes twinkled merrily. “And other things to catch up on, too!”

  “Oh?”

  She nuzzled his neck, nipped the ear Myra had pierced that very afternoon (his folks still hadn’t noticed the tiny stud). He responded in turn, drawing her close and letting his hands wander across her back and hips. Her arms went around his neck, and for a while they forgot everything.

  And then, “So this is where you got off to!”

  David pried himself free and looked up, to see Gary and Tracy trotting forward, Gary down to skimpy black swim trunks, though Tracy was still fully dressed. Gary was maneuvering with difficulty. Darrell (apparently now dateless) was trailing along behind, with Alec and Aikin a few yards behind him, evidently to make sure the abandoned and obviously shitfaced Mr. Buchanan didn’t fall in the pool and off himself.

  “Yep, here we are,” David acknowledged archly. “You need something?”

  Gary patted Tracy’s tummy happily. “Not a care in the world, m’lad: got my diploma, got my acceptance at MacTyri
e J.C., got me a pretty lady, and gonna be a dadeeee!!!!”

  “All of which we knew,” Alec observed dryly.

  “And I’m drunk!” he shrilled. “It’s my party, and I don’t have to go home!”

  “But I do,” Tracy noted with resignation.

  “You can take my car,” Gary offered, inclining his head toward his red Plymouth Laser—the new bulbous model that had replaced the old one, which he had totaled. His dad wisely kept him out of Bimmers, except for special occasions when he’d lend him a 735 or (like the prom) a new 850i.

  “Yeah, but the night’s still young, eh Sullivan?”

  David nodded and glanced at Liz. “Uh, yeah. But look, G-man, I think we’d better be travelin’. It’s a great party, and all, but—well, we partied all afternoon, and I kinda need to spend some time with my lady.”

  “Nod-nod, wink-wink!” Darrell chortled loudly, poking Alec in the ribs.

  “Yeah, and I’ve sorta got a headache,” Liz added. “Squinting through the rain all the way from Gainesville’ll do it to you.”

  Gary’s face broke into an evil grin. He flopped an arm awkwardly across David’s shoulders. “Uh-oh, Sullivan, a headache! Looks bad for the home team.”

  “Yeah,” Alec chuckled, more tipsy than was his wont, but he’d probably be staying over.

  “Better watch it!” Darrell guffawed, eyeing his running buddy. “You may wind up like G-man yet!”

  David blushed to his ears, remembering the few weeks of real fear he’d experienced after the first time he and Liz had done it. Neither of them had exactly been prepared, and…well, the image of himself as a freshman at the University of Georgia with a small blond papoose stuffed in his backpack had haunted him for days, though he had to admit that it did have a certain charm. Since then they’d been more careful.

  “Not likely,” David mumbled.

  “You got something ’gainst my baby?” Gary slurred.

  “Not a thing, lad,” David replied, standing. “Long as it’s yours.”

  “He,” Tracy inserted. “Dr. Nesheim called right before graduation.”

  “Another G-man? Oh, Lord!”

  “Hey, congratulations!” Liz cried.

  “He’s got the ceeeegars ordered already,” Darrell added, slapping Gary on the back.

  Gary glared at him.

  “’Course none of us smoke,” Alec noted.

  “Who’s next? is what I want to know,” Tracy giggled, eyeing David and Liz speculatively.

  “Who knows?” David mumbled, as Liz rose beside him. “But seriously, folks, we need to be movin’ on. Got deeds to do and promises to keep.”

  “Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Okay, then, party poopers.”

  “Right. See y’all later.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Gary called. Without warning he turned and dived into the pool. The first shriek that followed was Tracy being splashed by the tsunami that marked his passage. The second was Aikin and Alec heaving Darrell in beside him. The last sounds David heard before Liz turned the key and rolled up the window was “Smoke On The Water” thundering out the back door, and the last thing he saw was Alec and Aikin improbably involved in a tickle duel with each other while a soaking Darrell wrung out his sopping graduation gown above them.

  The clouds followed his example with a vengeance.

  *

  By the time David and Liz had reached Sullivan Cove the downpour had abated somewhat, but the branch that followed the road was still running high, red and frothy with runoff from both the fields and the hills above them. She’d had to set the wipers on full most of the way, and had spent a lot of time scrunched up close behind the steering wheel squinting through the windshield at the near-horizontal sheets. Twice, in spite of low speeds, they had aquaplaned. They’d passed two cars off the road, too, but wreckers and the Georgia State Patrol were already in attendance. The lights were out in the Ignorance Creek community, though, and also in Fairplay and East Damascus (there was no West)—legacy, probably, of blown transformers.

  Liz eased the car along the muddy road, trying to stay in the high spots where a trace of gravel yet remained. Fortunately the road was not as worn as many, mostly because only the Sullivans or their visitors used it, except for the paperboy on weekends, and the small congregation of the Sullivan Cove Church of God on Sunday morning.

  They passed David’s house on the left, the ruins of Uncle Dade’s cabin a half mile further on. David strained his eyes in the darkness, trying to make out the trailer the old man had slipped in behind it. It was too bad, though, that his favorite uncle had been reduced to that in his old age. Oh, he’d heard the excuses: too much trouble to fix the house, and he planned to leave it to David anyway, so he’d rather let David build the kind of place he wanted than stick him with something he might not like. But that didn’t make him feel any better when it was his fault the place was trashed to start with. It also reminded him of the inevitability of Uncle Dale’s death, and that thought chilled him.

  A short way further on forest closed briefly in, and then they reached the turnaround at B.A. Beach. The rain had stopped again, but they did not get out to make their way across the field of soggy broom sedge and through the line of trees to their usual lakefront makeout site. Instead, Liz turned the car around so it was pointed back the way they had come. David reached into the glovebox and pushed the button that popped the hatch, and they climbed into the long carpeted platform behind the seats. Too short to stretch out in, really, the upholstered cylindrical cushion Liz stored there made a good support for their heads. Feet propped on the high trunk sill, they looked out on the night. David shivered when he thought about the image they must project: rather like a snake’s head agape, with them reclining in its jaws.

  They did not look at each other, simply twined their fingers and relaxed into each other’s company.

  “So what do you think’s going on?” Liz asked at last.

  “Oh, Lord,” David began, “I don’t know where to start.”

  “How ’bout with the rain? This much can’t be natural.”

  David shrugged. “Well, it has to be something to do with the war in Faerie. Remember Ailill? Ailill Windmaster they called him, ’cause he was born in a storm and therefore had a natural affinity for ’em. He liked to make ’em, too, according to Nuada. Would sense ’em forming in Tir-Nan-Og, help ’em along, and then send ’em through the World Walls to bother us.”

  “Right—but he’s out of the picture now.”

  “Yeah,” David agreed. “But remember last fall when the Sidhe were out to get Alec and we were all holed up at Uncle Dale’s? They couldn’t actually attack the house, so they juiced up the weather and brought storms down on us—worse than these, actually. These have just been goin’ on longer.”

  “So you think this is Sidhe doing?”

  “I know it is! It’s the war in Faerie. Lugh said it would happen and it has: it’s come to Tir-Nan-Og, and the results are resonating even here. And remember what Calvin told us about what Uki said? That the storm at Dale’s was felt even in Galunlati? It’s the same thing here: storms in Faerie leaking through the World Walls to clobber us.”

  Liz shuddered and drew closer to David, resting her head against his shoulder and stroking his bare thigh absently. “Must be a hell of a war. It’s been going on for days.”

  “Days here, sure; maybe no time there at all. You never can tell how time runs on the other side.”

  He felt her nod. “Good point. But, gee, Davy, how much longer can it go on? If it rains like this all summer, nothing’ll get done: everything’ll mildew, and gardens won’t grow, and the tourists all stay away by droves.”

  “No loss that!”

  “You don’t make your money off ’em. A lot of folks do. Think about them!”

  “Okay,” David conceded. “But you know what really bothers me?”

  “I give.”

  “That it’s all our doing, really. Alec’s fault if you look at it one way, or ours if you
get to the real bottom.”

  “Don’t say that, David; we’ve been over it before.”

  “But it still bothers me—I guess it’s got to be practically an obsession. If you and I hadn’t got things going he’d have never gotten jealous of you. If he’d never gotten jealous, he’d have never been vulnerable to manipulation by that Faery woman who betrayed him.”

  “Would you rather we’d never gotten together?”

  “No, of course not. But I wish we’d been more aware of the effect we were havin’ on him. I mean, shoot, Liz, he’s my best friend, has been forever, and then suddenly he’s odd man out. That has to be a bitch to deal with.”

  “He has to grow up.”

  “Well he did a lot last summer, let me tell you. It may have ruined him, too.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, with women, for one thing. He’s hardly dated at all since then.”

  “He didn’t date before then, either,” Liz pointed out. “The pickings are rather slim, if you notice.”

  “That didn’t stop Gary and Darrell and Aikin.”

  “They’re not as picky.”

  “Okay, I’ll grant you that. But even so—”

  David interrupted. “I mean being shafted’s one thing; practically everyone goes through it. But Alec wasn’t just shafted; he was tied up and roasted over a long, hot flame, then sauced with guilt and left to stay warm in the oven. I mean, most folks’ exes don’t deliver their friends to enemies who threaten to kill them, and use the weather for weapons.”

  “Well, I can’t argue with that.”

  “Know what’s weird, though? I think he’s still in love with her. In spite of all she did, Alec’s still in love with Eva.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Well, he’s more or less said as much—and she was his first.”

  Liz pinched his side. “That’s lust, David, not love!”

  “Yeah, but even so, she did admit there at the last that she loved him—at least that’s what he told me.”