Gravelight

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  He walked over to the table.

  "These are pills," Wycherly said. "I want you to take one of them each day. Don't take more. Don't skip any days. Don't share them with anybody. Don't let anyone know you have them." He felt suddenly, eerily, mature. Had that covered all the possibilities for misuse? 'Til know if you do," he finished, hoping that would cover all the rest.

  GRAVELIGHT

  59

  Luned looked at the box, her eyes wide. Before he could stop her she'd opened it and poured the caplets out on the table. 'These look just like plain old ordinary store-pills," she said in a disappointed voice.

  "But they aren't," Wycherly said, possessed of a mad urge to bend her to his will. 'They're magic. But magic never looks like what it really is— it wouldn't be magic then, do you see?"

  And you're the village idiot, trying this Dr Strange routine on this feebleminded, credulous, backwoods Lolita.

  Only was it so very credulous, a part of Wycherly's mind wondered, for someone to believe with such matter-of-factness in things they'd actually seen? Perhaps Luned expected him to be the new warlock on the block because such things were common here.

  Angrily, Wycherly clamped down on such a dangerous fantasy. Soon enough he'd have the opportunity to see any number of things that weren't there; there was no point in making what was to come worse for himself by making up ghoulies and ghaesties with his conscious mind.

  "If you don't want them, fine. You asked me for them, remember?" he pointed out.

  "I'll take them," Luned said quickly. The silver box disappeared into her pocket.

  "Fine. Come back to me when they're gone."

  An hour later true dark had fallen, and Wycherly was alone in his new home. It was starting to cool down now, as the fire in the wood stove died. Luned had warned him that the night would be cold, and he'd want heat even in summer, but he could always light it again later.

  She'd promised to come back tomorrow and bring all the beer that two twenty-dollar bills could buy. He'd have to be more careful with his money from now on. The general store didn't take AmEx, and he doubted that there was an ATM anywhere within walking distance of Morton's Fork—and to use either w?is to risk having his family find him.

  But he could manage. He'd managed in worse situations.

  Wycherly looked around the cabin. Two of the kerosene lamps burned brightly in the main room; one on the table, one on a shelf above the stove. Pale moths fluttered around both of them, making the shadows leap and flicker.

  Wycherly studied the absence of alcohol on the table, trying not to

  think about the bottle of Scotch in the bedroom. Did he really want to do this? Could h^ do this? And if he could, why do it here, in a place that already reminded him of a cross between Green Acres and the Twilight Zone?

  He wasn't completely sure, even now. But deep within him, a faint smothered voice said that whatever he did he must do here, and now. That there was no other safe place, and that to delay at all would be to delay until it was too late.

  So be it. But it was an odd feeling to be responding to the prompting of an inner instinct that urged him to save himself. Wycherly had much more experience with self-destruction.

  She was losing her mind, having low-rent visions like a straight-to-video Joan of Arc. Sinah Dellon sat in the darkened great room, huddled in her big terrycloth robe, trying to put her world back into order. Maybe starting the search for her roots ten years earlier would have made a difference. She'd never been adopted; her records had never been sealed. From the moment she'd realized she had a real mother somewhere, she'd dreamed of meeting her with a longing that bordered on pain. If she'd come here the moment she'd turned eighteen, would it have helped?

  No. It was too late even then.

  She ran a hand through her hair distractedly. It had hurt to give up the long-cherished fantasy of meeting her birth mother. Athanais Dellon was dead, had been dead for all the long years her daughter had dreamed of their reunion while dwelling in the house of strangers. And now she needed her bloodline's help more than ever. Now she was having visions.

  She ought to be running through the woods screaming her head off. Or at least driving for the nearest coast as fast as she could.

  Sinah got up from the couch and wandered through the renovated schoolhouse. It was too fantastic—there was no place to begin to think about something so far removed from reality. She glared at her dream house with real anger; the longer she stayed here, the more it seemed like a prison, not a refuge. As if instead of bringing her home, this house was insulating her from it.

  Dont he ridiculous, darling. There isnt any ''home'' here. They dont want you. And now you re going nuts.

  Sinah knew her behavior was right up there with that of heroines in

  gothic novels who, when confronted with all manner of ghastly apparitions, stayed right where they were (in the moldering isolated mansion) and waited to be murdered by the Byronic young master. But Sinah was looking for the truth about her family; without it, she couldn't go forward and she couldn't go back.

  She went over to the window that looked out beside her front door. The Jeep still sat there, a guaranteed magic carpet that would take her away at the turn of an ignition key. A sensible woman would go—and check herself into the nearest psychiatric hospital. Just because she didn't feel crazy didn't mean she wasn't—after all, didn't she think she could read minds?

  And see visions.

  Fire. There'd been something burning; that was all Sinah remembered of her vision by now. Fire, pain, and terror. It must mean something— but what? If only the people here would talk to her; tell her what it was that Athanais Dellon had done to them that made them shun her daughter nearly three decades later. Had Athanais had powers like Sinah's?

  Were they what had killed her?

  Wycherly didn't feel even slightly drunk, and, in an experimental spirit, decided to see if he could get to sleep without drugs as well. But once he lay there in the darkness, sleep seemed to retreat until it was a thousand miles away.

  And in the darkness, he heard voices. Murmuring just at the threshold of audibility, low purling chuckling cozening voices. . . .

  The black beast was coming for him, coming out of season, as if it had heard that Wycherly meant to free himself from it and was punishing him for even the thought of escape. And Wycherly realized that the sounds he heard were not voices, but something worse: water, the sound of running water somewhere near, outside the window, out in the dark. . . .

  Pulling at him. Lapping around his legs, pulling him under, cold and implacable. He was hurt, bleeding — he could not remember what he was doing here, standing in a river in the middle of the night, but a reflexive automatic sense of guilt made him look around sharply, and that was when he saw it. A car — his car? — submerged beneath the water, the beams of its dying headlights shining dimming, golden beacons beneath the water. The warm blood eddied about his legs; he fell to his knees in the river, and the icy water reached his chest, making his

  heart clutch with its coldness. How could the water be so cold? Even the air seemed frigid now, as if all warmth, like love, was gone from his surroundings.

  The river pulled at him, trying to drag him under, pulling him with it in its journey to the sea. Behind him he could see the lights of the car submerged beneath the surface of the water, its weakening beams like the eyes of an angry dragon, and Wycherly knew it ivas too late. He started toward it, only to feel the slippery surface of the riverbed dissolve beneath his feet, carrying him under.

  He tried to climb out and the water dragged at him, growing deeper and colder the more he struggled toward the shore. On the distant shore he could see the faint blue and red sparks that were the lights of rescue vehicles, but it was as though they belonged to a different world, a world that no amount of struggle would let him reach. He was going to die now.

  In that irrevocable moment Wycherly realized that his death was not a private thing affecting only him. If he
died here he would die with promises unkept, die without completing the task that he had been sent into the world to perform.

  Suddenly the need to live was sweet and urgent, and that was the moment when Wycherly saw the white shape moving toward him beneath the water. Its teeth were white and sharp and its staring vacant eyes were dark with blood.

  It was coming for him.

  Wycherly struggled to awaken, groping for a light switch that wasn't there. His face was wet, and he sobbed aloud in terror until he realized that it was raining, that rain blowing in through the open window was what had triggered the dream as well as forcing him awake.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and winced at the pain of still-sore muscles as he rubbed his eyes. He wasn't quite awake, but he was far from being asleep. The dry sandy flatness of insomnia made every nerve ache, and he knew that for the rest of the night he could only buy sleep through alcohol or drugs.

  Cursing, Wycherly got up and dragged down the window, shutting out the bursts of cold wet air. The worst thing was that even over the rain he could still hear the mocking babble of the water. It was no hallucination, just the Little Heller Creek going about its mundane business. But fantasy or reality, the black beast was coming for him, no matter how he fled. There was a rendezvous he must keep—with the night, the river, a sunken car, and a murdered girl. . . .

  Camilla!

  But he should not call on her, Wycherly realized tardily. She didn't

  love him any more—she hated him, and when he called her, she would come. He shook his head stubbornly. Light, he needed light.

  Several fumbling attempts to light the lamp at his bedside at last produced success, and he lowered the glass chimney into place with a real feeling of accomplishment.

  With illumination, the room looked more normal, and the night terrors receded. Inside himself, Wycherly despaired. If it was this bad already without the blunting effect of liquor, how was he ever going to last another day—let alone a year?

  Who knows? Who cares? Not me.

  Turning away from the window, Wycherly went prowling through his new domain. He opened the refrigerator by automatic reflex, and inside were the plastic jug of cider and four cans of beer, as well as the remains of suppertime's soup. He hesitated, then reached for the cider.

  It was pleasant; alcoholic, but not enough to have much of an intoxicating effect. He wandered around with the jug in his hand, closing the window over the sink and poking at the embers of the fire. He felt keyed-up, restless: stage one of detox right on schedule. Next would come depression, inertia, wild craving, and the black beast, after which he would be—at least technically—clean and sober.

  Wycherly thought about taking a sleeping pill or two—they gave a pleasant buzz—but decided against it. Here, tonight, even his insomnia would be his own. He sat in the rocker with his jug balanced upon his knee, and after an hour or so found himself nodding off again. Might as well try the bed one more time.

  The next time Wycherly woke it was morning. He saw the sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window and smelled the linen-and-lavender scent of the sheets.

  He felt as though he'd died sometime last week.

  He reached for the bottle on the bedside table before he remembered that there wouldn't be one. But it was too late; he was awake. Attempts to go back to sleep were useless now; the room was too bright for that. He felt heavy and dull, and wanted nothing more than to roll over and shut the world out again, but at least he'd slept most of the night without any more dreams.

  As Wycherly lay there, regretting the fact that he was conscious, he could hear movement out in the other room. Luned? He supposed he

  should at least get up and see if she'd done what he told her. He hoped she'd remember whatever that was, because he didn't.

  Wycherly threw back the covers reluctantly and swung out of bed. He felt achy and fuddled, with the faint beginnings—once again—of a hangover. It didn't improve his mood, a familiar one that he hesitated to inflict on anyone he wasn't trying to make acutely miserable. And though that list was very short, for some reason Luned was on it.

  He dressed quickly in the clothing he'd worn last night, wincing in anticipation of the rudimentary sanitary arrangements to be found in the backhouse, but there was no help for it. He grabbed his jacket and tucked the Tylenol-3 into a pocket. Better safe than sorry, he thought confusedly; he was going to need those later.

  Before he went out, a native fastidiousness made Wycherly use the mirror on the wardrobe to shave. The electric razor still held a charge, and it didn't matter how much his hands shook, so long as he was persistent. Maybe he could find someplace today to recharge the thing. Someone in this backward hamlet must have electricity.

  Rubbing his now-bare chin, Wycherly walked out into the other room. The door and the window were open again—as he'd suspected, Luned was already there, happily discovering new things to scrub down.

  And to his shameful relief, there were four six-packs of beer on the table.

  "Good morning. Mister Wych. Evan says he'll be bringing the rest of your supplies up later in the cart. It's a pretty day to do washing," she added hopefully. "And I mended your shirt." She indicated it, crisp and ironed and folded neatly on the table.

  Wycherly glanced out the door. He could not assess the "prettiness" of the day—all he knew was that the sun was out and its brightness made his eyes ache. He wondered where his sunglasses were. Probably lost in the crash. He'd have to make the best of things, then. He slung his jacket over his shoulder and walked outside without speaking, as reluctant as a cat stepping into a puddle.

  When he came back, there was a smell of pancakes in the air—Luned was cooking on a soapstone griddle balanced on top of the wood stove— and Wycherly's stomach rebelled.

  "No," he said. A sudden riptide of nausea tugged at him, treacherous and unexpected. He barely reached a chair before his knees gave way. He stared at the six-packs on the table in front of him, and then reached out

  and pulled one of them toward him. Luned glanced over her shoulder at him to see what he was doing.

  "Thank you," Wycherly said with venomous precision, "but I find I do not care for pancakes today." Sweat trickled down his face; his mouth filled with bile.

  Luned stared at him as if he were speaking Greek.

  Wycherly pulled back the tab on the can in his hand. The warm beer frothed out through the opening; he drank it off anyway, wiping the foam from his mouth when he was done.

  He reached for another.

  "I don't want breakfast. I don't want pancakes. I don't want—" But he wasn't sure what he ^^/"^ want—or didn't—so he stopped talking.

  He stared sullenly at Luned, to see if she was going to argue, but she only shrugged, and turned away to get a plate to scrape the griddle's leavings onto.

  Wycherly finished a second beer and opened a third. He was dissatisfied with his own behavior, but couldn't quite see himself behaving any other way.

  "I just don't like sweet things," he said reluctantly. He tried to remember what he usually ate for breakfast, and couldn't.

  "I could heat you up a can of stew, maybe," Luned said doubtfully. "Or some of the soup."

  His head was spinning now—not from the beer, but in a demand for stronger poison that he didn't intend to give it.

  "Just—I'm going out."

  The image of the sanatorium came back to him from last night's conversation. It would make as good a destination as any, and keep him away from Luned and people. Wycherly got to his feet with difficulty, trying not to see the look of hurt disappointment on Luned's face. He set the now-empty can down on the table next to its brothers.

  "I'm going for a walk. I think it would probably be better if you didn't come up here for a few days after today. Until I'm settled in."

  He'd probably be better later today. In fact, he could be quite charming at the point that just preceded his getting incapably drunk.

  "I don't dislike you," he said
reluctantly—and she, poor girl, would never realize how rare even that mild compliment was—"but I think it would be better for you if you weren't here."

  "You have to eat something," Luned said stubbornly. "If you think I

  haven't seen a man drink himself stone bUnd before, Mister Wych, you're wrong. But you've got to have something in you for the drink to bite on. You just wait right there."

  So he didn't even have shock value going for him. Wycherly sat back down at the table and reached for another beer. Number four. He was starting to feel quite waterlogged, but far from drunk. That was the trouble with beer. It wasn't efficient.

  Hadn't Luned said Mr. Tanner might come by today? He wondered if there was time to get a message to him about bringing some moonshine when he did.

  No. Wycherly concentrated on sitting in the chair, sipping re-strainedly at his fourth beer. He was too stubborn to turn and watch what Luned was doing behind his back.

  A few minutes later Luned set before him a cup of black coffee so strong there was an iridescent blue sheen on its surface, and a thick slab of cornbread, toasted dark and crisp.

  "Where did this come from?" Wycherly asked, poking at the corn-bread.

  "I brought it for my lunch, but it looks like I'm going to have pancakes," Luned said without regret. "Now drink up that coffee—it's black as a coal miner's heart."

  Wycherly, faced with the choice of either eating or driving Luned from the cabin by some means, picked up the cornbread and bit into it. It was dry, crisp, and tasted faintly of charcoal, but he couldn't have managed much else. Between swallows of scalding coffee strong enough to make his heart race, Wycherly managed to get all of it down. Once he'd finished the bread and the coffee he felt much better. Even the headache had retreated.

  "I appreciate what you're doing for me," Wycherly said unwillingly. "But you'd still better steer clear for the next few days. I mean it."

  "You need somebody to look after you!" Luned protested.

  "I need to look after myself," Wycherly said, trying to keep from snapping at her. "At least, to see if I can. If I get into trouble, I'll come down to the store to find you, Luned. I promise."