Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04

by Heartlight (v2. 1)

  "Well, she doesn't and they aren't," Claire said flatly. "Most of the Wiccans I know are perfectly sensible people who believe that they are reconstructing ancient Pagan practices, not carrying them on in an unbroken line. I imagine that every Wiccan—or white witch, if you like—knows perfectly well that she is one, even if she doesn't tell anybody. As for all redheads secretly being witches, well, that's an old piece of English folklore that I'm surprised to see still kicking around."

  "I'm not a witch," Rowan said positively, as if that settled the matter of Laney. She gazed at Claire for a moment, her grey eyes disconcertingly direct. "But there are witches, Claire, and they aren't all white ones."

  Claire wasn't sure what to say. It almost seemed as if Rowan was warning her.

  "Well, g'night," Rowan said after a moment, yawning and clutching her dragon tighter.

  "Sleep well, dear," Claire said. She waited until Rowan had burrowed under the covers, then turned out the light.

  But it was a long time before she could make herself fall asleep.

  Somewhere in the deepest part of the night, Claire came abruptly awake. The full moon was shining in through the open windows, and in its ghostly blue light, Claire could see that Rowan's bed was empty.

  "Rowan!" Claire said in a half-whisper.

  "I'm right here." The girl's voice was curiously remote. Claire thought she sounded tired. She moved, and now Claire could see her standing by the window, wrapped in one of the quilts.

  "Come back to bed. You'll freeze," Claire said.

  "They're out there," Rowan said. "I can feel it—can't you? They're calling us."

  A shimmering darkness; a heart-deep drumbeat calling something older, more primal, than man. Something hideous, but somehow seductive as well, a longing bred into humankind in the interminable night before the dawn of time. . . .

  Claire shook her head sharply, and the call withdrew, though Claire knew it was still out there. And Sally is out there, too. Heaven help her.

  "Come back to bed, Rowan," Claire said, a bit more sharply than she'd intended.

  "I can't sleep," Rowan said frankly. "And ... I don't think I should, really. Do you, Claire?"

  "No," Claire admitted, giving up with a sigh. "You're probably right. But you mustn't go out to them, Rowan, no matter how much you feel you ought." Even as she spoke, Claire could hear how patronizing and foolish the words sounded. What would she do if Rowan disobeyed?

  "I won't," Rowan said, and now Claire could hear reluctance in her voice. She saw the shadow as Rowan put a hand on the cold glass of the uncovered win-dowpane, as though the gesture could make what lay outside clearer. "I didn't used to hear it. I was too young. Now I can hear it, but I'm not strong enough yet. But I will be." Claire could hear the quiet promise in the young girl's voice.

  Rowan decided she wanted some tea, and Claire went down to the kitchen with her. Through the window over the sink Claire could see the light in Justin's backyard workroom.

  "Daddy's pulling an all-nighter," Rowan said matter-of-factly, filling the kettle at the tap and setting it on the stove. "Want some cake? There's some left over from dinner."

  "No, thanks." Rowan's appetite was a tribute to the legendary all-consuming hunger of the teenager. "But I will take a cup of tea," Claire said.

  Rowan went to get the canister down from the cupboard and stopped, looking wistfully toward the workroom light. "He can't hear anything at all," Rowan said, almost to herself. "Tonight's just another night for him." After a moment she moved on, taking down an old brown teapot and filling it from the loose tea in the canister.

  "What do you hear, Rowan?" Claire asked quietly. Though Claire had known Rowan had the Gift the moment she'd first laid eyes on her, she hadn't been sure whether the girl herself knew—or how much credence Rowan placed in her own abilities.

  "Just . . . stuff," the girl said vaguely. Claire had the sense that Rowan's inarticulateness was not so much due to obstinacy as simply to the inability to describe those things that other people had no words for. "Them," she said, gesturing vaguely eastward. "It's like . . . like a sore tooth."

  The kettle whistled and Rowan broke off to pounce upon it and pour the boiling water into the old Rockingham pot. While she waited for it to steep, Rowan brought out the cake and cut herself a generous slice, adding a plate and fork out of respect for the delicate sensibilities of her elders.

  She carried the pot over to the kitchen table along with two hand-painted china mugs—souvenirs of some long-forgotten country fair—the sugar bowl, and a bottle of unpasteurized cream from one of the local farms. Rowan poured for both of them, and then liberally doctored her own tea with several spoonsful of sugar and a generous dollop of cream that threatened to overfill the cup.

  "And what else do you see?" Claire asked her, when it became apparent that Rowan did not intend to volunteer anything more.

  "Things," Rowan said, and this time Claire could tell the vagueness was deliberate. "Poor Sara. But I guess sometimes things have to go bad so they can be good later. God! That sounds like one of Laney's stupid New Age sayings," she added in a more normal voice.

  "Poor Sara." Claire shuddered inwardly at the remote sound of pity that had been in Rowan's voice. In the back of her own mind she, too, could feel the terror tangled up in the sound of drums, but Claire dared not go in search of Sally Latimer. She would be almost certain to get lost on the back roads in the dark, and if she went, it would leave the Moorcocks undefended against whatever might come searching for them—and Rowan, in particular, was very vulnerable.

  But it still seemed like a very long time until dawn.

  At about 4:30 Justin came in from his workroom and chased Rowan off to bed—tomorrow was a school day, as he reminded her, and she'd have to be up by seven to get there on time. Rowan assured him that she'd be fine—and at her age, she probably would be, Claire reflected enviously—and skipped off out of the room after a good-night peck on the cheek.

  "Is she all right?" Justin asked Claire, after Rowan had left. "Really?"

  "She'll be all right," Claire temporized, not wanting to lie. Whatever had I been calling from the old church on the hill had stopped a few minutes ago, and Rowan was in no further danger.

  Not tonight, anyway.

  Claire took the cups and Rowan's plate over to the sink and set them carefully in the dishpan for later washing. "Especially once she goes away to" school. You know that, Justin," she added.

  Justin Moorcock sighed, running a hand through his thick auburn hair. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't brought her back here at all, but she was so broken up when Merilee walked out, and I'd always been happy here. Besides, Granddad isn't getting any younger. . . ." He wouldn't meet her eyes, as if he were afraid of hearing things that he would have to deny.

  "Don't beat yourself up over this, Justin," Claire said firmly. "Rowan's going to be fine. She's a very sensible girl."

  "I suppose you're right," Justin said with reluctant relief. "Well, goodnight, Claire."

  "Goodnight, Justin."

  By the time Claire returned to the bedroom, Rowan was soundly asleep beneath a pile of quilts, tightly clutching her stuffed dragon. Claire only wished she could set aside her own problems as easily. She had the terrible feeling she would have to choose between the safety of her cousin and her young friend . . . and Claire was not sure she had it in her to make such a choice.

  It was a long time before she managed to sleep.

  It was after nine o'clock when Claire awoke again, this time to the ringing of the telephone. Clarence was hard of hearing and would just let it ring, and if Justin was in his workroom he wouldn't hear it either. Fortunately there was an extension upstairs in the hall; Claire struggled into her bathrobe and lifted the receiver.

  "Hello?" she said groggily.

  "Claire?" Colin's voice. "You sound a little ragged."

  And he, like Justin, wouldn't have heard a thing even if he'd been right here all night. There are times when I'm downright jealous
. . . .

  "I had a bad night. Never mind. What can I do for you?" she asked.

  "Sally doesn't have a phone and I'm tied up all day, but Brian Standish phoned me about seven this morning; his answering service gave him a message that she'd tried to reach him yesterday, but by the time he got it, it was too late for him to call. He's probably asleep now, but I was hoping you could find the time to run past Sally's place."

  "I was planning to do that today anyway," Claire said, mentally arranging her schedule. "I'll give you a call later, okay?"

  "I'll be at the college until five or six," Colin said. "You can reach me there."

  Hanging up the phone, Claire tottered back into the bedroom. Clouds had rolled in overnight, and the day was drizzly and bleak. She shivered as she tucked her feet into her fleece slippers and padded over to the window. Rowan's bedroom overlooked the driveway; looking out, Claire could see that both Rowan and Justin's cars were gone. Something must have gone wrong with the FedEx pickup—he would have driven Rowan to school otherwise, Claire was sure.

  / guess I'll have to see if I can borrow the truck, Claire thought resignedly. She hadn't bothered to rent a car of her own, since it had been easy enough so far to borrow Rowan or Justin's car whenever she needed transportation—and the nearest place to rent one was in Boston in any event. Normally she would have just waited for Justin to get back.

  But her errand to Sally couldn't wait.

  Uncle Clarence was willing to loan Claire the old truck—if a bit dubious about her ability to drive it—so after a scratch breakfast of coffee and toast, which barely made up for her broken night, Claire was on her way. The raw day did much to clear her head of the lingering cobwebs of the night, and by the time Claire reached Witch Hill at eleven o'clock, she was ready for anything ... so she thought.

  Some lingering intuition—or impulse—had led her to put together a "care package" of coffee and an old drip coffeemaker that no one would miss. Whatever might be going on at the old Latimer house, Claire thought strong coffee would be needed and she wasn't sure Sally would have the makings.

  As she nursed the old truck up the hill, Claire could hardly believe her first sight of the old Latimer place—if there were ever a horror beyond imagining, this was it. It looked like one of those old houses in a Stephen King novel, the kind that had rooms leading off into alternate dimensions. Every possible piece of ornamental woodworking that could ever have been added to the house had been added at some time in its life, and towers, dormers, and bay windows seemed to jut from it in a fearful asymmetry. The weathercock at the highest point of the roof was a rather ominous-looking black bird, and as it followed the shifting wind, it made a faint, tooth-hurting screeking.

  Claire pulled her uncle's truck up under the porte cochere and shut off the ignition. For a moment she couldn't quite figure out where the front door was—there was something so wrong with the design of the Latimer place that it was difficult for the eye to really focus on any part of it—but then she located it and strode briskly toward it.

  If just looking at this place gives me the willies, how much worse must it be to live here? Poor Sally! I can at least bring her home with me for a decent meal and a few hours away from this horror.

  Her worry about Sally increased when there was no answer to her knocking—though she'd seen a white face peer out through one of the upstairs windows—but finally Claire heard the sound of the bolt being dragged back, and a moment later the door opened.

  Sally Latimer stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but a heavy flannel bathrobe. Claire tried not to let her shock show on her face—Sally's glorious red hair was a tangled mess, and her eyes seemed sunken deep in their sockets. Her pupils were enormous; she winced as if the daylight hurt her eyes, staring at Claire as if she might burst into tears at any moment. The girl was bird-thin; what had been coltish slenderness the last time Claire had seen her had now crossed the line into haggardness.

  Belladonna would account for the dilation of the eyes, and nightshade was a traditional component of the flying ointment that diabolic witches wore to the Sabbat—or Esbat.

  Colin must be told. Things are far worse than we'd thought. But the best thing for Sally just now is the illusion of normalcy, Claire told herself firmly.

  "Did I come at a bad time?" she asked, schooling her voice to conventional brightness. "Colin said you were staying here, and I don't know another soul from here to Innsmouth—" Claire chattered on until she saw the first trapped terrified expression on Sally's face fade and thought she might risk a direct question. "Are you sick, Sally?"

  "Not exactly," the girl answered. Her voice was rough and slurred, bolstering Claire's impression that she'd been drugged, and finally she seemed to realize that she was keeping her guest standing outside in the rain. "Come in, Claire," Sally Latimer said, stepping back.

  Claire stepped inside and hugged Sally impulsively. She felt the girl flinch away from her touch, and felt a warm wave of pity. Poor child! She shouldn't have had to face last night all alone. . . .

  "I'll just go put on some clothes," Sally said slowly.

  "Don't think you need to get dressed up just for me," Claire said reassuringly. "I've brought some coffee—do you mind if I make some up while you dress?"

  "Please do," Sally said hesitantly. She wandered out of the kitchen, the robe slipping unheeded from her shoulders as she went.

  When she was gone, Claire took a deep breath and, bracing herself, opened her senses to the old house.

  There was nothing here—nothing at all.

  She realized that she'd expected Witch Hill to be reeking with malignant psychic energy, with the kind of taint that accrued from the practices of something like the Church of the Antique Rite. But there was nothing here of the sort—the place was as neutral and impersonal as a paper cup or a modern city apartment.

  Claire shrugged and went to make the coffee. Experience with Cousin Clarence's kitchen enabled her to negotiate the cranky propane stove easily, and soon she had the coffee perking, sending its rich fragrance through the kitchen. As she hunted about for cups and spoons, a magnificent ginger tomcat appeared.

  "Hello, sweetie," Claire said, bending down and extending her fingers for it to sniff. Seeing him made her realize how much she missed having cats of her own—Monsignor had died several years before, old and fat and full of years, and then Poltergeist had joined her playmate last fall, leaving Ancient Mysteries—and Claire—catless for the first time in many years. Claire had been thinking about getting another kitten, or even two, but had not wanted to do so while the memory of her dear friends was still fresh. Still, she missed feline company.

  The animal butted his head against her hand, and Claire could feel the drops of rain on his fur. So he'd come in from outside . . . but how?

  Maybe a window was open somewhere.

  About then, Sally returned. She was wearing a powder blue corduroy skirt that looked as if it had been slept in, and a Shetland pullover in the same color. Around her neck she'd tied a paisley scarf in a clashing shade of orange—Claire wondered why a flaming redhead had ever bought such an item—and her mouth was smeared where she'd first applied, then wiped off, lipstick in an unfortunate shade of coral. Her hair was still uncombed and hung around her face like a madwoman's.

  Don't react, Claire told herself firmly. Her instincts told her that Sally Latimer wasn't ready to be confronted with anything that might frighten her. Something had already done that job too well.

  "He's beautiful," she said instead, still stroking the cat. "Did you find him here?" Some perverse reality-testing impulse impelled her to add: "Was he your Aunt Sara's cat?"

  "Heaven knows," Sally said dully, slumping into a chair. She laughed unsteadily. "Some of the locals have some theories about that. I call him Barnabas, after that old TV show." She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face. There were dark bruises beneath her eyes, more evidence of some sort of drug.

  "Have you eaten anythin
g?" Claire asked, and, receiving the reply she expected, began to bully Sally into eating. As she did, she took a good look around the kitchen for the first time.

  It looked as if both the Jukes and the Kallikaks had been living here. Dishes and garbage were piled in the sink, and it was plain that no one had cleaned the kitchen since the death of that other Sara, seven years before.

  Claire's face must have given her away despite all her good intentions, because Sally, watching her, suddenly began to cry.

  "I know—I know—it's all horrible! But it's because of Matthew—he said that I was Aunt Sara and I had to attend the Esbat, and I told him he was crazy—I tried to get away—I called Brian—but Tibby had a pet jackdaw and I kept getting lost—I couldn't get to the bus stop—and then the bus left without me—and I went home and locked the door, but then Matthew came with Judith—and she had a strawberry shortcake—I didn't eat it, but there was unguent on the plate and she drugged me, and then—and then—"

  For a moment Sally broke down completely, then finished her story in a wavering ragged voice: how she'd fallen down in a swoon with the witches' unguent on her hands—the Esbat afterward that seemed half dream, half nightmarish reality—how she'd awakened, naked, in the graveyard at dawn. Clare listened to it all impassively, pouring Sally a cup of strong black coffee and setting it in front of her.

  "Do you think I'm crazy?" Sally demanded. "Do you believe me, Claire?"

  "I don't know what to think," Claire said cautiously. She had the evidence of her own senses that something terrible had happened here last night, but Sally's story of her experience was almost too pat to be possible—it contained all the elements of the classic European witch-cult tales, and those tales had been created by the persecutors, not the practitioners, of the Old Religion. It was hard for Claire to believe that any Wiccan coven—or even any Satanist Temple—practiced rituals such as Sally had described.