The puzzle faded, then, and in its place a desire to grab Vic and get out, run to her house and pack and take his car as far away as they could drive. What happened in Oxrun Station could be forgotten, whatever danger there was passed and over. An episode, nothing more, to be laughed at as they walked along some distant beach jeering at their imaginations until memory eroded the nightmare.
"Vic."
"Here," he said, and slapped at a page. "For what it's worth, I've found it."
"Vic, I don't want to—"
He picked up the book, turned it round so she could see the illustrations. They were sketches based on artifacts, remnants of a British Olympiad before the coming of Caesar and his Romans.
Her protests evaporated.
As she pulled the volume toward her, he leaned forward until their heads were almost touching. "According to this, there were essentially two groups of gods: the Children of Don, and the Children of Llyr. It's hard to keep later Christian influence separate from the originals, but apparently these two weren't in any state of rival hostilities. They just co-existed depending upon the beliefs of the inhabitants. Probably a lot of them were borrowed from the Irish."
It took little effort for Dale to see in the faces before her the carvings Dave had made, that McPherson now owned.
"Like all kinds of religions, these folk had their feast days and holy days and good stuff like that." His whisper was close to her ear, and she shuddered. "These people, for instance, have things called Imbolc, Lugnasad, and Beltine. Fertility and all that because the Celts were agricultural folk, it seems. They also have the Feast of Samain. The first of November."
Dale listened as Vic's voice became hypnotic in its eagerness, and he flipped the pages quickly to show her the pre-Roman representations of the gods, the dolmen where the dead were buried, the demigods who were the warrior heroes. And the feast of Samain where the old and new years met and Time belonged to neither, when the harvests were in, the flocks and hunts completed. It wasn't difficult for her to understand the Celtic fear of winter when the land died and the skies grayed and the cold air from the North brought sickness and privation. She glanced up at the light directly overhead, then to the dim glow of the street lamps. No, not difficult to understand at all.
A shadow paused at the entrance. The door opened slightly, closed quickly, and she rubbed at her eyes. Tired, she thought; I would have sworn that was Liz.
"Now," Vic said, sweeping the books to one side and taking her hands, "are you listening, kid? The thing of it is, on this feast day or whatever it was, those who believed in the gods and goddesses and all those spooky things also believed that men, ordinary men, could walk into the Otherworld through what I guess you could call sacred mounds—sid is the name for them—and the opposite happens, too. What happens then, I don't know. Probably, depending on where you lived as a card-carrying Celt, you either had good times living it up with a gorgeous immortal vamp, or the gods who weren't all that lovely did un-good things to you.
"The question is, of course, now that we know all about this—so what? You're surely not going to tell me we've got some dyed-in-the-wool Celtic believers right here in little old Oxrun Station. You try it, and I'll flatten that gorgeous nose of yours."
"You didn't tell me about the sacrifices."
He couldn't hide the guilt that shadowed his face.
"Come on, Vic, I can read, too. I saw that part about the fire and water."
Suspicion based upon folk tales and fragments of mythology, rites gleaned from Druidic colleges where knowledge was passed down by rote. Hints and conjectures that Samain included human and animal sacrifices—a man, a woman, a child slaughtered, entrails and limbs burned and ashes scattered; a man, a woman, a child forced into a lake or stream and held down until drowned. All in propitiation for the coming new year.
"Now," she said, "tell me what I’m trying to make you believe."
"No. I can't do that. I can't because I think it's absurd. In the first place—in the main place—we live where there hasn't been an immigration wave since the day the Pilgrims set up shop on the coast. Aside from those families who have sneaked in here and there, the line of Oxrun blood goes back uninterrupted for a couple of hundred years. Your family goes back to the Revolution, for crying out loud. Nobody here would know what a Celt or a Samain was if they fell over them."
"Nobody but the Campbells."
"The Campbells are Scots."
"So they say. But Flora does keep losing that accent, doesn't she? And what we're talking about is basically Welsh, isn't it?"
His mouth opened, shut, and he rubbed at his jaw while avoiding her stare.
"Okay, Dale, I'll grant you something more. That the Campbells aren't Scots, and it's just possible the old lady and her crew still hold to the ways of her ancestors. That really isn't so farfetched considering the dolts who still believe in witchcraft and Satanism and things like that. Maybe they even still worship some of the gods and consider the feast days part of their beliefs. But so what? It's not a crime, you know."
"No, but murder—attempted and otherwise—sure is."
"Dale, I'll say it again, slowly, so you'll understand. We have no proof. And if you think I'm going to tell Abe Stockton that we think there are a bunch of crazy Celts running around Oxrun Station getting ready to sacrifice our good citizens, if you think I am going to face him with that, then you're just as crazy as they are."
But Willy was too soon dead; Dave's car blazing to furnace; and the orchard flaring to hellfire.
She saw the confusion in his face and sympathized; it was the identical turmoil she'd weathered that afternoon—the modem mind trained to deal with phenomena logically and demanding reason uncover the solution for the seemingly inexplicable; the modern mind taught to discard the fantasies, the tales, the Scots' bumps in the night. Reason. Logic. So simply stated, so fearfully held onto. Reason and Logic, the modern gods in a godless world.
"Let's walk," Vic said "I need some air."
She held his arm tightly, as much for comfort as to hold him up. Though he said nothing, she knew his dizziness was returning and she wanted to scold him for coming out even though it was her doing. But when she tried to bring it up, he hushed her angrily, refusing to admit to or succumb to the weakness.
Hypothesis, she thought: the Campbells, for whatever reason, have somehow clung to or revived portions of a prehistoric Celtic religion, carried this belief to their new home in Oxrun and, probably through the child talk of Willy and the solemn honesty of Dave, brought others into their circle. It was, however, easier to believe how the children, with talk of demons and gods and otherworldly excitement, could be infected with temporary enthusiasm; but it wasn't so easy to see how Ed, with all his medical and psychological training, could be affected too. And as far as she knew, he was the only adult outside the family who subscribed to this nonsense.
Question, she thought: why three deaths? The Campbells couldn't realistically expect persecution for their unusual religion—at the most, derision and scorn, and that could be escaped easily by moving to another small community, or a larger one in which to be lost.
The early evenings chill turned to a damp cold. The thick-limbed trees and smattering of fir fragmented the waterfall glow of the street lights. They were alone, and it was silent, no hints at all of radios or televisions or even a domestic quarrel seeping through the dark walls of the homes they passed. Deliberately, Dale walked lightly, not wanting to disturb the peace that moved with them. It was sufficient that they were together, isolated, wondering silently if what they bad learned in the library was applicable or wasted.
Vic stumbled, and she held him tighter, pressing her cheek to his arm while a hand stole about her waist and squeezed.
"All right," he said finally. "There's no way around it. We'll toss a coin and face one of them."
She blinked away her scattered thoughts and asked what he meant.
"Easy. We'll go . . . we'll go to see Ed and tell him
what we think: That he's part of some cult and we’re worried that someone inside thinks we're out to harm it. We'll assure him we're not, promise to stay away, and hope that they—whoever they are—will leave us alone."
"What if he doesn't know anything about it?"
"We'll tell him anyway. He must know Jaimie's a part of it. And if that's incorrect, he'll know about it when we've done. Either way we'll have done all we can. It's as simple as that."
Not so simple, she thought, and said so. "Besides, suppose he refuses to leave us alone. Assuming your assumptions are right."
"Then we'll go talk to Fred and tell him everything we think, everything we suspect. Abe was right about one thing, you know—this itch of his needs to be scratched, and I doubt that he's satisfied even now. This will at least give him something to think about."
"Or laugh at."
"Or laugh at. Look, Dale, either we do this or we work ourselves into one magnificent panic that's going to send the both of us to the loony bin within a week."
"We could forget about it."
He laughed, a slow and sad laugh that barely ruffled the quiet of the street. "Easier said than done, to coin an old cliché. No, we aren't able to do something like that. I vote we visit Ed tomorrow or the next day and do as I said. The worst he can do is throw us out of his house and order us never to darken his door again. Right?"
"Right," she said. "Right."
But it was wrong. All wrong. The worst he could do . . .
Without speaking, then, they returned to the apartment and sat on the floor cradling cups of warm cider. She didn't know when it happened, but sometime before midnight she was in his arms, crying first, and then sighing.
He promised her the moon.
She promised to star it.
He told her he was afraid.
She loved him for it.
And he fell asleep while she held him, on the floor, in the moonlight. She kissed his brow, and stretched out beside him, and slept, dreamless. But not at all well.
CHAPTER X
Tuesday's sky lost its blue. At midmorning a straggle of clouds thinned to form a dull haze beneath the sun, like drifting smoke from a distant forest fire. By noon a light breeze stole into Centre Street, plucking at sweaters and skirts timidly, nudging dead leaves along the trails of the gutters until they were caught at the storm drains, fluttering helplessly. Gems set on black velvet trays lost their natural radiance, mannequins yielded their pretense to humanity, and the fluorescent lighting of the luncheonette took on an unnatural and unflattering harsh glare.
It was, as Bella said, a soulless day, when not even a quilted bedspread would be comfort enough.
Dale agreed, but for different reasons. Vic's doctor had visited him that morning and had ordered him back to bed for at least two more days. Vic tried to tell her how brave he had been, fending off the doctor's authority with manly protests and displays of inner courage; but she knew he was exhausted still, and told him with a laugh he'd better get into shape before he tried to handle her again.
"Woman," he said, "the day I can't handle you is the day I turn in my macho badge."
"Sleep," she ordered before she rang off. "I'll call you tonight when I get home."
"What home?"
"My home," she answered. "You're in no condition for a wrestling match with an Amazon."
He'd laughed, then, and was still chuckling when she hung up and propped her chin forlornly in a palm. The day was going to drag, she thought, what with the weather and Vic; and it did.
Few customers and fewer sales left her with nothing to do but tackle invoices and preorders for the Christmas season. Halloween was only two days away and most of her gadget and costume supplies were already depleted—the one advantage of being a specialty shop in a town without a shopping mall.
She considered visiting McPherson by herself, thought about it less than a minute before deciding she was too much of a coward to go without Vic.
Lord, this is terrible, she thought—but home was worse. The house was damp, springing drafts where she swore there had been none the year before. Immediately after eating, she wandered, turning on all the lights, spending an hour with her plants in the fancied dream that one of them would miraculously break through an evolutionary barrier and gain the power of speech. The television helped, but not much; the voices of the actors, the newsmen, the commercial families were tinny and unreal, forced and stilted, as if they knew what she wanted and couldn't bring themselves to help.
And for the first time in months she took a sleeping pill, then another to be sure she wouldn't find shadows where there were no lights.
Wednesday, then, should have been an improvement, the day before Vic's return. But, though anticipation made the morning hours agony, a call when she returned from lunch turned the afternoon to hell.
"What do you mean, another day?" She gripped the receiver tightly, feeling perspiration clinging slickly to her hand. "What's he doing to you?"
"All sorts of evil and diabolical experiments," Vic said, unable to disguise his disappointment. "But he said I'm not eating well enough to recover fast enough. Dear Emma has been dragooned into fixing me hearty meals for the duration."
"I'll bring something over to cook."
"No, you won't," he said. "I'm sorry, Dale love, but if you come over here, I'll be set back a thousand years. Besides, when your doctor also happens to be your landlady's husband, and they engage in a vile conspiracy to make you get better, you'd best not fool around."
Her voice was little-girl small. "Can I call you later?"
"If you don't, kid, I'll rape dear Emma and spend the rest of my days drawing obscene pictures on my cell wall."
After hanging up, an image: pale, pouches of dark under his eyes, cheeks hinting at hollows, and the slight trembling of his left hand. She gnawed on her lips and lit a cigarette.
"You're smoking too much," Bella admonished. "He's not going to die, you know."
She knew that, but she couldn't quite shake the feeling that unless he was with her she would fall apart like a puzzle in an earthquake. And on the face of it, it was ridiculous. She'd been too independent to suddenly surrender her individuality to the strength of one man; yet she was unable to shed the sense of loss, and she kept sneaking glances at the door, the aisles, the storeroom in back, hoping he'd suddenly pop up with his huge grin flaring the ends of his mustache while his hands waggled a private semaphore warning her old lady Mardon was rearranging the doll houses again.
Just before closing, she interrupted Bella's leaving and plucked nervously at nonexistent lint. "Bella, how did you feel when you first met your husband?"
Bella folded her wrinkles into an attitude of concentration, crossed her arms over her ample breasts and stared at the ceiling. Dale felt, then, she was being mocked until a short, abrupt smile changed her mind.
"I hated him," she said. "I thought he was the most boorish, crude, and foul-mouthed gutter creature that I'd ever been forced into company with. He was my father's idea, so he claimed, and that first blind date was an absolute horror." She shifted her hands to pat at her hips. "I was plump even then, believe it or not, and he kidded me about it the entire evening. He saw me twice more after that before the Army took him against the Kaiser." A third time, and her hands clasped at her waist.
Clenched until her knuckles were bloodless. "When he was gone —three years and three months—I knew what it felt like to be a Siamese twin without the twin." Then she smiled, the most warming smile Dale had ever seen her admit to. "Dear, if you count the hours, he'll never get back."
Dale only nodded. And when she was alone, the store dark and the windows leering their skeleton masks and witches' cauldrons, she let her lips part in a foolish, sheepish grin. It stayed, and she didn't care, while Celts and gods and flaming arrows vanished until a dark figure appeared at the door, pounding furiously on the glass. She uttered a short scream before the shouted words penetrated and she flung open the door to let Vic storm in,
grabbing her, hugging her, then flicking on the lights and boosting himself to sit on the counter.
"I give up," she said, not knowing whether to be angry or to give way to the joy that threatened to explode her. "What are you doing out of bed?"
He unbuttoned his coat, flung it behind him like a cape. "Listen, I got to thinking about raping dear Emma, which naturally led to filthy thoughts about you, which . . ." and his face darkened, "which led me to the unpleasant reminder that we have only two days before Friday. I can't let this," and he slapped at his head, "get in the way."
"But, Vic—"
"But Vic nothing. I can always collapse on Saturday if I have to. Right now I have too much to do."
"Like what?" she asked.
He blew out a breath, stretched his neck, rubbed at his chest. Then, nodding, he eased off his perch and handed over her coat.
"Like what?" she asked again, balking when he opened the door and pushed her outside, stopping only long enough to set the alarms and the lock. "Come on, Vic, let's not play games, all right?"
"No games," he agreed. "First we eat. Then we pay a visit to our local analyst and apparently spooky scholar. After that, well, we'll play it by ear. What do we have to lose?"
"Don't ask such stupid questions."
They sat in the upper room of the Chancellor Inn, a randomly intimate arrangement of two-person booths done in soft brown leather. A ceiling-high fireplace dominated the room, and thick oaken doors blocked out the noise from the dining/dancing areas on the first floor. They spoke little save to order duck and wine, and when the meal arrived they avoided each other's glances as if suddenly embarrassed to be found together in public. Dale knew it was a fine repast, but the taste of the fowl was lost as she struggled not to dwell on what she had known had been coining for the past two days. It was no longer a matter of being made a fool of—she would have given all that she had to insure that outcome—but what concerned her now was an incident which had occurred that afternoon; and as she told Vic about it, her wine turned sour.
The Sound of Midnight - An Oxrun Station Novel Page 14