Gate of Darkness, Circle of Light

by Tanya Huff

  Roland hoped campus security felt the same way. He didn’t really feel up to explaining this evening to anyone else, particularly to someone in a uniform, trying to charge them with trespassing.

  A closer inspection showed that half the gate was angled slightly open and they both squeezed through.

  Ghost or no ghost, Roland decided, as they walked into the court, this is spooky. He clutched the handle of his guitar case tighter, taking reassurance from the sweaty plastic.

  The court wasn’t large, but trees broke the light from the buildings into patches of flickering shadow, now concealing, now revealing at the whim of the wind. With his back to the new addition, Roland had no trouble believing himself in the cloisters of a medieval monastery. Across the central bit of open grass—which he would not cross for love or money; he couldn’t imagine being more exposed—he could see the rear of what had to be a chapel, the stained glass windows cut into eerie patterns by the trees. The only sounds were the whisper of leaves and the soft pad of Rebecca’s running shoes as she walked along the raised flagstone path to the northeast corner.

  Shadow patterns, dark and light,

  Keep the secrets of the night.

  Silence shrouds the empty …

  “Roland! Come on!”

  Jerking himself out of the song lyrics, shoving them away where he could work on them later, Roland hurried to where Rebecca waited at the edge of the grass. Her voice sounded unnaturally loud, as if it had bounced back off the old stones. The skin along his spine crawled as he realized that even the leaves had ceased to rustle and the whole place had taken on an air of expectant listening.

  “What now?” he asked in a nervous whisper.

  “Now we talk to Ivan.” She stepped down onto the grass and walked a little way out from the buildings.

  “Uh, Rebecca, Ivan can’t be buried where you’re standing.”

  Rebecca looked down at her feet and then up at Roland. “Why not?”

  He pointed. “Because you’re right beside a sewer grate. If he was ever there, they’d have dug him up when they put it in.”

  “It’s okay.” She dismissed the sewer grate with a wave of one hand. “He’s still here.”

  Roland sighed. Then he blinked. Then he felt his eyes widen and his jaw drop and his heart start thudding like a jackhammer.

  Something drifted up from the ground about a foot from Rebecca. It looked like a wisp of smoke, or a weirdly contained patch of fog, but as it swirled and grew, Roland caught glimpses of deep-set eyes, tendrils that could be long curly hair, and a pair of large, workman’s hands.

  Suddenly, he knew what it meant to gibber in terror because he desperately wanted to do it, and he was barely able to wrestle down the urge to run screaming all the way home. The eyes were the worst; they didn’t just exist, they stared.

  The final form was a column of mist, vaguely man shaped, a little over six feet high. It was so thin in places that Roland could see Rebecca through it. His heart began to slow to a more normal speed as he realized he had no really good reason to be frightened.

  Rebecca put her hands on her hips and glowered. “How can I talk to you if you keep shifting around. You get solid, Ivan!”

  “No. I don’t want to.” The voice, thickly accented, sounded as wispy as the form appeared and sulky at the same time.

  “Why not?” She crossed her fingers and hoped he wasn’t in one of his moods.

  He was.

  “Because. Go away. I don’t want to talk to you. Nobody cares about me. Everyone ignores me.” A deep sigh came from the center of the mist. “Go away,” he repeated. “I want to rest in peace. Not that anyone cares.”

  He began to sink downward, back into the earth, but Rebecca lunged forward.

  “Ivan, don’t!”

  He stopped sinking and twisted to avoid her grasp. “You don’t care. No one cares.”

  This guy sounds more like the ghost of a little old lady than a Russian stonemason, Roland thought as the mist rose a little in the air and sped toward the west wall.

  “Come on,” Rebecca called and dashed off in pursuit.

  Roland hesitated. He really didn’t want to step away from the shelter of the buildings and cross that open area.

  “Come on!” Rebecca called again.

  He shrugged and started after her. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, but he still had the impression of watching eyes. I wonder what Ivan shares his last resting place with? Shadows shifted by the chapel wall. On second thought, I don’t want to know. He put on a burst of speed and caught up to Rebecca.

  Together they pounded back up onto the flagstone path and down the arched passage that led through the west wall. The column of mist floated before them, almost disappearing as it passed under one of the old-fashioned lamps. It paused, streaked upward, and vanished behind the ivy that wrapped around the circular extension on the southwest corner of the building. The gargoyle that was peering out over the ivy came suddenly to life.

  “Holy shit,” Roland rocked to a halt, staring.

  The first gargoyle settled back into stone and the second snarled down at him.

  “Come on.” Rebecca tugged on his arm. “I know where Ivan’s going.”

  She headed around to the front of the building with Roland close behind, his running hampered by his total oblivion to where he put his feet. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gargoyles animating one after the other, paralleling their course. He let Rebecca guide him around a small flower bed and up onto the lawn and he narrowly avoided slamming into her as she stopped.

  Directly in front of them were two gargoyles, close together and tucked low in a corner. The one on the left slowly came to life.

  “Okay, Ivan,” Rebecca had reached the end of her patience, “stop playing games. We chased you so you know it’s important. Now, listen.”

  “I’m listening,” the gargoyle sighed.

  The bits of broken carving that filled the gargoyle’s mouth in combination with the Russian accent made its speech practically incomprehensible. Yet Rebecca seemed to understand.

  “Mrs. Ruth says there’s an Adept of the Dark here and we need you to take our …” She turned to Roland, looking for the word.

  “Invitation?” Roland suggested.

  “Yes, that’s it. We need you to take our invitation to the Light so an Adept of the Light can come through and fight him.” “No.”

  “But Alexander died!”

  “So.” The gargoyle shrugged stone shoulders. “Death isn’t so bad. You get used to it. Why should I travel far from my home, such as it is.”

  “But … you … oh!” Rebecca stamped her foot and the gargoyle smiled.

  Roland noticed that some of the pieces of broken carving had once been teeth, teeth that had probably protruded a fair amount. “Look,” he said, stepping forward and thereby surprising himself almost as much as Ivan, who hadn’t appeared to notice him before, “you’re supposed to appear when the university is in danger, right?”

  “Right,” the gargoyle agreed suspiciously.

  “Well, if the Adept of the Dark gains the upper hand, the university, along with everything else, will be in a lot of danger. Shouldn’t you do something about that?”

  Ivan thought for a moment and Rebecca bestowed a smile of such benediction on Roland that he suddenly, inexplicably, wished he could do more for her; climb mountains, fight dragons, drive away the Darkness with his own two hands … Uh, never mind. He stomped hard on the last thought.

  “No,” the gargoyle said at last, “I just appear. I don’t do things.” It pointed one skinny, deformed arm at the guitar case. “You got something to drink in that?”

  “No. Just a guitar.”

  “A guitar?” The gargoyle sighed. “I haven’t heard music in so long … Play me a song.”

  Roland opened his mouth to tell the ghost just what he could do with that request, then closed it again. If music indeed had charms … He laid the case on the lawn and took out his old Yamaha. When h

e’d bought her, more than a dozen years ago, she’d been the best he could afford, but still a long way from a top of the line guitar. Through seasons on the street, folk festivals small and large, and smoke-filled rooms beyond counting, she’d never let him down, her voice as sweet and clear as the day he’d bought her. When he talked to her, he called her Patience, although he never let anyone know he did either.

  He slipped the strap over his head and sat on the lowest step of a small, stone flight of stairs. Beneath his butt, as he tuned, he could feel the dip worn in the rock by thousands of climbing feet.

  Both Rebecca and the gargoyle that was Ivan waited expectantly.

  “Across the steppes the wind is blowing

  Bringing songs and scents of home

  Can you feel it? Do you know it?

  How far, how far, how far it blows.

  The music he had for the old Russian folk song had actually been written for the bandura so Roland had to adapt it as he played, leaving him little leisure to observe his audience. Fortunately, melody and lyrics were simple and Roland soon lost himself in the song.

  “Now your travels have all ended

  Lay your head upon her breast,

  Let the wind blow on without you.

  It blows, it blows, but you may rest.”

  The last notes drifted away and Roland rode them out of the music.

  Slowly, mist seeped out of the gargoyle and spun itself into a tall, broad featured man dressed all in black with long curly hair topped by a conical hat. Around his waist he wore a stonemason’s apron. A single tear trickled down his cheek, catching the light of a nearby lamp.

  He spread large hands, scarred with the marks of stone and tools. “I would embrace you if I could. You took me back to my mother Russia as I have not been in over a hundred years. Ask, and I will do your bidding.”

  “We need you to take our invitation to the Light. That’s all.”

  Ivan nodded. “This I will do. You have wakened such feeling in my heart.”

  “Was that you playing?”

  Rebecca gave a little shriek and Roland whipped around. An officer of the Campus Security Police stood at the edge of the lawn. Roland suddenly noticed how exposed they were, sitting on the front steps of the oldest building in the university with nothing between them and anyone passing on the sidewalk, the road, or crossing the grassy common. And he’d been playing old Russian ballads to a ghost.

  “Is there some kind of problem, officer?”

  “Hell, no.” The security officer smiled broadly. “I was just doing my rounds and I heard you and I thought I’d come over and say how pretty it sounded. It’s nice to hear a song that isn’t all random noise.”

  “Uh, thanks.”

  “This time of night you’re not going to be disturbing anyone, residences are at the back of the college—not that there’s many in them at this time of the year. No, you guys can—” he broke off, squinted, and shook his head. “That’s funny, I could’ve sworn I saw three of you as I came across here. Great big fellow with a funny hat …”

  “That was Ivan,” Rebecca told him seriously.

  “Reznikoff? The ghost?” He chuckled. “Sure it was. Maybe you’d better be moving along after all if you’re seeing ghosts.”

  Roland leaned over and set the guitar in its case. “We were just going anyway.”

  “I will not fail you, singer. Your message will go to the Light.” Ivan tipped his hat to Rebecca and faded away.

  The security officer was not so easily gotten rid of. He walked them around King’s College Circle, proving to Roland that he knew the title and first four lines of every Beatles song ever written.

  “I like the yeah, yeah, yeah one best,” Rebecca put in as they passed Convocation Hall.

  “Why?” Roland asked.

  “Because I can remember almost all the words.”

  Over her head, the security officer tapped a finger against his temple. Roland shot him a vicious look in response which he missed, caught up in professional concern about a group of shadows crossing the common, the bright ends of lit cigarettes red punctuations amid the black.

  “I gotta go; those kids could burn this whole place down; that grass is too dry to smoke on it. Specially if what they’re smoking is grass if you know what I mean. Been nice talking to you.” And he bounded away.

  “Roland?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You did a really good thing with Ivan.”

  “Thanks, kiddo,” It took him a little by surprise that her words meant so much. They walked in quiet companionship down to the corner.

  At College Street, a well lit artery that would take them straight to Rebecca’s apartment, Roland looked back the way they’d come; up the short straight bit of King’s College Road, across the Circle and the dark common to where a chipped and crumbling gargoyle hung in the night. He’d just spent time talking to a stonemason who’d been dead for over a hundred years. He’d received mystical advice from a bag lady. He’d seen an imaginary little man die. It had been quite a night. Now they’d asked for help and their job was over. He hoped that all the wonder so suddenly visible in the world would not disappear with equal suddenness.

  Headlights on the far side of the Circle caught his eye and despite the distance he could hear the roar of an engine. Sports car, he decided and, along with Rebecca, carefully looked both ways before they crossed the street.

  The roar grew louder as the headlights raced around the Circle and sped straight for them.

  Roland dove forward but Rebecca froze, pinned in the glare. The world slowed as he turned and knew he couldn’t reach her in time.

  … and then she was thrown into his arms and they were both rolling on the pavement as the brilliant red fender brushed ever so lightly against the bottom of her shoe.

  Tires squealing, the car turned onto College Street, fishtailed slightly and accelerated away. Something squat and faintly luminescent clinging to the rear bumper, flashed them a cheery salute and began to rip its way into the trunk, stuffing great handfuls of metal into its mouth.

  Roland helped Rebecca to her feet and pulled her the rest of the way across the road. She didn’t seem panicky, merely shaken. He supposed it was because this time she’d followed the rules and so wasn’t at fault.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, looking her over critically.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “Are you?”

  “I think so.” He popped open the guitar case to see how Patience had survived. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Rebecca pointed to a manhole cover lying slightly ajar in the middle of the street. “The little came up out of that and pushed me out of the way.”

  Roland noticed that the pointing finger was unmoving in the air. His hands were shaking like leaves in a high wind.

  She turned to face him. “Did you notice, the car had no driver?”

  He swallowed. “No. I didn’t.”

  “Should we tell the police? Daru says bad drivers should be taken off the road.”

  Roland could just imagine explaining this to the police. “No. No, police. If it didn’t have a driver, who could they take off the road?”

  “Oh.” She sighed. “Roland, let’s go home.”

  “Good idea, kiddo.”

  They started walking east, just as the clocks in the city’s towers started to ring midnight. When the bells quieted, Rebecca touched Roland gently on the arm.

  “You have lines on your forehead. What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  He laughed, but the sound had little humor in it. “That it isn’t over until the fat lady sings.”

  Rebecca considered that for a moment.

  “Roland?”

  “Yeah, kiddo?

  “Sometimes you don’t make any sense.”

  Chapter Four

  Roland stopped just inside the door to Rebecca’s apartment and stared. The minor bit of tidying they’d done before going to consult Mrs. Ruth had left the apartment only marginally less chaotic than it had been when they’d first arrived. Now, it was spotless. All the dirt had been swept off the floor and the floor had been not only scrubbed but waxed and buffed to a warm glow. The plants stood in a neat and leafy row on their shelf in front of the window. The tattered shreds of the curtains had been … He leaned his guitar case against the wall, crossed the room, and peered more closely at the fabric. Tiny stitches joined each piece in nearly invisible seams.

  “That’s impossible,” he murmured, more for form’s sake than anything; if nothing else, this night had proven to him that impossible was a word that seldom applied. He turned, watched Rebecca scoop up the bowl of empty pistachio shells from the table, and followed her into the tiny kitchen. It gleamed.

  “What happened here?” he asked, backing out again. The room was too small for two people and a conversation.

  “The apartment got cleaned,” Rebecca told him, dumping the shells in the garbage.

  “Yeah, I noticed that.” He took a deep breath. It even smelled clean. Not like cleansers or detergents, just clean. “But who or what did it?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice came muffled from behind the refrigerator door. “Does it matter?”

  He looked round the spotless room, sighed, and shrugged. “I guess not,” he admitted. The way things had been going tonight a magical maid service seemed comparatively normal. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for taking one more bit of strangeness in stride. And then he remembered the bloodstain on the bed.

  The double doors that separated the bed alcove and the bathroom from the rest of the apartment were almost closed. The left, Roland noticed, had been dogged down. The right, he tentatively pulled open.

  All he could be sure of in the spill of light from the living room was that Rebecca’s double bed remained in place. He moved carefully down the narrow space between it and the wall, groping for the half remembered chain of an old-fashioned wall light. It took him a moment, running his hand up and down the wall in near darkness, but his fingers finally closed on the chain and he pulled.

  The pale green blanket—the same pale green blanket he was sure—looked new. Nothing marked it to show that a little man named Alexander had died on it earlier in the evening and Roland was willing to bet the sheets below it were similarly unmarked.

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