The noise of the wind changed, and in it Rix thought he heard his name called: a soft whisper, as of a parent to a child, and then it was gone. He looked up and through the window, toward where the Lodge stood in the seething darkness.
Ten billion dollars, the voice in his mind whispered. All the money in the world.
He shivered; his head was aching, but the attack never came. I’m getting better, he thought.
Ten billion dollars.
When he was sure he was going to make it without an attack, he returned to bed—and then time slept in a dreamless void.
Four
THE MOUNTAIN KING
19
THE MOUNTAIN KING AWOKE when he smelled the sun coming up.
He had no idea what time it was. Time meant nothing to him anymore. For him the clock had stopped long ago, and all hours were the same, the present destroying the past, the future crowding the present. He only knew that the bitter, chilly wind had died to a whisper and the sun was rising over the eastern peaks, its golden light smelling like wild strawberries.
He’d been dressed in his long, tattered black coat and rubber-soled boots when he’d lain down to sleep on his mattress covered with rags and newspapers, and so he was dressed now, as he pulled himself up with the aid of his gnarled hickory walking stick. There were twigs in his long, unkempt, yellow-gray beard, and what was left of his angel-fine hair wisped on his liver-spotted scalp. Around him, in the remains of what had once been a structure with rough stone walls, was utter chaos: there was an untidy pile of empty food cans and soft-drink bottles, scattered newspapers and magazines, the remnants of an old washing machine and a discarded truck transmission, and a sphere of collected twine the size of a basketball. Dead leaves had drifted through gaping holes in the slate roof, and now crackled underfoot as the old man crossed the room. His cane tapped the dirt floor before him. He reached one of the structure’s two windows—neither of which held a pane of glass—and turned his face toward the sun.
A network of deep scars and gouges covered most of his face, from high forehead to sharp, jutting chin. His right eye was missing, and in its place was a brown, puckered hole. A thin gray film covered the left eye, and the little that he could see was veiled in mist. His right ear was a stub. Though he was emaciated and walked with his head bowed, there was still a fierceness in his face that made those who visited him, bringing cans of food, bottled drinks, or string for his collection, avert their eyes from him until he’d turned away. Those who knew him as the Mountain King came up here, to the peak of Briartop Mountain, to pose questions, to ask for advice, or simply to touch him. It was well known to the mountain people that the old man—who, as anyone would say, had lived on Briartop’s peak for a hundred years or more—could accurately forecast the weather to the last drop of rain or flake of snow, look deeply into a person’s mind and sort out any trouble that might be lying there, and give advice that might at first sound like the ravings of a lunatic—but much later would blossom into clarity. He could forecast births and deaths, boom crops or busts, even tell who might have designs on a neighbor’s wife or husband. For all this he asked only canned food—peaches were his favorite—and soft drinks, preferably Buffalo Rock ginger ale. A gift of twine could buy a rambling weather forecast or a prediction of how the giver’s life would end on a rain-slick road; one took such chances in asking questions of the Mountain King.
Under his coat he wore three layers of ragged old sweaters that had been left for him down on the rock where all his gifts were received. No one came up into the ruins. It was a haunted place, the locals knew, and only the Mountain King dared live there.
He let the sunlight play across his face to warm him, and then he drew several deep breaths of the morning air. Outside, the last traces of fog were being evaporated from around the tumbles of dark boulders and thin evergreens. After a while he made his way out of the stone structure and across the bleak, rocky earth toward the mountain’s edge. It was still cold, and he began shivering. Around him were the forms of other stone structures, most of them fallen to ruin and barely recognizable except as heaps of lichen-green rocks. Some of the stones were as black as coals.
The Mountain King stopped; he leaned on his cane and with his other hand supported himself against a misshapen tree whose wood was in a state of petrification. Then he stared down almost two thousand feet at the massive house, on its island at the center of a black, calm lake.
For a long time he stood without moving, and an observer might have thought the old man had grown roots. He seemed to be waiting for something, his head cocked slightly to one side, his single eye with its fading sight aimed like a gunbarrel at the Lodge below.
“I know you,” he said in a soft, reedy voice. “What’s your next trick gonna be?”
He looked across the great expanse of Usherland, his gaze returning to the house. “Wind before rain,” he said. “Stones grindin’ stones. You’ve got a crack in your grin this mornin’. What’s your next trick gonna be?”
The wind stirred around him, lifting dead leaves off the ground and snapping them in the air.
“Is it the boy?” the Mountain King whispered. “Or is it me you still want?”
He saw birds on the wing far below. Ducks or pigeons, he thought. He watched as they veered from their course as if caught in a sudden riptide of air. They smashed against one of the Lodge’s walls and spun to the earth.
“I can wait, too,” he said. But inwardly he knew he could not wait very much longer. His back was giving him trouble, his sight came and went, and sometimes his legs were so stiff, particularly after a hard rain, that he couldn’t walk. He had lost track of time, but his body had marked the years with painful regularity. A sweep of frigid wind came from Usherland, and in it the Mountain King smelled change like charred wood. What would the change be? he asked himself. And how did the boy fit into it?
He couldn’t see the answers. The eye in his mind was going blind, too. He turned away from the mountain’s edge and walked slowly back to his refuge.
But before he reached it he stopped again, and brushed dead leaves aside with the tip of his cane.
There were animal tracks in the earth. They came out of the woods, he saw, and up to within fifteen feet of the house. Then they curved around the house and back into the forest again.
He was being watched, he knew. It gave him a feeling of satisfaction, but the sight of those monstrous tracks—sunken at least an inch into the ground—troubled him as well. He hadn’t known the thing was out here last night, and worse still was the realization that it had never before come so close to where he lay sleeping.
Gathering saliva in his mouth, the Mountain King spat on a set of the tracks and ground it in with his foot. Then he walked slowly back to his shelter for a breakfast of canned peaches and ginger ale.
20
USHERLAND’S FORESTS BLAZED WITH color in the strong late-morning sunlight. Leaves in the giant, ancient oaks had turned brilliant scarlet and deep purple; ash leaves gleamed like golden coins; chestnut trees held variegated patterns of green, gold, and violet.
Katt and Rix were on horseback, following one of the many trails that meandered through the woods. It had been a long time since Rix had hoisted himself into a saddle, but Katt had come to his door this morning and urged him to join her for a ride before lunch. The stablemaster, a burly, middle-aged black man named Humphries, had chosen a mild-tempered roan mare for Rix, while Katt had taken her favorite horse, a nimble white stallion with a black star on his forehead.
They were about a mile from the Gatehouse and heading eastward. Rix had the impression of being inside a tremendous cathedral roofed with tall, multihued treetops. Every so often the light breeze showered Rix and Katt with falling leaves. The sunlight filtered down as if through stained-glass windows.
Katt, wearing a tan crushed-velvet riding outfit, silently pointed into the woods off the trail, and Rix looked in time to see two white-tailed deer freeze for a second before
they leaped into the cover of denser undergrowth.
If there was a God, He was at this moment on Usherland. The world seemed still and peaceful; a serenity that Rix hadn’t known for years settled around him. The crisp air smelled pungent and earthy. Sandra would have enjoyed this perfect moment. She had been the rare type of person who found the silver lining in even the blackest cloud. Right up to the end, she’d encouraged Rix to try to purge himself of the old family hurts. He was especially halting in talking about his father, but Sandra had patiently listened and drawn him out. She’d even suggested she go to Usherland with him and stand by him as he struggled to strike a truce with his parents and brother. She was helping him feel that he was worth a damn—and then he’d walked into that bloody bathroom and almost lost his mind.
Rix blamed himself. He’d been too caught up in his own problems to sense a need in Sandra. Or, more horribly, maybe he’d expressed his emotions too well—and Sandra had been overcome by the ghosts of his childhood.
“Where are you?” Katt asked, checking her horse until Rix could catch up.
He blinked, returning from the haunted world. “Sorry. I was thinking how beautiful this is.”
“Like old times, isn’t it?” Katt’s smile was radiant this morning. There was no trace of the cold practicality she’d displayed yesterday, when talking about the future of Usher Armaments. He was comfortable with her again. “I’ve missed having a riding partner.”
“Doesn’t Boone ride with you? I thought he was such a great horseman.”
She shrugged. “He stays to himself most of the time. Usually he’s over at the racetrack, clocking the horses.”
Shades of Erik, Rix thought. He remembered Puddin’s shouts as Boone pulled her out of the dining room. “What did Puddin’ mean about Boone’s talent agency yesterday?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I thought she was drunk and babbling. Why?”
“Boone’s the type who crows from dusk till dawn, but he doesn’t talk very much about his work. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“I’ve never thought about it. I know it’s a legitimate business, though. Dad put up the cash for it.” She smiled mischievously. “What’s on your mind, Rix?”
“Boone’s too evasive when he should be beating his chest. Does he go to his club every night?”
“Just about.”
“Good. I think I’ll have a little talk with Puddin’.”
“I wouldn’t mess around with her if I were you,” Katt warned. “She’s trouble.”
He nodded, but he hadn’t heard her. As they continued along the trail deeper into the woods, Rix’s thoughts turned toward the documents in the library. “Katt?” he said casually. “Why did Dad bring all those books from the Lodge?”
“Is your writer’s curiosity working overtime?”
“Maybe. Has Dad been working on a special project or something?”
Katt hesitated a moment. “I don’t know if I should answer that or not.”
“Why not?”
“Because…you know, the security and everything.”
“What do you think I’m going to do?” He grinned tightly. “Sell out to the Russians? Come on. What’s the big secret?”
“Well, I don’t suppose it would hurt. I don’t know a lot about it, really, but Dad’s told me he’s working on something new for Usher Armaments. It’s called Pendulum, but what it is and what it does, I don’t know. General McVair and Mr. Meredith have been coming to see him a lot lately. It must be important to him, because he lets them use the Jetcopter.”
“Pendulum,” Rix repeated. “Sounds ominous.” What new witch’s brew was the business cooking up? he wondered. And what did the old documents have to do with it? The picture of the infant in Nora’s arms flashed through his mind. The family cemetery was to the north, nearer the Lodge. It might take twenty minutes or so to get there from here. If Walen did have a brother or sister who had died as a child, wouldn’t there be a grave and a headstone? “We’re not too far from the cemetery, are we?” he asked Katt.
“Oh my God!” she said with mock horror. “Don’t tell me Boone’s right!”
“About what?”
“Boone says you missed your calling. He says you have a deep-seated desire to rob graves.”
“Not exactly, though whenever I’m around Boone, I feel like digging a grave for him. No, really. I’m serious. I’d like to ride over and look around.”
“To the cemetery?” She made a face. “What for?”
“Because it’s a beautiful day. Because I’m crazy. Because I want to. Okay? Will you take me over there?”
“Boy, you sure know how to have fun!” she said, but she turned her horse northward at the next intersection of trails.
They came out of the forest onto a paved road, and crossed a small bridge spanning a dark, peat-laden stream connecting two lakes. On the other side of the bridge was Usherland’s Memory Garden, two acres of sculpted grounds surrounded by eight-foot-high marble walls and a large bronze gate.
Rix and Katt left their horses tied to the lower branches of a pine tree and entered the cemetery. Inside, brilliantly colored trees shaded a phantasmagoria of intricate marble and granite monuments, obelisks, grotesque statues, and religious totems. Walkways intersected each other, cutting through manicured hedgerows to converge on the white marble chapel at the Memory Garden’s center. Elsewhere on the grounds were a Japanese rock garden, a manmade waterfall that spilled down several terraces into a pond stocked with goldfish, a Grotto of Solitude where one could meditate in a fake cavern in the presence of statues of the saints, and a collection of antique Baldwin steam engines from the early days of railroading. The Usher graves, Rix knew, were located near the chapel; on the outer edges of the garden were the graves of servants. There was even a section for pets, over near the steam engines.
Rix, followed at a distance by his sister, went along a walkway toward the chapel. He passed a series of statues that were at once fascinating and repellent: The first was a young child in vibrant health, the second a teenaged boy with his face toward the sky—and, grotesquely, the same figure was repeated every fifty feet or so, becoming progressively older and more infirm until the last statue. It was a skeleton with beckoning arms.
And near it was the twenty-foot-tall gilded pyramid that was the final resting place of Hudson Usher. A scrolled inscription in bronze letters read: HE SAW THE FUTURE. Hudson’s date of birth was not given, but his death date was July 14, 1855. Ten yards away, beneath the statue of a nun with clasped hands, lay his wife, Hannah Burke Usher. A neat hedge and a row of limestone cherubs separated Hannah’s grave from a simple black marble headstone that bore the name RODERICK. Whether the man’s dust actually lay under that stone or not, Rix didn’t know. There was no grave for Madeline Usher.
Rix had come to this place only once before, to seek peace after Sandra’s suicide. He hadn’t made it to the pond before he had to get out. There was something terribly decadent in the ostentatious monuments and statues of death angels. This place was almost a celebration of death, a shout of debased joy from the lips of the new generation over the graves of the old.
Aram Usher lay entombed in a marble cube ten feet high. At each corner stood a life-sized statue of a man standing at attention, holding what looked to be a dueling pistol. Each figure had different eyes: rubies, emeralds, jade, and topaz. Next to him, in a similar cube but without the figures, was Cynthia Cordweiler Usher. The legend on her stone read: ASHES TO ASHES. DEAD OCTOBER 8, 1871. Near their stones, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, was a marble column topped by, of all things, a small grand piano of marble. The name SHANN was spelled out in wrought-iron letters.
Thirty feet or so away, Ludlow Usher was buried under a granite representation of the Lodge that had to weigh at least a ton. Erik’s handiwork was all over this gravesite, Rix mused. The inscription read LUDLOW USHER, DEAR FATHER. Flanking him were the graves of two wives, Jessamyn Usher and Lauretta Kenworth Usher.
&nb
sp; A rearing horse marked Erik’s tomb, which was engraved with golden finials and studded with gemstones. He lay alone, without the protection of shade trees. There was no grave for Nora, and none for Simms.
A new section had been added since Rix’s last visit. Freshly carved angels rose from a block of gold-veined marble. It bore the name of Walen Usher, with his date of birth. Nearby, a pink marble stone was inscribed MARGARET—MY LOVE.
“You ready to go now?” Katt asked from behind him. “This isn’t my favorite place.”
He stood looking at the two gravesites that were ready for his mother and father, and he felt very old. Seeing this stone brought home Walen’s impending death even more than hearing what Dr. Francis had said. In a week—if that long—his father would be lying in the earth. How was he going to handle it? He was long familiar with the turbulence of intermingled love and hate, but now a sadness seeped into the tangle of contradictory emotions. “Yeah,” he said distantly. “I’m ready.”
But he stopped again, before Erik’s tomb. A three-foot-high hedge stood beyond it, about twenty feet away. He could see the back of a small head—another statue on a monument. He walked toward it.
“Rix!” Katt called irritably. “Come on!”
He went through an opening in the hedge and around to the front of the gravestone, which was an angel strumming a lyre. Rix’s heart kicked, and he said, “Katt? Come here for a minute, okay?”
She sighed and shook her head, but went over to him. She looked at the monument. “So what?”
“That’s what.” Rix pointed toward the stone. Etched into the lyre was SIMMS—OUR GOLDEN BOY.
“Simms? I never heard of anybody named Simms before.”
“Maybe you weren’t supposed to. Simms was Dad’s brother. He must’ve died when he was a small boy, from the size of the grave.”
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