Her hand encountered something metal jutting out from the wall. A latch! She grasped, turned, and pushed it. It resisted stubbornly. She was locked in! In panic she threw herself against the door.
It swung open. She stepped out into a room with unboarded windows. She thought she had never seen such beautiful light nor breathed such wonderful air.
The room was empty of people and furniture, but did not have the same air of long abandonment as the building they’d originally entered. She walked to the center of the room, stood still, and listened, but instead of sounds of her pursuers or of building inhabitants, she heard only her own beating heart. For the time being, she was safe.
But surely not for long. She could not stay here. She had to reach a place of greater safety.
Looking down at herself, she saw her dirty clothes. With filthy hands, she brushed cobwebs from her hair. If anyone saw her looking like this, they’d think her a wild woman.
What did it matter? She had work to do. Resolutely, she looked for a way out of the building. She found a stairway that took her down to the first floor, where she tried several doors before finding one that opened onto the street—a different street from the one from which they’d entered the first building. No sound of pursuit reached her ears. She looked up and down, found the street mercifully deserted. She recalled then that it was Freeday. Luck was with her, if it would only hold.
The two women she and Marta had met last night—Abigail Dormer and Leah Wesson—knew the young teacher. If they would, they could take Kyla to her. Leah, at least, had seemed friendly and eager to cooperate. If she could find her way back to their home, she felt sure she could enlist Leah’s aid. It would take her a long time to reach the house. She had only a general idea of where it was, and she’d have to creep from hiding place to hiding place.
When and if she got there, Abigail Dormer might betray her. She’d have to take that chance.
Jerome trailed dispiritedly after Eddie, trying to make sense of what had happened to him. Ed kept insisting this was his world. His world. That was ridiculous. Yet he did seem to know it well. He had chased off the bear. He had known where to find healing herbs. He claimed to have come here often. They were not dead, he insisted.
But the disembodied voice said they were. Miss Abigail’s voice, Eddie said. It had sounded like her. But everyone knew Dire Women could play tricks on the souls of the recent dead.
His mother claimed that her gods could protect both living and dead. Of course his mother made many claims about her gods that Jerome regarded as nonsense.
Ed had led him across the brook, which was shallow and easily forded, and they had struck out through fields of grain like those that surrounded Carey. But no one seemed to work these fields. In keeping with the spring season that seemed to prevail in this land, the heads of wheat looked ripe and ready to harvest, but no farmers threshed the stalks. Birds soared above the fields, and once they flushed a covey of quail that rose with a whir of wings, but they saw no people, no domestic animals. Yet someone must have plowed the fields and planted the grain.
Ed stopped and shaded his eyes. “I see something ahead,” he said. “A line of trees, I think.”
Jerome had hoped for a farmhouse or a town. He dreaded the thought that they might be coming to another forest. Eddie would have no more sense than to explore it.
Ed had said “line of trees” not “woods.” He might be wrong about what he saw, but if it really was a line of trees, it might signal a stream. It was difficult to judge the passage of time in this weird world, but they must have been walking for several hours, and Jerome guessed it was nearly noon. Jerome was hot and thirsty and would very much like a drink of water. Also, something to eat. Without food and water he’d never make it back to the meadow. But Ed showed no sign of tiring or of stopping to rest.
He went on with Ed, not mentioning his thirst and hunger, because if he did, Ed might well say, “Dead men don’t get thirsty or hungry.”
Ed hadn’t complained about thirst or hunger, and he didn’t seem tired. Ed hadn’t been mauled by a bear, Jerome reminded himself. The pain had diminished since Ed had treated the wounds with the herbal poultice, but he might be running a fever, and he had lost blood, and that would explain his weakness. He should demand that they stop and rest, but if he did, it would only take longer to reach the trees and the possible stream that lay beyond them. So he stifled his complaints and plodded on behind Ed.
Ed was at least breaking the path, sweeping aside the heavy stalks, making it easier for Jerome to follow. It was the least he could do to compensate for Jerome’s injuries, and Jerome did not attempt to help him.
They went only a little farther before Jerome, too, could see the “line of trees.” It was a considerable distance away, but he, too, got the impression of a line rather than a wide forest. The possibility of reaching a shaded resting place and a source of water gave him the strength to walk faster to match Ed’s increased pace.
His steps were lagging again before they reached the trees, and he let Ed get quite a bit ahead of him, which meant he had to expend more strength on pushing aside the stalks. He was muttering about Ed’s thoughtlessness when Ed shouted, “Jerome, there’s water here. And caronuts.”
Water. Food. Jerome trampled the wheat that remained in his path, ran, and cast himself down on his stomach to drink from the stream that threaded through the trees. When he’d drunk his fill, he rolled over and sat up, and Ed dropped a handful of shelled nuts into his lap. “Here’s lunch,” he said.
Jerome ate, but the nuts didn’t satisfy his hunger. “Isn’t there anything else to eat?” he called to Ed, who sat under a tree a short distance away.
“I couldn’t find anything else, but there’s plenty more nuts,” Ed called back. “I saw fish in the brook, but they’d be hard to catch without a hook and line. I don’t want to take the time.”
Jerome lurched to his feet and stared into the water. A silvery shape streaked past him. A good-sized fish, for such a small stream. He thought how delicious the fish would taste, roasted over a wood fire. “If this is really your world, you ought to be able to make the fish swim right into your hands.”
“Maybe I could, but it wouldn’t be fair.”
Jerome snorted. “You’re worried about being fair to a fish? Then create a fishing pole and hook and catch one the fair way.”
“I can’t create something like that,” Ed said, not sounding concerned about Jerome’s need for food.
“You could dam a part of the stream and trap a fish inside, then scoop it up out of the water,” he suggested.
“So could you,” Ed said. “Go ahead, if you want to try. I want to see what’s beyond these trees.”
“You mean you’d leave me here while you go traipsing off into the unknown?”
“I wouldn’t go far. I’d come back for you.”
“I’m not going to stay anywhere in this crazy place by myself,” Jerome said. “Can’t your exploring wait until we’ve had a decent meal? You’ve kept me walking all day, and I’m tired and my shoulder and arm hurt. You might think of someone besides yourself for a change.”
“I’m sorry, Jerome, but I really think we need to move on. This place has an odd feel to it.”
“So you don’t know all about this world you supposedly made?” Jerome could scarcely restrain his anger. “You don’t know what’s out there?”
Eddie shook his head. “We’ve left the part I made up. I never imagined what was past the grain fields. I want to find out.”
Jerome tried to hide the fright that announcement gave him. He hadn’t believed the fool to begin with, but Eddie had been so sure, so confident. Now it turned out to have been a stupid lie after all.
And that meant that they were dead, as Jerome had thought. So nothing really mattered, and he might as well go with Ed, because being with the simpleton was better than being alone.
Ed trotted along the stream until he found a tree that had fallen across it and c
ould be used as a bridge. Spreading his arms for balance, he walked carefully across, and Jerome followed. When he gained the far bank, Ed headed straight through the trees. Jerome hadn’t yet caught up when he heard Ed shout.
He stopped. “What’s the matter?” he called, poised to retreat.
“Some kind of building,” Ed shouted.
A building. People. Safety. Jerome hurried forward. He left the trees and found Ed staring at a large stone structure a short distance away. As Jerome moved toward him, Ed broke into a rapid trot, forcing Jerome to run after him.
Disappointment slowed his steps as they drew closer and he saw that the building was only an old ruin. Stones fallen from its outer wall lay all around it; holes gaped in its side.
Ed was peering in through one of these when Jerome picked his way through the debris to join him. “It’s old, so old,” Ed said wonderingly. “Looks like it’s been here hundreds of years. How can that be?”
“You tell me, Master Creator,” Jerome said with all the sarcasm he could muster.
“I don’t know. I told you I didn’t make this part.”
“You said, as I recall, that this was your world.”
Ed looked troubled. “I thought it was.” He moved along the side of the ruin as though measuring it.
“Now what are you doing?”
“I’m looking for a doorway. I want to go inside.”
“Why? There’s nothing inside. The roof’s gone.” That much Jerome had seen from his peek through the gap.
“Only part of it. This is a big place. We can’t see all that's inside.”
“Probably full of spiders and snakes.”
“You can wait out here.”
“You may never come back. The rest of the roof might cave in. You might die of a snake bite.”
“Well, none of that will happen to you if you stay out here, will it?” Ed asked reasonably.
Jerome didn’t feel like being reasonable. He trailed after Ed, and when Ed found a doorway and went inside, Jerome followed.
They were in the roofless part, which held nothing but a stone floor littered with chunks fallen from the wall. Ed bent over one and turned it with his foot. A spider scuttled away. Jerome jumped back.
“Look at this,” Ed called, beckoning him nearer. “It’s a piece of some kind of statue.”
Jerome peered over Ed’s shoulder and saw a stone face, incredibly ugly, inhuman. “A Dire Lord?” He voiced the question as it popped into his head. What else could that ugly visage represent? The face strengthened his conviction that he was in the realm of the dead. The Dire Realms.
Ed only shrugged. He left the carved ugliness and moved toward an opening into the dark interior. Jerome hesitated, unwilling to go farther. Ed passed through the doorway. Slowly Jerome followed, but only to the entrance. Ed was moving down a long corridor, and as Jerome watched, he turned a corner and was lost to sight.
The echoes of his footfalls reached Jerome for a time, before they, too, were swallowed up in darkness, and Jerome was alone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EVIL
In the house, Abigail walked from room to room, wringing her hands, unsure what to do. She needed sleep, but she feared the dreams that would come to unsettle her and make her doubt her sanity. She wanted no more visions.
She climbed the stairs, stopped in the doorway of her bedroom, turned, and went back downstairs. In the sitting room she walked to the fireplace and leaned her forehead against its cold stone edge.
Her eyes felt hot, burning. Her clammy skin was, she was sure, a sign of fever. A steaming cup of chamomile tea would help her.
She pushed away from the fireplace and walked to the kitchen, lit the stove and set the teakettle on the fire, then sat at the kitchen table waiting for the water to boil. Her eyelids were heavy and kept trying to close. When a thin wisp of steam rose from the kettle, she fastened her gaze on it to keep herself awake.
The steam thickened, took shape. A scene formed within it, a classroom, but not one she recognized. As the scene grew larger and clearer, she did recognize the students. They had all withdrawn from her school. And the teacher was her former pupil, Genevieve Wirth.
Genevieve seemed to be scolding one student. Veronica Crowell. Though Abigail could not hear their voices, Veronica’s angry shake of her head and stamp of her foot showed she was arguing and refusing to obey. Abigail could see the young teacher’s stern expression as she pointed toward the desk beside which Veronica stood.
The scene shifted; the school day must have just ended. Young girls, all her former students, poured from the house and skipped off toward their homes. Except for one.
Eyes wide open, every trace of sleep gone, Abigail saw Veronica linger behind and look toward the house, saw Genevieve Wirth come out from the house and walk toward the child. She seemed to be remonstrating with the girl about something. Veronica stamped her foot again and pointed her finger. Sheets of flame burst from nowhere and engulfed Genevieve. Veronica’s mouth opened in a scream. She hadn’t meant to wreak such destruction, surely. The flames died away, leaving a blackened, ash-filled circle where Genevieve had stood. Veronica lay curled on the ground, her shoulders shaking with sobs Abigail thought she could hear.
It was only the kettle, boiling fiercely, while its gouts of steam lost shape and color. Abigail jumped to her feet and snatched the kettle from the stove. Her desire for tea was gone. She put the lid over the fire and went back to the sitting room. She was seated on the sofa, trying to control her trembling, when Leah came in.
“Abbie, what’s wrong?” Leah hurried toward her, concern etched in every line of her face.
“Never mind,” Abigail said. “Did you see the Crowells? Did you speak to Veronica?”
“I saw the Crowells,” Leah said. “I talked to them for a long time, but I didn’t get anywhere. They can’t believe Veronica is any danger to anyone. I couldn’t convince them.” She sank wearily onto the sofa beside Abigail. “They laughed at me, Abbie. They said I was trying to get her back into our school. ‘Veronica’s an obedient child,’ they said. ‘She’ll get used to her new teacher.’ They refused to let me talk to Veronica or even see her. They think her having magical powers is ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous, but …” Abigail’s voice trailed off.
“Abbie, you look terrible. I’m sure you have a fever. And—have you been crying?”
Abbie nodded. “I felt so bad that we quarreled—”
“Oh, Abbie!” Leah threw her arms around Abigail and hugged her, accepting the lie. “I feel bad, too. But it’s over. I’m going to get you upstairs and into bed.”
“What about Genevieve?” Abigail asked. “Did you see her?”
“Not yet, but I will. First I’m going to tend to you.”
“No, Leah. Go to Genevieve. I’ll go with you. She went to school here. She knows us. She’ll listen.”
“I’ll go, but you aren’t going anywhere. You’re ill.”
“I’ll be all right. I want to go. I owe it to the wonder workers for helping us last night.”
“That isn’t what you thought earlier. What made you change your mind?”
Abigail couldn’t bring herself to tell of the visions. Leah was right, she had a fever, and the visions were no more than its products. But she couldn’t dismiss them, wouldn’t be able to sleep. She had to see Genevieve and deliver Kyla’s message. She wouldn’t rest until she did.
“I’m going,” she told Leah firmly, rising to her feet. “I have an obligation. I’ll rest when I get back.”
Sighing, Leah stood, and together they went out to the barn. Abigail waited in silence while Leah hitched Bitsy to the carriage. Her lie grated on her conscience, but she could not bring herself to admit that magic might be real and that she might have a talent for it.
In the carriage, Abigail wanted not to think, not to feel, only to relax and lose herself in the rhythm of the horse’s clopping hooves and the carriage’s bump and sway.
“Abbie, what will we do if Genevieve doesn’t listen?”
Leah’s question brought back the anguish, the doubt. “She has to listen,” Abigail said, not wanting to explore any other possibility. Not wanting to talk.
“Listen, Abbie, I still have the spell book. I couldn’t figure out what to do with it, how to return it to Kyla and Marta. If Genevieve doesn’t accept what we say, I think you should read the book and try some spells. Maybe there’s one that will free Kyla and Marta. Or one that will find Ed.”
Abigail felt her face burning, hoped Leah thought it was fever. This was her chance to tell Leah the truth, to confess what she’d done and the visions she’d had. But she could not bring herself to admit that her cherished beliefs were mistaken, that magic was real and the universe not an orderly place. And that Edwin was dead.
“That book is evil. I want nothing to do with it,” she said stubbornly. “If it really is a spell book, what good did it do Kyla? She and Marta are in the guardhouse. If magic is real, what good did it do Edwin? He’s missing, most likely dead.” Sobs shook her, interrupting her argument. She fought back the tears, gave her eyes an angry wipe, and continued. “All the bad things that have happened to us came with the wonder workers. Ed’s troubles, my loss of the school—none of it would have happened if they’d stayed away. No, Leah, magic is not real. Evil is, and they brought it here. I don’t understand its source. Maybe they have truck with Dire Lords, who knows? Whatever it is, I’ll have no part of it.”
Leah shook her head. “Yet you insisted on coming with me to talk to Genevieve. You must believe the danger to her is real.”
Abigail knotted her fingers together in her lap, answered carefully. “I’ve seen too much proof of the evil not to believe in it. Yes, I think Genevieve is in danger. Not from Veronica. From the wonder workers themselves. From the evil they brought.”
“Abbie, Kyla and Marta helped us. I sensed no hint of evil about them. They are not responsible for what’s happened to us.”
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