Faerie Tale by Raymond E. Feist
Mark spoke bitterly. “And what about Aggie Grant?”
“That is most regrettable,” answered Wycheck, and his manner seemed sincere. “But as in all wars, the innocent perish.”
Gary spoke up. “Well, how are you going to cover that up? And the business at the hospital?”
“Mrs. Grant died in an accident; that is public record. John Wilson, a transient hitchhiker from Selma, Alabama, to whom she was kind enough to offer a ride, perished with her. Mr. Wilson had no next of kin. He will be buried at public expense.”
Again as he listened, Phil found himself hearing strange echoes, but this time the voice seemed to be Dr. John Latham’s.
Wycheck nodded to one of the silent, black-clad men, who handed over a thick sheaf of documents in a folder. A fire had been built in the fireplace and Mr. Wycheck began tossing papers into the fire. “These records never existed. Dr. Michael Bergman of Johns Hopkins graciously came to Pittsville to try his experimental machine on a very ill young boy from a local orphanage. Unfortunately, the child died, and Dr. Bergman was unable to help. In a lovely gesture, Dr. Bergman paid for the child’s cremation, and the ashes will be spread in these very woods. Also, a transient police suspect—the very man thought to have assaulted Miss Hastings two months ago—was being held under psychiatric observation by the police. He escaped tonight by attacking a nurse and two orderlies, tossing a chair through a defective safety window, and fleeing into the night. The police are now looking for him, but they will be unsuccessful in recapturing him.”
Phil shook his head, as this time the echoing voice sounded like Detective Mathews. With a sigh he said, “You’ve made your point.”
Wycheck threw the last of the papers into the fire.
He indicated a suitcase on the floor. “Those documents found in the basement will return here with whoever we send to occupy these premises, Mr. Hastings. We shall keep them until that time. I’m sure you understand.”
Phil nodded. With a smile, and a salute with his cane, Wycheck said, “Our business is finished. So I will bid you all a good night.”
He signaled to the men in black, one of whom picked up the suitcase, and they left. Wycheck saw himself out, while Phil looked at Mark. After a while Mark said, “It would have been a hell of a book, Phil.”
“That it would have been, Mark.” Phil started to laugh. “But who in the name of sanity would have believed a single word?”
Mark’s expression turned less somber; after a moment he began to laugh as well. “You’re probably right.”
Phil heard an odd buzzing and strained to hear it. It was as if someone outside was chanting not quite audibly. He shook his head and the sound was gone.
Gloria entered. “I thought I heard someone come in!” She came and kissed Mark on the cheek. “God, I’m glad you made it back all right. You’ve been gone such a long time. It’s almost two months!” Her expression was relaxed, though there was an air of sadness about her, but none of the frantic qualities that had lived in Gloria’s face for the last few weeks were visible.
Mark and Phil exchanged glances as Gloria said, “You know, I could use a drink, too. Such terrible news about Aggie.” She glanced upward. “It hit the twins harder than I thought it would. They’re both simply exhausted.”
Phil looked at Mark, and they both glanced at Ellen and Gary, Jack and Gabbie. Gary seemed himself, but Gabbie, Jack, and Ellen were all glassy-eyed.
Then Ellen shook her head, as if waking up, and said, “It’s … so sad. You know, we came by to tell you we’re getting married, and now that seems so inappropriate.”
Gloria said, “I think Aggie would have been happy for you.”
Gary, Mark, and Phil all stood still, each sharing the same thought: They’re beginning to forget. Barney sat rubbing his head, as if suffering a headache. He said, “Well, thank you, Mr. Hastings, for the drink.” He stood, rubbing his head again. “I think it’s back to the pledge. It’s taking its toll, the drink. My head’s pounding like a trip-hammer.” He reached down by the chair and picked up the big flashlight and said, “Sorry about the car. But we’ll have another look in the morning.”
Phil nodded, feeling as if something was slipping away from him. He put his thumb to his head, above the bridge of his nose, and said, “Okay, Barney, but … whew! Have you ever drunk something cold too fast and it shoots a pain right up here?” Gloria nodded. “Oww!”
“Well then, and it’s a good night to you all, as much as it can be with such sad news about Mrs. Grant. And that poor fellow she gave a ride to. Pity such a fate.”
Gloria looked at Phil, covered in grass and mud from his tussle with the Fool. “I wish you’d just left the car alone instead of crawling under it.”
Phil said, “I should have, but I limped along from the kids’ school to Barney’s and”—he squinted, again holding his thumb to his forehead—“and we thought we’d take a look. Hell, we were going to get wet walking home anyway.”
Gloria’s tone was disapproving. “You should have called.” She looked at Mark. “Sean wore one of Gabbie’s blouses, which was bad enough in this weather. But then he got caught in a thicket and had to leave it somewhere out there. And Patrick went dressed as Puck, if you can believe it. Green leaves sewn to his underwear! Why I ever agreed to that idea I’ll never know.”
Jack sat on the couch, his arms tightly around him, looking pale and drawn. Phil said, “Jack, you okay?”
Jack nodded. “Yes, it’s just … Aggie’s death’s hitting kind of hard.” Gabbie held him close.
As Barney could be heard leaving by the back door, Mark motioned Gary to come closer. “They’re all forgetting. I think we should compare notes. We might not be able to tell anyone else about any of this, but there’s no law says we can’t.…”
He saw a strange expression come over Gary’s face. “Any of what, Mark?”
Mark said, “Why … the.…” He groped for words as thoughts seemed to leave his mind of their own volition.
Outside, a car door slammed, and Gloria said, “Who is that?” She crossed to freshen drinks for Phil and Mark.
Phil said, “Mr. Wycheck, the man who’s buying the house. He insisted on coming by and dropping off the check tonight. I told him on the phone.…” Phil’s brow contracted, as if he had a sudden headache, then he continued, “… it wasn’t necessary, but he insisted.”
Mark turned, about to say something, but his mind seemed a riot of images. He took a deep breath, feeling an instant of vertigo, then it passed. He shook it off and said, “I … I forgot what I was going to say.” He blinked. “What’s this about selling your house?”
Phil shrugged. “It’s all happened pretty fast. I got a call this morning from my agent. The studio wants another Star Pirates film, and they want me to direct.”
Gloria handed the refilled drinks to the men. “And within ten minutes, this Wycheck character calls out of the blue, saying he’s interested in property around here and would we care to sell. The man’s a nut. You wouldn’t believe the profit we’re making from the sale.” She sat down on the chair Barney had vacated. “So tell us about Germany. Did you find anything?”
Mark took a drink as his headache lessened. For a moment he felt a strange itch, as if trying to remember something, then, frustrated at his inability to remember, he shoved aside the irritation. “No, still a lot of blind alleys. I think I may just have to give up on finding out anything about what the hell was going on in Germany when Kessler’s dad left.” His face split into a grin. “I did come across a really strange little document in”—his face clouded as he fought to remember something, then it was gone again—“Köln. I know this is going to sound too wild for belief, but it looks like the genuine article. I think I may be able to prove Atlantis was Crete during the Mycenaean era. So as soon as Gary and I close down our house—assuming Ellen doesn’t keep him from coming with me—we’re off to the Mediterranean.”
Ellen, who had been sitting silently, said, “No, a workin
Gloria said, “Tell us about it!”
Outside, the man called Wycheck sat motionless as he listened to the faint words carried through the open window. In his car and the other occupied by his brethren, low chanting could be heard as ancient arts were used. Satisfied everything was as it should be, he signaled the other car to move out. Then he motioned for his driver to follow, while he rolled up the window. Slowly, almost silently, the car edged up the driveway and turned out onto the road.
EPILOGUE:
December
Patrick and Sean trudged through the woods on their way home from school as a light snow fell to melt upon the ground. It was their last day. The Christmas break was beginning, but they wouldn’t be coming back. Their father had sold the house to a strange man and they were moving back to California. Their parents had flown west for two weeks in November, then returned with the news they had found a wonderful house in some town called Carpinteria. It was near Santa Barbara, Gabbie had said. Their dad would stay in L.A. during the week while he worked on his new movie, but would drive home for the weekends.
Jack had to do something about selling Aggie’s house, which would take time, the boys’ parents had told them. Gabbie and Jack would stay at Aggie’s until Jack finished something called a defense, then they would sell the house and come to California, where they’d get married. The boys were delighted to learn that Gabbie’s horse, Bumper, would be stabled at the new house until Gabbie and Jack found a home, for the Hastingses’ new place had a barn, and Gabbie said they could ride him if they didn’t try anything fancy, like jumping fences. Besides, their mother had hinted they might get horses of their own for Christmas.
The boys crossed the Troll Bridge without an instant’s hesitation. All dread was gone, all illusion vanished. In seven months’ time they had gone from having normal childhood fears to having survived a terrifying reality. Now they found no menace in the dark and felt no discomfort at confronting the unknown. They had lived through an experience that had changed their children’s expectations of what the world held, and were both wiser and sadder for that change. Their school friends seemed somehow less worthy of their time, as if they were preoccupied with trivialities. Still, they found much to divert their thoughts from the events of the last seven months.
Sean took the lead as they approached their home. Since their ordeal on Halloween, Patrick no longer dominated his brother. They now treated each other as equals. Patrick knew his survival had depended on Sean, but Sean never made a point of that fact. They were closer than ever before.
Bad Luck knew it was time for school to be out and ran to meet them, while their mother stood patiently on the stoop waiting for the boys, the smell of hot cookies carried on the cold winter air. They both glanced at the top of the steps for a moment, almost expecting to see Ernie lying there in a sunny spot, exhibiting a tomcat’s certainty that all is well. Had he lived, he would be oblivious to the organized confusion around him. The movers would arrive the next day, and the family was off to New York for a long weekend. Gloria and the boys would see the sights while Phil talked to his publisher on Monday, before the Christmas dead time in publishing. Then they’d be heading to their new home, in time to have Christmas with Grandma O’Brien in Glendale. The boys looked forward to that.
Sean lingered near the sunny spot and Patrick nodded understanding. A local farmer had shot a raccoon the morning after Halloween, and the destruction of dogs and cats, ducks and chickens, had halted. But both boys knew how Ernie had died. They wondered why everyone else seemed to have forgotten what had happened. Sean fingered his fairy stone, the one Barney had given him, and thought perhaps that was the reason the twins could still remember. Patrick fingered the one he wore, found after days of searching the creek bed. In silence, he nodded: Yes, I think that’s why.
From the steps of their home—home for so short a time—they both looked back as one. The barn, the shed, the trees, all had become known to them, the alien quality they had first experienced upon arrival gone, replaced by a comfortable, familiar feeling. Now they would be leaving this place behind to move to a new one, to begin again adjusting to new surroundings, new friends, new experiences. Regarding the woods beyond the barn, they silently remembered their encounter with another race in another world. They exchanged an unspoken question. Will we ever see them again?
Then they remembered those last words, uttered by Ariel or, somehow, by the Fool: Who can know what fate may allow another day?
Without an answer, the boys mounted the steps. Sean followed Patrick, but glanced back, feeling a sudden chill. For a moment he couldn’t tell if he felt eyes watching from the woods or if it was simply his imagination. And he couldn’t be certain if it was simply the wind rustling the branches, or if the sounds of faint, boyish laughter hung for an instant on the air. Pushing aside the momentary disquiet, he turned and entered the warm kitchen.
If we shadows have offended.
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here,
While these visions did appear.
Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s
Dream
Act V, Scene i
RAYMOND E. FEIST is the New York Times bestselling author of six other novels: Magician: Apprentice, Magician: Master, Silverthorn, A Darkness at Sethanon, Prince of the Blood, and The King’s Buccaneer. He has collaborated on three novels with Janny Wurts, Daughter of the Empire, Servant of the Empire and Mistress of the Empire. He lives with his wife in San Diego, California.
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©1988 by Raymond Elias Feist.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 87-10113.
eISBN: 978-0-307-48454-3
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.
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Raymond E. Feist, Faerie Tale
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