The Wind Through the Keyhole by Stephen King
"I'm all right." Never had he told such a lie.
"I felt quite sure of who the culprit was--as you do, I reckon--but any remaining doubts were put to rest at Gitty's Saloon, my first stop in Tree. The local boozer's always good for a dozen knucks come tax time, if not more. There I found out that Bern Kells had slipped the rope with his dead partner's widow."
"Because of you," Tim said in a monotone that didn't sound like his own voice at all. "Because of your gods-damned taxes."
The Covenant Man laid a hand on his breast and spoke in wounded tones. "You wrong me! 'Twasn't taxes that kept Big Kells burning in his bed all these years, aye, even when he still had a woman next to him to quench his torch."
He went on, but the stuff he called nen was wearing off, and Tim lost the sense of the words. Suddenly he was no longer cold but hot, burning up, and his stomach was a churning bag. He staggered toward the remains of the campfire, fell on his knees, and vomited his supper into the hole the Covenant Man had been digging with his bootheel.
"There!" the man in the black cloak said in a tone of hearty self-congratulation. "I thought that might come in handy."
"You'll want to go and see your mother now," said the Covenant Man when Tim had finished puking and was sitting beside the dying campfire with his head down and his hair hanging in his eyes. "Good son that you are. But I have something you may want. One more minute. It'll make no difference to Nell Kells; she is as she is."
"Don't call her so!" Tim spat.
"How can I not? Is she not wed? Marry in haste, repent at leisure, the old folken say." The Covenant Man squatted once more in front of his heaped gunna, his cloak billowing around him like the wings of an awful bird. "They also say what's slipped cannot be unslipped, and they say true. An amusing concept called divorce exists on some levels of the Tower, but not in our charming little corner of Mid-World. Now let me see . . . it's here somewhere . . ."
"I don't understand why Square Peter and Slow Ernie didn't find him," Tim said dully. He felt deflated, empty. Some emotion still pulsed deep in his heart, but he didn't know what it was. "This is their plot . . . their stake . . . and they've been back cutting ever since Cosington was well enough to work again."
"Aye, they cut the iron, but not here. They've plenty of other stubs. They've left this one fallow for a bit. Does thee not know why?"
Tim supposed he did. Square Peter and Slow Ernie were good and kindly, but not the bravest men ever to log the iron, which was why they didn't go much deeper into the forest than this. "They've been waiting for the pooky to move on, I wot."
"It's a wise child," the Covenant Man said approvingly. "He wots well. And how does thee think thy steppa felt, knowing yon treeworm might move on at any time, and those two come back? Come back and find his crime, unless he screws up enough gut to come himself and move the body deeper into the woods?"
The new emotion in Tim's heart was pulsing more strongly now. He was glad. Anything was better than the helpless terror he felt for his mother. "I hope he feels bad. I hope he can't sleep." And then, with dawning understanding: "It's why he went back to the drink."
"A wise child indeed, wise beyond his-- Ah! Here it is!"
The Covenant Man turned toward Tim, who was now untying Bitsy and preparing to mount up. He approached the boy, holding something beneath his cloak. "He did it on impulse, sure, and afterward he must have been in a panic. Why else would he concoct such a ridiculous story? The other woodsmen doubt it, of that you may be sure. He built a fire and leaned into it as far as he dared and for as long as he could take it, scorching his clothes and blistering his skin. I know, because I built my fire on the bones of his. But first he threw his dead pard's gunna across yon stream, as far into the woods as his strength would allow. Did it with your da's blood not yet dry on his hands, I warrant. I waded across and found it. Most of it's useless mickle, but I saved thee one thing. It was rusty, but my pumice stone and honing bar have cleaned it up very well."
From beneath his cloak he produced Big Ross's hand-ax. Its freshly sharpened edge glittered. Tim, now astride Bitsy, took it, brought it to his lips, and kissed the cold steel. Then he shoved the handle into his belt, blade turned out from his body, just as Big Ross had taught him, once upon a bye.
"I see you wear a rhodite double around your neck. Was it your da's?"
Mounted, Tim was almost eye-to-eye with the Covenant Man. "It was in that murdering bastard's trunk."
"You have his coin; now you have his ax, as well. Where will you put it, I wonder, if ka offers you the chance?"
"In his head." The emotion--pure rage--had broken free of his heart like a bird with its wings on fire. "Back or front, either will do me fine."
"Admirable! I like a boy with a plan! Go with all the gods you know, and the Man Jesus for good measure." Then, having wound the boy to his fullest stop, he turned to build up his fire. "I may bide along the Iron for another night or two. I find Tree strangely interesting this Wide Earth. Watch for the green sighe, my boy! She glows, so she does!"
Tim made no reply, but the Covenant Man felt sure he had heard.
Once they were wound to the fullest stop, they always did.
The Widow Smack must have been watching from the window, for Tim had just led a footsore Bitsy up to the porch (in spite of his growing anxiety he had walked the last half-mile to spare her) when she came rushing out.
"Thank gods, thank gods. Your mother was three quarters to believing you were dead. Come in. Hurry. Let her hear and touch you."
The import of these words didn't strike Tim fully until later. He tied Bitsy beside Sunshine and hurried up the steps. "How did you know to come to her, sai?"
The Widow turned her face to him (which, given her veil, was hardly a face at all). "Has thee gone soft in the head, Timothy? You rode past my house, pushing that mule for all she was worth. I couldn't think why you'd be out so late, and headed in the direction of the forest, so I came here to ask your mother. But come, come. And keep a cheery voice, if you love her."
The Widow led him across the living room, where two 'seners burned low. In his mother's room another 'sener burned on the bed table, and by its light he saw Nell lying in bed with much of her face wrapped in bandages and another--this one badly bloodstained--around her neck like a collar.
At the sound of their footsteps, she sat up with a wild look upon her face. "If it's Kells, stay away! You've done enough!"
"It's Tim, Mama."
She turned toward him and held out her arms. "Tim! To me, to me!"
He knelt beside the bed, and the part of her face not covered by bandages he covered with kisses, crying as he did so. She was still wearing her nightgown, but now the neck and bosom were stiff with rusty blood. Tim had seen his steppa fetch her a terrible lick with the ceramic jug, and then commence with his fists. How many blows had he seen? He didn't know. And how many had fallen on his hapless mother after the vision in the silver basin had disappeared? Enough so he knew she was very fortunate to be alive, but one of those blows--likely the one dealt with the ceramic jug--had struck his mother blind.
"'Twas a concussive blow," the Widow Smack said. She sat in Nell's bedroom rocker; Tim sat on the bed, holding his mother's left hand. Two fingers of the right were broken. The Widow, who must have been very busy since her fortuitous arrival, had splinted them with pieces of kindling and flannel strips torn from another of Nell's nightgowns. "I've seen it before. There's swelling to the brain. When it goes down, her sight may return."
"May," Tim said bleakly.
"There will be water if God wills it, Timothy."
Our water is poisoned now, Tim thought, and it was none of any god's doing. He opened his mouth to say just that, but the Widow shook her head. "She's asleep. I gave her an herb drink--not strong, I didn't dare give her strong after he cuffed her so around the head--but it's taken hold. I wasn't sure 'twould."
Tim looked down at his mother's face--terribly pale, with freckles of blood still drying on the litt
The Widow repeated, "There will be water if God wills it." Then the ghost-mouth beneath the veil lifted in what might have been a smile. "In this case, I think there will be. She's strong, your ma."
"Can I talk to you, sai? For if I don't talk to someone, I'll explode."
"Of course. Come out on the porch. I'll stay here tonight, by your leave. Will you have me? And will you stable Sunshine, if so?"
"Aye," Tim said. In his relief, he actually managed a smile. "And say thankya."
The air was even warmer. Sitting in the rocker that had been Big Ross's favorite roost on summer nights, the Widow said, "It feels like starkblast weather. Call me crazy--you wouldn't be the first--but so it does."
"What's that, sai?"
"Never mind, it's probably nothing . . . unless you see Sir Throcken dancing in the starlight or looking north with his muzzle upraised, that is. There hasn't been a starkblast in these parts since I was a weebee, and that's many and many-a year a-gone. We've other things to talk about. Is it only what that beast did to your mother that troubles you so, or is there more?"
Tim sighed, not sure how to start.
"I see a coin around your neck that I believe I've seen around your father's. Perhaps that's where you'll begin. But there's one other thing we have to speak of first, and that's protecting your ma. I'd send you to Constable Howard's, no matter it's late, but his house is dark and shuttered. I saw that for myself on my way here. No surprise, either. Everyone knows that when the Covenant Man comes to Tree, Howard Tasley finds some reason to make himself scarce. I'm an old woman and you're but a child. What will we do if Bern Kells comes back to finish what he started?"
Tim, who no longer felt like a child, reached down to his belt. "My father's coin isn't all I found tonight." He pulled Big Ross's hand-ax and showed it to her. "This was also my da's, and if he dares to come back, I'll put it in his head, where it belongs."
The Widow Smack began to remonstrate, but saw a look in his eyes that made her change direction. "Tell me your tale," said she. "Leave out not a word."
When Tim had finished--minding the Widow's command to leave nothing out, he made sure to tell what his mother had said about the peculiar changelessness of the man with the silver basin--his old teacher sat quietly for a moment . . . although the night breeze caused her veil to flutter eerily and made her look as though she were nodding.
"She's right, you know," she said at last. "Yon chary man hasn't aged a day. And tax collecting's not his job. I think it's his hobby. He's a man with hobbies, aye. He has his little pastimes." She raised her fingers in front of her veil, appeared to study them, then returned them to her lap.
"You're not shaking," Tim ventured.
"No, not tonight, and that's a good thing if I'm to sit vigil at your mother's bedside. Which I mean to do. You, Tim, will make yourself a pallet behind the door. 'Twill be uncomfortable, but if your steppa comes back, and if you're to have a chance against him, you'll have to come at him from behind. Not much like Brave Bill in the stories, is it?"
Tim's hands rolled shut, the fingernails digging into his palms. "It's how the bastard did for my da', and all he deserves."
She took one of his hands in her own and soothed it open. "He'll probably not come back, anyway. Certainly not if he thinks he's done for her, and he may. There was so much blood."
"Bastard," Tim said in a low and choking voice.
"He's probably lying up drunk somewhere. Tomorrow you must go to Square Peter Cosington and Slow Ernie Marchly, for it's their patch where your da' now lies. Show them the coin you wear, and tell how you found it in Kells's trunk. They can round up a posse and search until Kells is found and locked up tight in the jailhouse. It won't take them long to run him down, I warrant, and when he comes back sober, he'll claim he has no idea of what he's done. He may even be telling the truth, for when it gets in some men, strong drink draws down a curtain."
"I'll go with them."
"Nay, it's no work for a boy. Bad enough you have to watch for him tonight with your da's hand-ax. Tonight you need to be a man. Tomorrow you can be a boy again, and a boy's place when his mother has been badly hurt is by her side."
"The Covenant Man said he might bide along the Ironwood Trail for another night or two. Maybe I should--"
The hand that had soothed moments before now grasped Tim's wrist where the flesh was thin, and hard enough to hurt. "Never think it! Hasn't he done damage enough?"
"What are you saying? That he made all this happen? It was Kells who killed my da', and it was Kells who beat my mama!"
"But 'twas the Covenant Man who gave you the key, and there's no telling what else he may have done. Or will do, if he gets the chance, for he leaves ruin and weeping in his wake, and has for time out of mind. Do you think people only fear him because he has the power to turn them out on the land if they can't pay the barony taxes? No, Tim, no."
"Do you know his name?"
"Nay, nor need to, for I know what he is--pestilence with a heartbeat. Once upon a bye, after he'd done a foul business here I'd not talk about to a boy, I determined to find out what I could. I wrote a letter to a great lady I knew long ago in Gilead--a woman of discretion as well as beauty, a rare combination--and paid good silver for a messenger to take it and bring a reply . . . which my correspondent in the great city begged me to burn. She said that when Gilead's Covenant Man is not at his hobby of collecting taxes--a job that comes down to licking the tears from the faces of poor working folk--he's an advisor to the palace lords who call themselves the Council of Eld. Although it's only themselves who claim they have any blood connection to the Eld. 'Tis said he's a great mage, and there may be at least some truth in that, for you've seen his magic at work."
"So I have," Tim said, thinking of the basin. And of the way sai Covenant Man seemed to grow taller when he was wroth.
"My correspondent said there are even some who claim he's Maerlyn, he who was court mage to Arthur Eld himself, for Maerlyn was said to be eternal, a creature who lives backward in time." From behind the veil came a snorting sound. "Just thinking of it makes my head hurt, for such an idea makes no earthly sense."
"But Maerlyn was a white magician, or so the stories do say."
"Those who claim the Covenant Man's Maerlyn in disguise say he was turned evil by the glam of the Wizard's Rainbow, for he was given the keeping of it in the days before the Elden Kingdom fell. Others say that, during his wanderings after the fall, he discovered certain artyfax of the Old People, became fascinated by them, and was blackened by them to the bottom of his soul. This happened in the Endless Forest, they say, where he still keeps in a magic house where time stands still."
"Doesn't seem too likely," Tim said . . . although he was fascinated by the idea of a magic house where clock hands never moved and sand never fell in the glass.
"Bullshit is what it is!" And, noting his shocked look: "Cry your pardon, but sometimes only vulgarity will serve. Even Maerlyn couldn't be two places at the same time, mooning around the Endless Forest at one end of the North'rd Barony and serving the lords and gunslingers of Gilead at the other. Nay, the tax man's no Maerlyn, but he is a magician--a black one. So said the lady I once taught, and so I believe. That's why you must never go near him again. Any good he offers to do you will be a lie."
Tim considered this, then asked: "Do you know what a sighe is, sai?"
"Of course. The sighe are the fairy-folk, who supposedly live in the deep woods. Did the dark man speak of them?"
"No, 'twas just some story Straw Willem told me one day at the sawmill."
Now why did I lie?
But deep in his heart, Tim knew.
Bern Kells didn't come back that night, which was for the best. Tim meant to stay on guard, but he was just a boy, and exhausted. I'll close my eyes for a few seconds, to rest them, was what he told himself when he lay down on the straw pallet he
The Widow Smack was fast asleep in the Tavares rocker, which she had drawn up close to Nell's bed, her veil fluttering with her snores. Nell's eyes were wide open, and they turned toward the sound of Tim's steps. "Who comes?"
"Tim, Mama." He sat beside her on the bed. "Has your sight come back? Even a little?"
She tried to smile, but her swollen mouth could do little more than twitch. "Still dark, I'm afraid."
"It's all right." He raised the hand that wasn't splinted and kissed the back of it. "Probably still too early."
Their voices had roused the Widow. "He says true, Nell."
"Blind or not, next year we'll be turned out for sure, and then what?"
Nell turned her face to the wall and began to cry. Tim looked at the Widow, not sure what to do. She motioned for him to leave. "I'll give her something to calm her--'tis in my bag. You have men to see, Tim. Go at once, or they'll be off to the woods."