Between Two Ends (6 page)

He fell backward, nearly landing on the broken tile. The leering face of the gargoyle was alarmingly close. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was only stone.

There was some writing cut into the smooth plane of the lip of the hideous face. The script was Gothic—hardly readable—and it trailed from one end of the creature's mouth to the other.

“‘Come away, O human child,'” Yeats read. He scrambled to his knees. Scrubbing at the tree- and dirt-stained words with his sleeve, he uncovered more. “‘To the waters and the wild. With a faery, hand in hand. For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.'”

The scraping sound started up again, and Yeats turned quickly. He could see the broken tile better now and stretched out his hand to lift it. At the last second he retreated.

Can you, Yeats? Dare you, I wonder?
Mr. Sutcliff's words echoed. Peering over the brush, Yeats saw Odysseus sitting up. Their eyes locked.

“I'm not scared, you know,” Yeats challenged. The cat looked away.

The tile in the dirt was a thick slab of stone. Yeats prodded the raised edge. The stone scraped and ground as it leaned on its axis.

“There is something in there.” Sunlight, miraculously finding a way through Gran's wilderness, glinted off an object in the dirt.

Don't touch anything!

Touch anything you want!

“I hope it's not bones.” He imagined Hamlet, stooped at the grave, holding the jester's skull—something he'd seen in his dad's books. As he dug something poked his finger. A drop of blood dripped off his finger onto the earth.

There was something solid there, something metal. It had rounded edges and was not much longer than his hand.

The cat padded over stealthily, like a panther on the hunt. Yeats moved aside to let him sniff. The slab was too heavy for Odysseus. A second later his hackles were up and he hissed. Then abruptly he began to wash his leg.

Yeats stared from the cat to the hole, half expecting something to come out.

The sun disappeared behind clouds and the overhanging brush. Odysseus started on his second leg.

“What's wrong with you? You hiss, then you wash. You're a lot of help.”

The object was heavy. It lay on a bed of earth, hastily scooped, for it only just fit the hole. After several tugs it slid out.

“A
pirate!” Yeats exclaimed. It had a sea hat and cape, a cocky stance, one foot on a treasure chest and a sword in hand. A skull and crossbones grinned at Yeats from its hat. He turned the figure around. The fold of the cape provided a flat backing, as did the outflung sword arm. The elbow was worn.

“A bronze bookend,” Yeats said. Odd—his father had just mentioned bookends. He wondered if there was a connection. He felt the hole for another bookend but it contained no further treasures. “You must be one of Grandfather Trafford's antiques,” Yeats told the pirate. He turned the bookend over and read the words embossed on the back. “Gift House, New York. Eighteen twenty-six.” He brushed off the soil as the first drops of rain fell. “Let's take you inside, Captain.”

The kitchen was empty. Hefting the bookend, he paused. From the hallway leading to the stairs he thought he heard his mother, although the tricky nature of the house made him uncertain. He stood undecided between the kitchen and the hall.

Odysseus gave a yowl.

Yeats saw it too. The door to the back room was
ajar. “Dad?” he murmured. The pirate suddenly grew very heavy as he approached the door. He almost dropped it.

“You see that?” Yeats whispered. The cat curled around his legs, tugging. “All right, all right. Don't have a fur ball. We'll have a look.”

Odysseus slipped into the gloom.

“Wait!” Yeats leaned against the door frame, undecided. Other than the steady rhythm of a clock the room was quiet.

“Pssssst, pssssst,” he called. “Odysseus! Come here.” His blood pounded in an ominous rhythm. A bookshelf inconveniently blocked further view into the room. Papers scattered inside and Yeats jumped back. The pirate's head smacked the door frame.

“Stupid cat's made a mess. And they're going to think I did it.” With a last look at the kitchen Yeats stepped into the gloom.

pstairs, Mr. Sutcliff rose from his chair for a second time that morning. William stood in the doorway as shakily as his son had earlier, along with his mother and what must be his wife. The old man smiled.

“William.”

Twenty years were suspended between them.

“Mr. Sutcliff, sir.”

“You have come back.”

“Yes, sir. I have.”

“Your appearance freezes my blood.” He lifted his pipe weakly. “Then again, I must look frightful to you too.”

William shifted his feet. He cast a glance around
his old room. Shari used to sit on the window seat. “You're looking well, Mr. Sutcliff.”

The old man grunted. “I met Yeats. A fine boy. Strapping young lad.”

William squared his shoulders. “We're very proud of him. It hasn't been easy. But I've made a life. And Yeats has done well. He's overprotective, at times, trying to make up for my episodes.”

“I can't imagine.” Mr. Sutcliff shook his head.

“I can't bring her back, sir.”

“Can't?” Mr. Sutcliff gave a sidelong glance. “Or won't?”

“No.” William shook his head. “I tried for years. I can't remember enough. I lost six months of memory, a year in the hospital after that. Everyone thought I was crazy.
I
thought I was crazy. I've been on antidepressants ever since.”

Faith watched both men closely.

Mr. Sutcliff squeezed his eyes shut. “That is all, is it?” He clasped his pipe to his chest and murmured:

“‘Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;

That neither present time, nor years unborn …'”

William finished the stanza. “‘… Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.' William Wordsworth, ‘Surprised by Joy.'”

Mr. Sutcliff shut his eyes.

Gran swept past her son and daughter-in-law and helped the old man into his chair. “Don't give up hope, dear Mr. Sutcliff. You and I are poets. We allow ourselves a little melancholy. But these children love stories. Shari loved stories. So did William. Solid, wise literature, full of adventure and the greatest of all ingredients … hope. I have not met a child's story yet that did not offer it somewhere. Surely in this house there are doors that can be opened again to bring Shari home.”

“I've spent days in the library!” Mr. Sutcliff moaned. “Nothing so much as a whisper. Only the silly bookend can't keep still. And he won't talk.”

Faith shook her head.

“Bookend?” William repeated. He tapped his forehead. “That's important.”

Mr. Sutcliff nodded silently. He closed his eyes.

“Poor man,” Faith murmured.

“We'll need to revisit the library,” said Gran. “Perhaps something will trigger your memory.”

“Oh, it's in the library, all right,” said William. “I just don't remember what it was.” He avoided his wife's eyes. “Something my great-grandfather put there. Something very powerful.”

“I've ransacked that room,” Gran said. “But I'll look again. And you should too, William. We need a clue.”

William's voice was strained. “The bookends. Mum, when you mentioned them something stirred in my memory.”

“What are you suggesting?” Faith asked. She kept glancing from Mr. Sutcliff to her husband.

“Nothing, yet.”

“Of course it's the bookends,” Mr. Sutcliff muttered. “Their magic is manifest in the library somehow. And don't discount the wishing well, broken as it is! Philip Trafford would have known. But he took all his secrets with him!”

“The well does not work,” William muttered. “I wished a thousand times and the wishes just swirled around but never came out.”

“Oh, dear,” Faith whispered.

About to turn, William suddenly stopped. “Have you read Collfield's unexpurgated version of the
Arabian Nights
, sir?”

Mr. Sutcliff nodded somberly. “Dangerous book. I cannot think of a more volatile, intelligent, exotic setting than that.”

“Why do you keep on about this book, and the library, and a bunch of bookends?” Faith looked at each of them. “I have been told that William and Shari were on an adventure one day when they were attacked. Attacked by
men!
Real people, somewhere on this property. You are scaring me. Thank God Yeats isn't here.”

Walking stiffly to his bed, Mr. Sutcliff picked up the book. He held it out to Faith. “This is only a copy of the one in the library.” He ruffled its pages. “Hot sun and sand by day. Sweat and filth consume the streets. Steal an orange, lose a hand. The wealth and wisdom and science of the upper class are uncontested in the world.” He took a step closer. “She would have to use her cunning, all her strength, to stay alive in a place like that. And who
brought her there, hmmm?
Who?
Unconscionable villains!” A tear rolled down his cheek. He stumbled.

“Help him, William,” Faith directed.

“All her abilities,” said the old man as they laid him down. William gasped when Mr. Sutcliff suddenly gripped his hand. “Will it be enough?”

large window overlooking the garden provided what little light there was in Gran's library. Books on tall shelves reached the ceiling; short shelves and tables were cluttered with volumes. Must and decay reminded Yeats of old museums he had visited.

“Dad?” he whispered. The room was long. Hundreds of books seemed to suck the sound away. Odysseus's tail vanished around a column. Yeats paused. He hefted the pirate.

“Odysseus!” Yeats hissed and took two more steps. The girl had disappeared from this room, according to the adults. But they hadn't settled on
how. Magic, perhaps. It was just the place for that sort of thing.

And then he saw the cat.

Odysseus was poised to strike, his fur bristling, eyes focused on a narrow bookcase only a few feet away. Hidden under a protruding set of rotting encyclopedias, only the side and carved feet of the bookcase were visible.