Faerie Tale (20 page)

Gary ended his note-taking. “That’s going to be something to dress up in cocktail talk.”

Mark smiled. “You’ll find a way.”

“Yes, sahib.” Gary rose. “Now I’m for bed. Between an athletic girlfriend who beat me straight sets, then laughed about it all through the movie, and a strange boss, I’m grumpy and bushed. And it looks like a long day tomorrow.”

Mark waved good night and sat for a long time staring into his brandy. His mind turned things over and he kept coming back to the feeling that the answer that was the
least probable, even apparently impossible, was somehow going to prove to be the right one. And that certainty filled him with arrange and exhilarating dread. For if he was correct, then whatever mysterious thing had rocked Germany at the turn of the century was occurring again, in William Pitt County, New York.

Patrick looked about and Sean signaled all clear. They opened the back door and hurried down the three steps. Patrick placed the saucer of milk on the ground and the boys scurried back inside. For a few moments they watched the milk, then Sean said, “Maybe they won’t come if you’re watching. Like Santa.”

Patrick shrugged. “Maybe. Come on. If Mom catches us, we’ll really get it.”

They left, avoiding the wrath of their mother, who was watching some dumb movie with their dad in the parlor. Tiptoeing up the stairs, they reached the haven of their bedroom. In a trice each was in his appointed place, deep under the covers.

Their visits with Barney Doyle had become more frequent, as he held them spellbound with his wild stories of great Irish heroes and their magic. It was his placing the milk out by the door that had caused them to begin doing likewise. They could hardly sleep for the anticipation of going down in the morning and discovering if the good people, as Barney called them, had taken the milk.

Below, the milk sat unattended, until a glowing pair of eyes spied it from under the house. Moving silently, a form came out into the moonlight and regarded the saucer. Ernie’s nose sniffed delicately and, finding the unexpected treat fresh, he began to lap.

A slight sound caused the torn to turn. Behind him, approaching cautiously, was something odd and confusing. A little man, no higher than the cat, was approach
ing, waving a tiny walking stick at Ernie. In words high and faint he cried out, “Shoo! Be off!”

The cat backed away, at first tempted to paw at the man, but something registered in the old tom’s head and he backed off. There were others coming behind, and some innate sense told the cat they were not to be played with. These were not food, or enemies, just strange. Ernie retreated a short way off and sat down to watch the creatures. There were a half dozen of them, all little people, some with tiny wings on their backs, some dressed in odd fashion, but looking wrong and smelling alien to the cat. They circled the milk, then one dipped a finger in and pulled it out, tasting it. He nodded and they all bent over the dish and began to drink.

Then something else emerged from the dark: something dangerous. The cat’s back went up and he hissed. A thing black and fearsome came out of the dark, something so evil that the cat rose up and danced backward, hissing and yowling. The little people turned and saw the black creature approaching, and all backed away from the milk, waving their tiny fists in frustration and anger. But they, too, left the milk uncontested before the approaching evil, fleeing under the house. Ernie hesitated only an instant longer before quitting the field. He turned and ran toward the barn, leaping high into one of the small, scruffy apple trees. Reaching the highest branch that could hold his weight, the tomcat hunkered down and watched as the black thing came before the milk. It moved with strange articulation of its joints, as if monkey had been mated to spider. All these concerns were beyond the tom’s understanding, save one thing: This creature was dangerous. It gave off a dark aura and an evil stench as it hunkered down before the milk, making soft noises of delight while it drank.

Gabbie stuck her head through the door. “Mind some company?”

Mark looked up the stairs from where he sat on the floor of the basement, amid a pile of old books and trunks, and said, “Nope.”

Gabbie came down the steps and sat on the bottom riser, so Mark was forced to look up at her. “Troubles?”

“Just some nightmares.” She was silent for a while, as if reluctant to speak. She looked about the confusion in the basement. “What have you found?”

“A ton of oddities. Both Kesslers were into some pretty diverse stuff.” He held out a book. “Thomas Mann; it’s either a first edition worth hundreds or it’s worthless. I’ll have to write to a bookseller friend to find out.” He picked up another. “And this is Herman Hesse’s
Magister Ludi
, definitely a first. And just when you think Kessler
pater et filius
were literary gourmets you find stuff like this.” He waved to another stack. “Badly written junk on the occult, snake-oil medical theories like mucus-free diets and the benefits of ice baths, pornography, potboiler best sellers from a hundred years ago to today, crackbrain philosophy, all sorts of crap. I don’t know where they found it all.” Mark stood up. “There’s little sense to it.”

Gabbie reached over and took a book from the top of a pile next to the stairs and read the spine. It was Thomas Keightley’s
The World Guide to Gnomes, Faeries, Elves, and Other Little People.
“This worth anything?”

Mark said, “I’ve got the original, published in 1850 as
The Fairy Mythology.
That is a recent reprint of no worth.” He glanced about. “There’s probably no reason for me to be curious, but it strikes me the Kesslers had some reason for this eclectic gathering of oddities.” He sighed. “What do I know? They might have been the sort
of people who like to buy books by the yard, in the proper color bindings to fill bookshelves so the decor is right.”

Gabbie laughed. “Old Man Kessler was not concerned with matters of decor, if Gloria’s frustration is any indication.” She noticed a small piece of paper in the book and opened it to page 317. There was a reprint of an old drawing. Gabbie squinted and said, “The light down here is going to make you blind.” She stood up and walked up to the top of the stairs, to better see the book in the light from the door. Mark turned back to his sorting and picked up another book from an open trunk. He chose which pile to put it in and decided it was a big enough stack to warrant carrying it upstairs and begin putting data into the computer. Then something in the air caused him to look up.

Gabbie was studying the picture with intense concentration, seemingly unable to take her eyes from it. After a while she softly said, “This is wrong.”

Mark put down the book he was examining and came to the foot of the stairs. “What do you mean it’s wrong?”

“He’s too young.” She looked down at Mark, and in her eyes he saw unfiltered fear. Her words came thick and choking, as if she had to cough them up. “This is him as a baby, a little boy. He’s older now.”

Mark hurried up the stairs and gently took the book from Gabbie’s trembling hands. “What do you mean?” he said quietly.

Tears welled up in Gabbie’s eyes. “Look at the face. It’s hard to see, but it’s him.”

“Who?”

Gabbie had to swallow hard. “It’s the boy from the barn. The one who tried.…” Mark gently reached out and let Gabbie come into his arms. She shook like a frightened animal. “Oh God!” she said, a desperate, terrified whisper. “I’m going crazy.”

Mark let Gabbie cry as he held her. The part of him that was the psychologist knew the release of pent-up terror and other dark emotions would be healthy in the long run, and questions of sanity were but momentary
concerns. The real work with Gabbie would now begin, and with luck would not take long, for she was basically a resilient, well-adjusted, and healthy kid. But the investigator into dark mysteries was astonished that he felt no surprise at her revelation. He held the book behind Gabbie’s back, where he could see the illustration she had looked at. The word scribbled in the margin by the younger Kessler, in an old-style, formal Germanic script, was
Butze.
He knew it was a variant of
Putzel
or
Putz.
He glanced at the picture and shook his head. Could he have become so desensitized to wonders that the impossible failed to move him any longer? For if Gabbie wasn’t insane or terribly confused, or the gods of coincidence weren’t on another rampage, the same girl who had met Wayland Smith in the woods had been assaulted by Puck.

Phil looked at Mark with open disapproval on his features. When Gabbie and Mark had come up from the basement, the girl had been close to hysteria, unable to stop crying. Gloria was upstairs with her, and Mark had suggested that if she didn’t settle down soon, Dr. Latham should be consulted. Phil had barraged Mark with questions and had been unsatisfied with the answers.

“Phil, I know she’s your daughter and that you’re upset, but I can’t discuss what she’s told me without her permission.”

Phil seethed. He stood in the hall, hands upon hips, unable to articulate his anger. Finally something inside seemed to break, and he visibly wilted before Mark’s eyes. In an instant his anger was changing to concern. He took a deep breath and said, “Sorry. I was out of line.”

Mark shrugged. “Not really. You make good father noises.”

“Come on. I could use a drink and I don’t like to drink alone.”

Mark looked at his watch. It was a little after noon. He usually didn’t drink this early in the day, even at publishers’ business lunches, but Phil looked in need of an ear.

They had just poured a couple of scotches when Gloria appeared. Her anger was barely contained. Taking Phil’s drink from his hand, she took a healthy swallow, then said, “Thanks. Pour one for yourself.” Phil did as she bade while she sat opposite Mark. “Now, just what the fuck is going on?” Phil looked at his wife, who usually avoided strong language. He could see she was as upset over Gabbie’s condition as she would have been where the boys were concerned. In a strange way it made him feel better to see his wife so protective of her stepdaughter.

Mark said, “I just told Phil that I can’t talk about what Gabbie’s going through without her permission.”

“What are you, her doctor?” said Gloria, obviously upset. “I left a kid up there crying herself unconscious. She looks like hell. She’s obviously scared shitless. Goddamnitall, Mark, what’s going on?”

Mark leaned forward. “First, yes, I am her doctor.” Gloria blinked. Mark told them of his credentials, and went on, “I’m listening for free, but I’m bound by the same considerations as if she were paying me seventy-five bucks an hour to sit in a Park Avenue office.”

“Damnit,” said Gloria with sudden anger, “she’s our kid! And she’s a basket case. Now, what’s going on!”

Mark was visited with a sudden insight as Phil sat next to his wife, regarding her with a mixture of pride and concern. Gloria was as scared as Gabbie, and Mark understood why. The idea of mental illness—maybe illness in any form—terrified Gloria. Mark balanced his concern for Gabbie with a newfound wish to make things as easy as possible for Gloria. Slowly, so as not to upset her any further, he said, “Look, I can tell you a few things. After Gabbie wakes up, I’ll tell you whatever she says I may. But if she says not, I can’t. You understand.” He hurried on before Gloria could issue any ultimatums. “Gabbie had a pretty frightening encounter, shocking her
so badly she didn’t know she was shocked until this morning.” He paused, letting that sink in a moment, then he continued, “I don’t want to do a clinic on victim counseling, but she’s just left the denial stage of the normal reaction, and now she’s dealing with the terror. But she’s not emotionally ill.” At this, Gloria seemed to lose some of her steam. “She’s reacting the way most any normal person would to having the shit scared out of her by a madman.

“Rape is not a sex thing, it’s assault. It’s a power trip; a rapist wants total domination over women. He loathes women. He’s trying to humiliate his victim, not … love her. And sex is the weapon, not the goal. That’s not theory; it is accepted canon.” He paused. “It’s a brutal act of physical and psychological violence. The victim’s loss of control is as scary as any other aspect of the experience. It’s the helpless, dehumanized feeling: being at the mercy of someone who can violate you at will. And there’s always the threat of additional violence or death throughout.” Mark shook his head. “That’s about as scary as anything gets. That’s why Gabbie still reacts like it was a rape even without the sex act. She’s angry, and guilty, and ashamed, and a lot of other things.

“Now she’s dealing with the pain. The best thing we can all do is be supportive. Right now what she needs most is not to be hassled.” Mark rose and tried to be as reassuring to Gloria and Phil as possible. “She’ll be fine. I know it’s not much, but I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you without Gabbie’s say-so. Okay?”

Gloria looked hard at Mark, as if trying to see something behind his professional mask. At last she said, “Okay.” The last objection seemed to slip away. “Ya. Okay. Damnit.”

“Look, I’m not trying to be mysterious about this. If you want to talk more, I’ll be more than happy to listen. Your own reactions are just now coming out. For now, I think I’ll head down to the basement and work.” He took a sip of the half-finished drink, then put it aside. He glanced toward the stairs. “I’ll hang out until she’s
awake. She may want to talk again.” He rose as Gloria and Phil nodded. “If you need me, I’ll be downstairs.”

Gloria sagged as Mark left, resting her head on Phil’s shoulder. After a moment he said, “You okay?”

Quietly she answered, “No.”

Mark was sitting reading when Gary entered. Gary went over to the bar, poured two stiff scotches, and handed one to Mark. Mark raised an eyebrow. “You’ll need it,” said Gary, peeling off a light windbreaker emblazoned with the logo of the Seattle SuperSonics.

“All right, you’ve got me on the edge of my chair. What did you find?”

“White Horse is about as Amish as Salt Lake City.”

“So you didn’t find Wayland Smith.”