Faerie Tale (25 page)

His mind swam. He tried to move but was paralyzed with wonder and fear. He knew the tale of the White Ladies, and he knew their embrace meant death. Summoning all his strength, he pulled back his hand and jammed it hard against the rough bark, scraping it sideways. The pain of broken skin shot through the hot wash of desire, giving him a moment of clarity. He struggled to take a step backward. He remembered a snatch of lore, and with it a prayer reputed to give protection from the White Ladies. Barely able to speak, he whispered the Old German words.

A look of regret passed over the White Ladies’ stunning features. The central one of the three seemed sad, while the others simply turned away, vanishing from
sight, as if stepping through doors into another world. But the sad one followed, her diaphanous white gown clinging to her body, revealing it in tantalizing detail. Erect nipples, outlined by the thin gauze, and moist, desire-swollen lips hinted at promises of sexual rapture beyond human imagining, and Mark almost cried from the conflict between terror and passion. Except for the feet, which were hidden from sight, the woman was perfect, and in that perfection terrifying, for no human woman could possess such beauty. To know her embrace would be to know ecstasy beyond endurance. She would kill with love. In a distant corner of his mind, Mark thought she would literally screw him to death. A soft, moist smell touched his senses, a faint odor of spices and flowers, mixed with a more pungent odor, that gave a clear message to some deep center of his brain. Dimly he thought of some sort of pheromones. Mark fought down the nearly overwhelming drive to go to her and slammed his palm against the rough bark again, fearing the meat of his hand, using the pain as a shield. He forced himself back another step and again repeated the centuries-old German prayer. Terror redoubled struck Mark like a physical blow, for this time the prayer seemed to have no effect upon the vision. She moved to within touching distance of him, and he felt himself swaying as she reached toward him. His mind seemed entombed within himself, witnessing his body going out of control. Ignoring the pain in his hand, he took a small step toward his destruction. Within the prison of his own mind, Mark cried out in despair.

Then the White Lady spun as a distant horn was sounded, followed by a laugh of mad delight. The hunting horn trumpeted in the night, and the pounding of hooves echoed through the trees. As she hesitated, Mark felt her power over him lessen. She looked at him and he felt the passions explode within his body once again. She stepped forward, hand outstretched. Suddenly a figure dropped from the trees above, a boy or small man. Stepping in front of Mark, he held up a hand, palm out toward the White Lady. She shrank away and suddenly
was gone, as if slipping through an invisible door, seen from the side.

Mark didn’t hesitate but turned and fled, stumbling through the gloom, away from the madness. His foot snagged a root, and he fell. He attempted to rise, but could only manage to sit up. He felt feverish, his strength gone. It sounded as if riders were speeding through the woods toward his location. He struggled to his feet, gripping a tree, and breathed deeply to clear his head. Forcing himself to calmness, he glanced about. He had no idea where he was. From behind, the sound of riders became louder.

Mark turned toward the sound, then shrank back against the bole; tiny figures could be seen bursting from between the trees. Dozens of glowing bodies no bigger than sparrows, some the size of insects, sped through the night. The beat of their tiny wings was a hum of almost hypnotic music, a counterpoint to the pounding blood in Mark’s throbbing temples. One creature darted past Mark’s tree, visible for a moment—a tiny woman, smaller than a canary, nude, with golden hair, the faint blur of hummingbird-like wings on her back, and bathed in a blue-green nimbus of light. Little figures smaller than humans but larger than the fliers bounded by, leaping like grasshoppers through the woods. Mark felt his mind slipping away as he regarded little men in cutaway coats of green and red, little women in dresses of gossamer and light. He felt tears run down his face and knew fear. He wondered if he was going mad, for these creatures were both impossible and all too real. But they were colored strangely, as if fashioned by a nature that required all flesh to glow from within, for the gloom of the night did nothing to hide them. Each stood forth in sharp detail as it sped past, each clearly seen, as if a soft light was forever fixed upon the creature.

The crashing sound of horses’ hooves knocking aside brush heralded the arrival of the next assault upon Mark’s senses. Riders of incredible appearance raced toward him, and he felt a scream building up in his throat. Then a hand covered his mouth as the young man
abruptly reappeared before him. He grabbed Mark in a surprisingly strong grip and dragged him around the tree, pinning him so that he sheltered Mark from the riders’ sight. Mark was held in a viselike grip, hard against the tree, the youth’s body pressed against his. The same odor of wildflowers and spices Mark had smelled upon first sighting the White Ladies assaulted his nostrils, but the effect wasn’t erotic or intoxicating. It was rather the opposite, almost sobering. The woods echoed with the sound of the riders as they sped past, apparently unable to see Mark and his protector. Mark could only wonder how they could fail to notice the pair pressed against the tree as horses galloped within touching distance. Mark glimpsed figures of inhuman beauty speeding past upon horses unlike any he had seen before, strangely graceful beasts with eyes aglow, who almost seemed to float as they ran, so smooth were their movements. The animals were an impossible white, a glowing snow color dancing with ice-blue highlights, and in the gloom their long flowing manes and plumy tails seemed shot through with silver and gold light. The riders wore armor of odd hue and cut, magnificent in design, though somehow wrong. Ornate helms were bedecked with protrusions that would catch a sword blade, not turn it, one surmounted with eagle’s wings of ebony, another with a bull’s horns of ivory, a third with stag’s antlers of gold. The helmets and long spears and slender lances they carried seemed inured to the snagging branches of the trees as the riders raced along. Breastplates were fluted and covered with scrollwork, and greaves, chain, and gambeson all looked decorative, not functional. Still, they were figures of awesome appearance, and Mark was staggered at the sight.

They vanished in the woods and Mark was still held tight against the tree. From above a sound came, as if something scampered through the branches at a furious rate, in a vain attempt to keep up with the riders. It scurried through the foliage like a monkey, swinging overhead, and for an instant Mark felt the presence of something evil and dangerous, and his fear deepened.
Then the pressure on Mark’s chest was relieved as the other stepped back.

Mark slowly collapsed to the ground, his knees too wobbly to hold him. He leaned against the tree and wiped his brow. His hand came away dripping, whether with perspiration or blood he didn’t know.

Forcing himself to breathe slowly, he regarded his protector. He was a boy, a teenager matching the description of the one who had assaulted Gabbie. Mark looked up into the boy’s face and studied it. Then he knew. There was nothing young about the face that regarded him in the gloom. Ages looked out through those eyes. Softly the boy said, “The Fool and his coursers ride the night. To be seen by them is to be lost.”

In a voice barely more than a croak, Mark whispered, “You.…”

“I am not the one you think,” the boy interrupted, his face a stern mask. Softly he spoke. “All is not revealed to you, Mark Blackman. Know that what was done was done by another’s hand.” The stern aspect softened. “And what was attempted was only because the girl’s desires call his attention.” The youth’s eyes narrowed, and even in the gloom, Mark could see a fey blue light in them. “I serve another, one who would prevent such harm to the girl and others like her and so becomes your benefactor.” Almost absently he said, “Later, all may be made known to you.” The boy’s face split with a mischievous grin. “Or perhaps not. Now you are in my debt, lore keeper. Forget.” With a wink he sprang upward toward a branch and vanished. Mark crouched low, hugging himself against a chill in his soul; tears rolled down his cheeks and he openly cried. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the tiny microrecorder he carried for dictation. He thumbed the record button and began to speak into the condenser microphone on the side, attempting to put some order to the mad scene he had just witnessed. He vaguely noticed the blood from his torn hand smeared on the recorder as he forced himself to speak. It was a difficult task, even for a man of his stern professional discipline and experience, for his voice broke
and he was forced to pause while sobs broke uncontrolled from his throat and his chest constricted in icy pain. And he found that the images, so incisively etched in his mind, were becoming less distinct, more diffused, each passing moment. Mark hurried to recall every detail, but one thing did not lessen. For the first time in his life, Mark was truly terrified.

Gabbie looked up as Gary and Mark entered. One look at Mark told her something was wrong. A smear of something brown crossed his forehead, looking like dried blood. But more than that was the way he looked: His face was set in a mask, with no expression, but it was drawn and without color. The others noticed at once and Gloria said, “You all right?” She pulled out a chair and Blackman sat.

Mark nodded. “Yes. I just did something stupid. I got separated from Gary. You don’t really know how scary those woods can be until you get turned around in the dark out there.” He forced a smile. “I guess I’m just a little shook up.” He held up his hand. “I fell and tore this up trying to catch myself on a tree.”

Gabbie made a face and said, “Ugh, that’s gross.”

“Just some torn skin,” said Mark. Gloria hurried out and returned momentarily with a first-aid kit and began to dress his hand.

“You should get this looked at,” she said when she had finished.

“I had a tetanus booster less than two months ago. I’ll be fine.”

“You want a drink?” asked Phil.

Mark shook his head no. “I think we’ll be getting on home, now that the police are here.”

Two police officers had found Mark, sitting on the ground. Gary had been attracted to their lights. He had
brought Mark back. The officers were still out looking for the suspect, but held little optimism about finding him. They had also made plain what they thought of Mark and Gary chasing after possibly violent criminals in the dark.

Gary bade the others good night, while Mark said nothing. It appeared he was concentrating on something, but from his shaken appearance, all sensed he was disturbed and no one took exception to his departing without a word. Reaching the car, Mark pulled out his recorder and gave it to Gary. “Tomorrow, before I wake up and get out of bed, I want you to play this back to me.” He thought, then said, “Have another tape recorder running, will you?”

Gary said, “You’ve got an idea something’s going on that only your subconscious may be understanding, that it?”

“Something, but I want a night to let this computer”—he tapped his head—“churn it around a bit.”

Gary started the car, then said, “Are you all right?”

Softly he replied, “Yes. I’ll be all right.”

“What happened out there? Something hit you hard.” He received no reply. After a moment Gary said, “I thought for a moment I heard.… I don’t know. It sounded like horses. And some sort of odd music. What happened?”

Mark started to speak, then closed his mouth. “I don’t know if I can describe it. I don’t know much of anything right now. I’ll tell you tomorrow after you play that tape for me.”

Gary knew Mark too well to argue. He would be told in good time. With a sigh of resignation, he put the car in gear and drove away from the Hastingses’ house.

Gary looked down at his employer and friend. Mark’s breathing was slow and steady, but his eyes were moving under his eyelids. He was in REM—rapid eye movement—state. He was dreaming and would be susceptible to suggestion and able to recall things buried in his memory. They had used this technique three times before and always had interesting results.

Gary had listened to the tape before going to sleep, and wished he hadn’t, for it had both piqued his curiosity and disturbed him to a point where he had been awake since dawn, drinking coffee in the kitchen. He had decided to let Mark sleep in until just before his usual wake-up time of eight. It was not quite seven forty-five. Gary crept to Mark’s bedside and knelt. He thumbed the switch on one of their portable tape recorders, making sure it was on record and that the condenser microphone was pointed at Mark. Softly, so as not to awaken him, Gary played back the other tape. He regarded the brown smear of blood on the small machine as Mark’s voice came through, strained with a note of fear Gary had never heard before. In the years they had been together, in more weird situations than most people could ever imagine, Gary had never known Mark to show the first sign of fear. “Dark woods in the night. A mocking voice shouting my name. Three women in white, the goddamned White Ladies. God, oh God.” There was an audible sob and then some sniffing. “Lights and tiny figures.… Oh God. It’s fairies! Little goddamn fairies. Naked little people with wings. Oh, Christ. Leprechauns and brownies, skipping by.…” More sobbing. “Then riders. Oh God, it’s the Wild Hunt. Then a boy who smells of spices. Horsemen in armor are all around us. The boy keeps them from seeing me. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Mark’s voice trailed off as the recorder was put
into his pocket. There was no sound for a long time, Gary knew, then, just before the tape ran out, the distant muffled sound of a policeman’s voice, and Mark’s answer. He had regained most of his composure by then. The exchange ended as the tape ran out. Gary turned off the machine, for he knew Mark had no interest in that section of the tape.

Gary looked at Mark’s face as he rewound and replayed the tape. The second time through, he noticed that Mark’s REM had become more pronounced, and a sheen of perspiration was forming on his face. His breathing became more shallow and the rate increased. Then he began to make sounds and abruptly he shouted an inarticulate cry and sat up, eyes wide and awake.