The Beyond (23 page)

“But I did nothing to her,” I told him.

“That doesn't matter,” said Feskin. “She does not trust anything that has any relationship at all to the ruins or Below. And I'm afraid she automatically puts you in that category. Anyway, when she came to visit here, it was not with the best of intentions. She wanted to find some piece of evidence to in some way damn you. I think she was hoping you might eat her son or maybe bite her on the forehead.”

“My appetite does not run to dust or mold,” I said.

Feskin laughed. “What she brought back from the ruins, an item she had taken from your museum, was a stone knife that she claims was Cley's. She said that it was given to him by Ea, the traveler, and that Cley would not part with it unless he was dead. With this flimsy circumstantial evidence, she believes that you, yourself, have murdered Cley.”

I was not, at first, able to grasp the enormity of what the schoolteacher was telling me. Then, as it slowly dawned on me, I shouted, “Absurd! Cley and I were the best of friends.”

“Listen, I know this is true. I read his account of how you saved him from the sheer beauty, but this is what she is saying, planting new seeds of doubt in everyone's mind. She has taken the knife to the constable and said she wants a full investigation. Do you remember the circumstances in which you found the artifact or what its history is?” asked Feskin.

“I don't even remember it being in the museum. I must have picked it up somewhere among the ruins and tossed it mindlessly onto one of the shelves,” I said.

“She said she knows it was Cley's because it has on the handle an insignia of a coiled snake,” he said.

“Now I will lose the trust of all of the new friends I have made,” I said, and could feel tears welling in my eyes.

“I don't think so,” said Feskin. “The constable is not about to launch an investigation based on one piece of evidence, but I do think you should come to Wenau and answer the charges of your detractors. I truly believe that if you were to do this, of your own volition, it would be proof of your honesty. I will represent you in your meeting with the constable. He is not an unreasonable fellow. You will be cleared, and it might be just the trick to convince the rest of the community who have not met you that you have a good heart and the best of intentions.”

I did not think twice about his plan, knowing that if I did not take some action, I would soon return to my lonely life haunting the ruins. I could not let this hag take away my bid for humanity. “Yes,” I said. “I will come to Wenau.”

“Excellent,” he said. “I will make arrangements for a place for you to stay. I will expect you at the schoolhouse two days from now in the evening, at the same time you last arrived.”

I chatted then with Feskin for a while about how we might present my side of the story. He told me to try to remember where the knife had come from. Then I walked with him to the edge of the ruins, but hung back when he left so as not to disturb his horse.

Since then I have been searching my memory for a clue as to the origin of the primitive blade. I think I found it one day in the wreckage of the Ministry of the Territory. Yes, I believe I might remember vividly the morning I came upon it, sticking out of the coral wall as if someone had been using it to hang his coat on.

In my thoughts, I now pull that knife from the wall, pink granules of coral drifting to the floor like flakes of the snow flurry falling outside the window of warped glass. A baby is crying in a back room, a woman is singing softly, a fire is crackling in the fireplace, a black dog is curled up on the rug, and a man is sitting in a chair with a loaded pistol in his lap, waiting for the first sign of spring.

a ghost story

A month had passed since the fall of Fort Vordor, which marked the end of the incursion of the western realm into the Beyond. Although there had been light snow twice in this time, there had been much more rain. The hard-packed shell of white that had covered the landscape was now slowly vanishing. It was obvious that the weather was getting warmer and that spring was very close.

Cley and Willa and Wraith and the black dog had taken refuge in what had once been the Olsens' log house. It sat fifteen miles east of the fort in a stand of birches at the edge of a lake. The dwelling was small but had two rooms, a fireplace, and the glass of both of its windows was still intact. The very existence of the place was, to the hunter, a miracle since on their journey to it they had passed at least three other similar structures that had been burned to the ground by the Beshanti.

Life at the edge of the lake was like a ghost story without a ghost—the rain-sodden hours, the lingering grief of the death of Curaswani and the others, the unnerving silence of Willa Olsen, and the sudden, piercing cries of the baby. Cley spent his days in the birch forest, hunting and reflecting on the tumult of events that had brought him to this place. Wood, although content to be out on the hunt when he must, had become Wraith's second guardian and spent all of his time while indoors standing sentry at the entrance to that second room, where the child slept.

It was evening, and Cley cooked some fresh-killed deer meat on the flames of the fireplace. As the house had been untouched, so were the barrels of supplies, and in them the hunter had discovered dry rice, flour, and a few potatoes with which he augmented the venison, partridge, wild goose, or rabbit he felled each day. Willa accepted her meal from him with a quiet “Thank you,” in return. They sat in silence at the small table in the corner and ate together. When the hunter inquired as to the child's health, the mother simply nodded. For the most part, she did not look up. This gave Cley ample opportunity to study her. He noticed that there was always a slight trembling in her hands. She had been greatly abused by life, but still she showed signs of a certain strength in her determination to care for Wraith. If not for the child, Cley believed she would open the door and walk straight into the lake.

As soon as dinner was finished, and Cley and she had cleaned off the table and put things where they belonged, she returned to the other room. The hunter stoked the fire and sat in the chair that had once belonged to her husband. He smoked a cigarette from the pack that had been given to him by Weems and stared at the flames, watching for scenes and faces and portents of the future in their frantic dance. Then, he heard from the back room, the mother talking in a high, sweet voice that drew murmurs of delight from the infant. The demon killer, the tattooed slayer of invisible Wraiths, smiled at the sound and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Wood lay curled up at the entrance to the other room and lifted his head from dreams every time the baby cooed. It was only in this brief hour before sleep that ghosts were banished and the future and past were forgotten. When the cigarette had been smoked into oblivion, Cley lifted himself out of the chair and lay down on the floor.

The sun had barely begun to cast its reflection on the waters of the lake. Cley stood in the quiet house at the window, staring out along the tree line, watching two Beshanti warriors surreptitiously moving through the shadows from tree to tree. He had a mind to send Wood out to chase them away as he had done on numerous occasions.

One night, after he had sat in the chair, staring into the fireplace longer than usual, Cley was lying on the floor, trying to decide whether he should return to the fort and see if anyone had been spared.

Just as he decided that he could not bear to discover Curaswani slaughtered, the door to the other room opened on creaking hinges. He looked up and saw, in the light of the dying embers, Willa Olsen moving around the central room. Her eyes were closed, and she trod softly and slowly in her thin cotton nightgown. She whispered in her sleep, the name
Christof
. Finally, she leaned down over the back of the chair the hunter had recently vacated and planted a kiss in midair. Then she returned to the bedroom, and he heard no more from her till the morning when the baby woke, crying.

Cley smelled the scent of the ocean on the breeze one bright afternoon while hunting a mile north of the house. He thought to himself how much easier his life would be if he were to just keep heading in that direction, making progress toward Arla Beaton and the true Wenau. Willa and the child were to him like Vasthasha's taproots, holding him firmly in one place. He daydreamed of the freedom he had once known and cursed in his loneliness. In his mind, he saw the green veil soaring above the Beyond.

The hunter discovered a fishing rod and tackle in a corner of the main room of the house. On a clear afternoon, he and Wood went down to the lake to try their luck. Chunks of venison were used as bait. In the first hour, Cley managed to hook himself once in the pants and once on his thumb. The line tangled and snarled every few minutes, and it took at least as long to unravel the maze of knots.

Finally, with great patience, he was able to cast and keep things in order. The wooden bobber, carved into the form of a small boat with a tiny fisherman in it, floated on the surface. Below, in the clear water, Cley could see large, dark forms moving close to the bottom.

Hours passed, and there was not so much as a nibble. The day was peaceful, and the lake was so still its reflection was a perfect opposite of the world above. Cley was roused from his torpor by the sight and sound of a large fish leaping into the air out past where his line descended. Scales caught the sunlight in a ripple of iridescence before it splashed back beneath the surface.

“Over here,” Cley yelled.

Wood was bored beyond reckoning and headed back to the house.

“Deserter,” the hunter called after him.

More time passed, then, suddenly, Cley felt a tug at the line. He reeled in, but the reel was old and rotted and the handle broke off. Filled with excitement, though, he took the line in his hands and began pulling his catch ashore. From the monumental struggle, he knew that whatever was on the hook must be very large. The line ran back through his grasp and cut his calluses until his palms began to bleed.

Cursing and struggling, he started to make headway. His nemesis, it seemed, had given in. With each tug a huge, black creature emerged more clearly from below. Dragged onto the shore, its slick skin glistened in the sun. The hunter approached and was met with a horrific sight. It was a blob of a fish, with large, unlidded human eyes, antennae that reached three feet from its head, and a big-lipped mouth so wide it could swallow a whole crow at once.

“Harrow's hindquarters,” said Cley, staring down on the monstrosity.

The creature opened its mouth, spit out the hook, and made a loud noise like an old man in respiratory distress, its gasping interspersed with explosive farting sounds.

“All this work for this flatulent pig of Hell,” thought Cley, as he stepped forward and kicked the thing back into the lake. Then he looked down and saw the condition of his hands and the bloodstains on his yellow coat. He pitched the fishing pole out into the water and stormed away toward the house.

“Where's my gun,” he said as he came through the door. But he was brought up short by the sight of Willa, naked to the waist, sitting in his chair by the fire, nursing Wraith. She gazed calmly at him. He looked from her breasts up into her face.

“How was the fishing, Mr. Cley?” she asked in a quiet voice.

A moment of silence passed, then he said, “Excuse me, madam. Oh, yes, the fishing … It was something less than a triumph.” He turned quickly away and found his gun. When he looked back to call for Wood to follow, he saw what he believed to be a subtle smile on Willa Olsen's lips.

He knew the Beshanti were stalking him as he stalked a deer through thick underbrush on the opposite side of the lake. Wood looked over to see if Cley wanted him to charge back into the birches and chase them away. Instead, the hunter ran as fast as he could, weaving in and out of the straight, thin trunks of the trees. The black dog stayed even with him, as if knowing which way his companion would turn before he actually did.

Three Beshanti found Cley's hat lying on the ground. The leader of the party was a large muscular man with a painted face—two streaks of white cutting diagonals across either cheek. He wore the delicate skeleton of a hummingbird on a lanyard around his neck, and a black, sleeveless blouse decorated with red-dyed circles. His two partners were dressed in green tunics and wore their hair in triple braids as was the custom. The trio bent over Cley's hat as if it was an animal that might spring to life at any moment.

Wood suddenly appeared from behind the tree in front of them. Startled, they rose and turned to run. Facing them now, with his rifle aimed at the largest, was Cley.

“What do you want?” asked the hunter.

The leader of the Beshanti spoke in his native language, making signs that seemed to be imploring Cley not to shoot.

The hunter smiled broadly but did not relinquish his aim. He was about to speak again when an invisible force violently pulled the weapon clear of his hands. He stared in amazement as it floated in midair a few feet in front of him. Wood growled at the presence of a Wraith but remained standing behind the warriors.

Now it was the Beshanti's turn to smile. The large man spoke quickly in his own tongue. Cley shook his head, showing he did not understand. It was obvious that he was being lectured to. Then the leader took a knife from his belt and passed it in a cutting motion an inch from his own throat. When he was finished speaking, he motioned with his left hand to where the invisible Wraith stood, holding the hunter's rifle. From that empty patch of air, a white scrap materialized and unfolded into a sheet of paper. It floated slowly toward Cley, and when it was within his reach, the hunter took it.

As he turned it over and noticed the handwriting on one side, his rifle fell to the ground and the three Beshanti brushed past him and began to walk away. Intent on what he was reading, he did not watch them leave. The script was beautifully rendered and at the bottom of the page he saw the name
Misnotishul
. When he was finished with it, he tore it into small pieces and threw them to the muddy ground. Wood walked over and sniffed at the fragments.