The Seven Whistlers (8 page)

A deep sigh shuddered through her and she turned and carried
the newspaper back to the kitchen. When she threw it on the table, face-down,
she got a look at the headlines under the fold. One of them caught her eye.

THE WILD COMES TO TOWN

She reached for the paper again and picked it up, a chill
passing through her. Rose read the story and the dread of her nightmares
returned, settling into her bones. The story concerned a recent rash of reports
coming into the newspaper and the police department from locals and tourists
alike who’d reported seeing large, black-furred animals in the woods, around
the lake, and even in town. Some had claimed to see wild dogs.

The police chief chalked it up to a long, hot summer making
some food scarce, forcing bears, wolves, and even moose to forage closer to
town than they would normally venture. “We’ve had animals in town before, and
we’ll have them again. That’s part of the beauty of living in Kingsbury,” the
chief had said. “We just have to do our best to live in harmony with the wild,
without anyone getting hurt.”

Rose snickered. “Yeah. ‘Cause it’s that simple.”

Then the humor drained from her. Large, black-furred
animals. It was such a general description and its implications troubled her
deeply. Locals would sure as hell know how to spot a wolf or a moose or a bear,
but it had been the police chief to make that leap. The only animals mentioned
specifically by people who’d reported sightings to the paper were wild dogs.

The memory of her Internet surfing from the night before
came back full force. The legend of the Seven Whistlers had given her the
creeps, but she’d told herself it was only a legend, no matter what she’d seen.
Wild dogs were wild dogs. Nothing supernatural about any of it. The very idea
seemed ridiculous.

But it didn’t
feel
ridiculous.

She didn’t have to work today, and it occurred to Rose that
there might be a better way to spend the time than wallowing in her grief over
her grandfather’s death. Jenny had said there might be a local version of the
legend, and that if there was, her Aunt Arlene would know it. Rose had brushed
off the idea of going to talk to the woman yesterday.

The newspaper trembled in her hand and she dropped it,
staring a moment at the way the newsprint had blackened her fingertips. She
told herself that she wasn’t just trying to sublimate her grief, burying it by
finding something to occupy her mind. She needed to talk to Arlene Murphy, if only
to remind herself that the Seven Whistlers were only a story, nothing more.

But, now that Rose had slept so late, she’d probably missed
Arlene at her studio, which meant if she wanted to see the woman, she’d have to
chase her down in the woods where Jenny said she did much of her painting. The
idea of traipsing out in the woods troubled her. After all of the strange
things she’d witnessed in the forest lately, she was leery about leaving the
town center at all.

Like that’s gonna work,
she thought.
Spend the
rest of your life hiding out in town, never going into the woods again.

She wondered why the little voice in the back of her head
always had to be so sarcastic.

Rose went to the bathroom and turned the shower on, waiting
for steam to start clouding the glass before she stepped inside. She arched her
back, working out the kinks of the night, grateful for the hot sting of the
spray as the water poured over her aching body.

Most days she could be in and out of the bathroom in less
than twenty minutes. Today, she could not pull herself away from the hot water
and the way it released so much tension from her muscles. It was almost ten
thirty by the time she finished drying her hair and put on a touch of eyeliner,
mascara, and lip gloss.

Better turn in early tonight, maybe even get Jenny to
give me another one of those little pills that make you sleep the sleep of the
dead.

Rose shivered as the thought eddied around her brain,
calling up thoughts of her grandfather’s death yet again, with a sharpness that
took her breath away. Though he had been lost to her for such a long time, her
heart still remembered the old days, and the vibrant companion he’d been before
the Alzheimer’s locked him away inside his own head.

That lovely, crotchety old man was truly gone now — both
body and soul — and the realization was like a lead weight, dragging her
down into the gray numbness of depression.

She didn’t feel like eating a real breakfast — the
small kitchenette in her apartment didn’t inspire much more than microwave
meals and the odd grilled cheese sandwich anyway — but Rose made herself
take a few bites of a strawberry Pop Tart so her stomach would stop growling. Putting
the left over Pop Tart in a plastic bag, she ran the dirty dish and her juice
glass under the faucet, then grabbed a bottle of water and an apple, shoving
them into her backpack with the unfinished Pop Tart. If she got really hungry
later, she’d have something to munch on.

Ever since she started watching her parents’ cabin, she’d
let her apartment go to hell. She vowed that after she’d tracked gone up to the
cabin to feed and walk Lucy, and then tracked down Arlene, she’d come home and
give the place a thorough going over. Cleaning had always been a good way to
clear her mind, and maybe it would wear her out enough so that she wouldn’t
have to medicate herself to get one good, dreamless night of sleep.

Lucy had been ecstatic to see her. The big dog had jumped
all over her, spattering her navy wool sweater with a healthy coating of
slobber, right up until Rose spilled food into her bowl, and then the dog had
another target for her attentions.

Now, as she drove back toward town, she missed the big mutt.
Rose turned up the heat in her car as she made a left onto Braeburn Street, and
started the search for a parking spot. The tourists who flocked to New England
for the fall foliage had made it almost impossible for the locals to find
parking anywhere downtown, but Rose lucked out, finding a tiny space between a
Suburban and a Mercedes Benz roadster. She squeezed her battered red Honda
between them and got out.

The cool crispness of the Vermont air filled her lungs,
invigorating her. It left her with a sense of wellbeing that was almost enough
to make her forget her troubles for a moment. Almost.

She slung her backpack over her shoulder and crossed the
street, looking for Arlene’s address. Braeburn Street had only recently
experienced a mini-renaissance. Once home to a mechanic’s shop and the old
Geary Foundry, the tiny street now boasted two art galleries and the Geary
Lofts — a series of artists’ studios erected on the remains of the old
foundry. The previous year, the mayor had even given the street a nickname
— Artists’ Alley.

Rose knew this stop would likely be a waste of time, but
before she went hiking around the woods up by the lake in search of Arlene
Murphy, she figured she ought to at least stop at the woman’s downtown studio. The
way things had been going, she didn’t expect it to be that simple, but better
to try and come up empty than to truck around the mountain and only then
discover the artist had been down here in town all along.

A shiver went through her as she found the buzzer for
Arlene’s loft. Rose wished she’d had the foresight to stow her woolen cap in
her backpack before she’d left the apartment that morning. The temperature had
been dropping steadily since morning and it was getting to be downright
cold
for autumn.

“
Yes?
” came a tinny voice from the callbox.

Rose blinked in surprise and stared for a moment at the box.
A smile touched her lips as she realized she wasn’t going to have to go into
the woods after all. She cleared her throat, and spoke into the speaker grate.

“Hi, Miss Murphy? Arlene. I’m Rose Kerrigan, Jenny’s friend?
She said you might be able to help me.”

“
Help you how?
” The woman’s voice sounded tentative,
even anxious.

“I’d rather not say out here on the street like this, if you
don’t mind. May I come up?”

There was a pause, as if Arlene was thinking about it. Then
the buzzer on the steel-reinforced door sounded. Rose reached out and pulled
open the door.

Draped in a dusky purple caftan that hung on her like a
shroud, with more than a dozen strands of amethyst beads looped around her
neck, Arlene Murphy reminded Rose of the aging Stevie Nicks. But when took in
her curly scarlet hair and pale skin, she decided that the artist reminded her
more of some future version of Tori Amos . . . well, a Tori Amos who had raided
Stevie Nicks’ closet. She had a sage, earth-mother thing going on, combined
with a no-nonsense attitude that belied her appearance.

“Would you like some tea, Rose? I was just boiling water.”

“I’d love some, thanks.”

Arlene went into the kitchenette. “I don’t drink caffeine,
so there’s only herbal. I hope that suits.”

“That’d be perfect, thanks.”

“How do you like it?”

“However you take it is fine.”

“Two Licorice Roots it is, then,” Arlene replied, pouring
the boiling water into a large ceramic teapot decorated with tiny penguins. “Have
a seat. The tea will just be a minute.”

Rose looked around the large, open room with it twin
skylights and junk-strewn vanilla pine floor, and could see almost no space
that had not been piled up with books, laden with scarves, or stacked with CDs.
Art books lay open on tables and on the floor. Old vinyl album covers leaned
against the stereo speakers but there seemed no turntable to play them. There
were three medium-sized easels set up underneath the skylights, and a long
white coffee table covered in painting supplies, but there didn’t seem to be a
place to sit comfortably without disturbing Arlene’s disorder.

She decided that Arlene must have meant for her to sit on
one of the thick, pink-and-yellow cushions that lay haphazardly on the floor. Plopping
down, Rose set her backpack beside her, and tried to make herself comfortable.

Arlene didn’t seem at all disturbed to find her guest
sitting on the floor. She set the tea tray down on a box of Quash paints that
took up the floor space in front of Rose and tucked her skirt underneath her so
she could join her guest on the ground.

After Arlene had fixed their tea in two thick handmade clay
pots, Rose hesitated, not sure how to begin.

“You said you needed my help?” Arlene prompted her with a
reassuring smile.

Rose nodded. “I wanted to ask you about this story Jenny
related to me. Some pretty odd things have happened to me recently and it
reminded her of this legend about the Seven Whistlers —”

Arlene’s features tightened, and the woman blanched.

“Are you all right?” Rose asked.

“
Of course
,” Arlene said under her breath, obviously
speaking to herself and not to Rose. She set her pot down on the tea tray, then
absently picked it right back up again.

“I’m sorry —” Rose began, but Arlene waved a hand at
her to stop.

“Please, just a moment. You’ve reminded me of something. Let
me think.”

Rose nodded, waiting. Finally, Arlene shook her head as if
to clear her thoughts, and then smiled at Rose.

“So, Jenny told you part of the legend, but didn’t know it
all, and figured I could fill you in on its origins. She’s a sensible girl. If
anyone in Kingsbury would know, it would be me. I collect legends and stories. Always
have. A lot of them go into my art, but that’s not the only reason they
fascinate me. Guess I’m just one of those people who’s always wanted to believe
in the fantastic.”

“So, you do know the myth?” Rose asked.

Arlene nodded.

“It’s an old tale, but still very powerful,” she said. Her
gaze became distant as she recalled the details of the legend. When she spoke
again, her voice had an ominous quality, as though to Arlene Murphy, this was
more than merely a story.

“Seven hounds were dispatched from Hell to seek the Devil’s
due, to collect the souls of men who where damned for dreadful cowardice in the
face of death. No, cowardice is not the word. That alone won’t damn us, Rose. But
if a man willfully sacrificed another in order to save his own life, to delay
the day when the reaper might come for him, why, of course he would be damned. His
soul would be forfeit because he lived on in the other’s stead.”

“Who would do that? That’s terrible,” Rose said, clutching
her mug of tea tightly between her hands. The basics of the legend, she had
learned from Jenny and from her online research, but this . . . this was new,
and it got under her skin.

“You might be surprised what people will do when their lives
are in peril. When the axe is about to fall, many a man — or woman
— would gladly put another in his place in order to save his own life. It’s
a hideous thing to steal another’s time on this Earth. Unforgivable. But,
listen. There’s more to the tale. The seven whistlers hunt the souls of the
damned, and some are cowards in death as well as in life. The hounds spread out
across the Earth, but the legend says that they may come together to hunt
elusive prey. It’s said that should all seven hounds ever gather in one
location, it will spell the end of the world as we know it . . . The End of
Days.”

Rose nodded. There were differences, but she already knew
this part of the legend. Still, an icy chill raced through her. She thought of
the two hounds destroying the stag in the woods outside her parents’ cabin. That
had been almost two days ago. She wondered how many of the hounds were in
Kingsbury now.

“I’ve answered your question, Rose. I hope you’ll answer
mine. Why do you want to know about the Whistlers?”

Rose swallowed. She wanted to tell Arlene about her strange
experiences in the woods, about the hounds she had seen in the darkness ripping
the stag apart, and the article in the
Kingsbury Gazette
about the
strange animals, but she was afraid the older woman would think she was crazy. All
this talk of legends . . . the artist collected them, painted them. No matter
how much passion she had for the stories, that didn’t mean that she truly
believed in them.