Ch. 2: The Bell and the Forest

(Return to Arheled)





                                      Chapter  TWO

                 THE  BELL  AND  THE  FOREST 





<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                 Rain  swept  down  from  the  chill  sky  as  Forest   got  out  of  the  car. “I’ll pick  you  up  in  a  couple  hours,  hon! Don’t forget.”  his  mom  called  as  he  shut  the  door. He waved  a  little  when  she  backed  the  car  around,  so  she  wouldn’t  be  worried,  and  hurried  into  the  alcove. The upper  story  overhung  a  deep  recess  in  the  lower,  where  the  back  entry  was  located,  and  there  was  a  bench  where  the  Library  Gang  hung  out  in  better  weather. Forest pulled  the  door  open  and  headed  inside. There was  an  entrance  room  with  a  bulletin  board  and  glass  doors  leading  into  the  main  library. Inside to  the  right  was  an  aisle  leading  by  a  book  sale—mostly  those  romance  novels  with  horrid  gaudy  covers  that  Mom  always  liked—to  the  elevator  and  the  side  door. On the  left  was  the  slide-out  table  where  you  put  returned  books,  and  then  the  front  desk. It was  impossible  to  get  in  without  being  seen  by  the  librarian  on  duty  there,  but  today  it  was  the  younger  one  with  the  blank  blue  eyes  and  nice  round  smile,  who  always  seemed  to  wear  colorful  dresses. So he  didn’t  duck  out  the  side  door  and  climb  the  back  stairs,  but  headed  quickly  past  the  front  desk. She glanced  up  from  a  heap  of  books  she  was  checking  in  and  gave  him  one  of  her  perpetual  bright  smiles,  and  forgot  him  the  next  second. Which was  fine  by  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              The  Beardsley  Memorial  Library  had  a  peculiar  charm  to  it. High ceilings  with  funny  raised  patterns  on  the  white  beams. Big globe-lamp  chandeliers  and  old  ceiling  fans. Golden-brown paneling  that  ran  around  the  walls’  lower  half  and  ornamental  woodwork  edging  doors  and  frames. It had  the  appearance,  not  so  much  of  a  library,  but  of  a  retrofitted  mansion. A beautiful  staircase  faced  the  front  desk,  carved  railings  and  wainscot  running  beside  it. Forest went  into  the  reading  room  on  the  left  of  the  main  hall—the  adult  fiction  shelves  were  in  an  ancient  crowded  chamber  on  the  right,  shelves  reaching  the  ceiling—and  stood  there  for  a  moment,  relishing  the  odd  atmosphere  it  had. Something about  the  tall  windows  and  magazine  shelves,  the  tables,  the  plush  brown  armchairs  that  gasped  when  you  sat  on  them,  the  unused  fireplace,  the  painting  of  redwoods  above  a  mountain  lake  amid  great  tattered  mountains  that  hung  above  it,  reminded  him  of  G,K, Chesterton  and  reading  clubs. It was  the  sort  of  place  a  great  writer  might  have  chosen  to  write  his  books  in. He wanted  to  stay  there  and  gaze  at  the  tall  painted  pines  and  floating  cloud-mountains,  but  adults  used  this  room  and  he  didn’t  care  to  linger. Children were  supposed  to  go  upstairs.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             He  clomped  up  the  carpeted  stairs. The “youth  room”  with  its’  lower  ceiling,  few  shelves  and  long  white  overhead  lights,  echoed  suddenly  with  Julian’s  clear  but  high  laughter  and  Martin’s  low  voice. Forest paused  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. Here a  balcony  ringed  the  stairwell  on  the  left,  while  a  door  on  the  right  opened  to  the  children’s  room. The teen  room  was  just  off  the  balcony. Three tall  windows  faced  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  a  broad  seat  with  red  and  yellow  cushions  lay  under  them,  and  Forest  knelt  on  this  and  gazed  out  at  the  weather.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              This  was  one  of  his  favorite  places. The Library  Gang,  as  he  had  come  to  think  of  the  group  of  regulars  that  haunted  the  library,  usually  clustered  around  the  big  old  computers  in  their  cubicles,  playing  video  games  and  insulting  each  other  on  Facebook  and  occasionally  playing  rock  music  when  the  librarian  wasn’t  around. Forest pressed  his  nose  against  the  window,  leaving  another  greasy  smudge  to  join  the  five  or  six  already  there,  and  looked  dreamily  out  over  the  western  fringe  of  Winsted. Grey rain  drifted  down  from  an  October  sky. Across the  road  and  past  the  tire  yard  a  maple  glowed  beneath  Christ  Church,  such  a  lovely  blend  of  orange  and  yellow  and  so  deep  and  shadowy  a  color,  like  peaches  in  the  wet  air. Next to  it  was  a  tree  the  color  of  cranberry  juice. The chestnut  in  the  little  triangle  that  Spencer  Hill  Rd  made  where  it  forked  as  it  met  Main  St,  between  the  church  and  the  library,  was  losing  its’  leaves,  so  thin  and  scanty  and  yellowy-green.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">        The  old  stone  church  rose  grey  against  the  grey  sky,  slate  roofs  gleaming  silver  behind  the  trees,  the  steeple  rising  like  a  tower. The belfry  drew  his  eyes,  as  always,  the  columns  of  stacked  grey  stone  upholding  arches  built  of  round  slabs  of  that  reddish  rock  like  tomato  slices  glued  on  end. A trellis  of  red  rock  fenced  the  floor  of  each  huge  opening  like  a  railing,  and  an  odd  metal  wheel  (presumably  for  turning    the  bell)  visible  behind  it. Above it  the  steeple  ended  in  a  cone  of  slates  gleaming  with  rain,  and  curious  designs  were  set  in  the  top  course  of  grey  stone,  long  sticks  of  that  odd  red  rock  like  upside-down  mallets  swinging  from  the  rim. He glanced  down  at  the  gas  station  on  the  other  side  of  Main  and  wished  he  could  see  the  river. It must  be  running  really  high  right  now.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            After  a  while  he  remembered  he  was  supposed  to  be  studying,  and  he  went  reluctantly  over  to  the  stairs  and  pattered  down  them. The building  was  bisected  by  a  high  hallway,  the  reading  room  on  one  side,  a  round  arch  above  the  angle  where  the  desk  and  offices  of  other  librarians  was  buttonholed. The young  librarian  at  the  front  desk  was  looking  up  something  in  the  computer,  but  when  he  muttered  “Um…”  she  looked  over  and  saw  him. She had  gold  hair  falling  in  ringlets  about  her  ears  and  wore  a  nice  pale  blue  dress  bunched  under  the  bosom.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Yes,  can  I  help  you?”  she  said  brightly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Um,  yeah,  where  do  they  have  the  books  on….mummy  stuff….I  mean,  pyramids,  um…Egyptian,  I  mean?”  He  felt  like  an  idiot.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Right  downstairs  in  the  History  Room.”  she  said. “You wander  around  until  you  find  the  break  room  and  water  fountain  by  the  bathrooms,  and  the  History  Room’s  right  across  from  them.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Um,  thanks.”  said  Forest,  and  hurried  off  before  he  could  say  anything  else  stupid.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            The  back  stairs  were  plain,  modern  and  utterly  boring. Red rubberized  flooring,  school  doors  shutting  off  the  stairwell,  tan  and  white  walls. But when  he  reached  the  bottom  the  place  was  transformed. Stone walls  covered  with  thick  layers  of  white  paint  jutted  out  here,  there  and  everywhere,  turning  the  basement  into  a  delightful  rabbit  warren  of  passageways  and  rooms. At the  bottom  of  the  stair  you  turned  left  and  found  yourself  facing  what  Forest  called  the  “jailer’s  cell”,  a  glass-walled  office  full  of  books  where  a  librarian  watched  the  stairs. A crooked  dead-end  passage  ran  off  to  the  left,  just  before  the  “cell”,  where  the  elevator  came  out,  and  past  that  were  only  locked  tan  doors. Then you  went  right  down  a  little  ramp  past  the  “cell”  and  into  a  loop  passage  that  went  in  a  big  square  to  meet  itself  at  the  office. If you  turned  left  you  would  bend  an  elbow  right  and  pass  the  two  doors  of  a  masonry-walled  conference  room  on  your  left,  where  movies  were  sometimes  shown. On the  right  was  a  stair  to  the  old  front  entrance  directly  underneath  the  front  staircase,  where  the  doors  off  the  street  were  much  more  decorative. Then you  made  another  square  right  turn,  where  a  long  bench  occupies  the  left  wall. In about  20  feet  you  would  make  another  right  and  pass  the  drinking  fountain  and   bathrooms  (tan  doors,  always  tan)  with  the  History  Room  door  on  your  left. At the  last  right  elbow  turn  is  the  librarians’  break  room,  and  then  you’re  back  at  the  office  feeling  a  little  dizzy. Forest always  felt  a  queer  pleasant  jolt  when  he  went  around  this  and  realized  he  was  back  where  he’d  started. Random bookshelves  were  stuck  all  along  the  walls  of  the  passages  wherever  there  was  room.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                Forest  went  into  the  history  room. It had  four  low  round  overhead  lamps,  a  lone  computer  (not  Internet)  and  two  tables,  as  well  as  several  low  bookshelves. Pulling down  a  couple  of  books  he  sighed  gloomily. Why he  hated  Egyptian  stuff  so  much  he  didn’t  know,  but  he  did. Naturally the  assignment  had  been  about  Egypt. He would  have  suspected  his  teacher  of  doing  it  on  purpose,  but  he  was  pretty  sure  she  didn’t  know  he  existed. Putting the  books  on  the  table  he  opened  one  and  rested  his  chin  on  his  hands,  gazing  blankly  at  the  page. Names and  ancient  events  paced  sedately  before  his  eyes. He read  the  same  sentence  three  or  four  times  without  absorbing  the  meaning,  for  an  image  was  egging  his  mind  and  would  not  give  up. He lifted  his  eyes  from  the  book  and  stared  absently  at  the  painted  brick  wall  opposite  him  as  he  realized  that  something  about  the  Tree  he  had  never  been  able  to  pin  down. That gold  sheen,  very  faint,  on  the  leaves  and  petals  and  trunk  of  one  side—it  was  a  reflection. There was  another  source  of  light,  but  it  had  been  out  of  the  picture  in  his  dreams,  off  to  the  side. The man  gazing  back  into  his  eyes  nodded  solemnly,  as  if  approving  a  belated  guess.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              Forest  crashed  into  reality  with  a  jump. He hadn’t  heard  anyone  come  in,  and  yet  sitting  across  the  table  from  him  was  a  man  of  eccentric  appearance. His face  had  a  peaked,  wizened  look  to  it,  but  a  second  look  convinced  Forest  the  man  was  actually  not  at  all  old. Beard stubble  dirtied  his  odd  face. He had  bright,  peculiar  eyes,  a  blue  like  winter  sky  fading  into  amber-hazel  around  the  pupils. A brown  leather  coat,  very  wrinkled  and  worn,  was  pulled  close  about  him. His hair  was  dark,  but  Forest’s  artistic  eyes  realized  immediately  the  shade  was  one  he  had  never  seen  in  human  hair,  only  in  the  trunks  of  fallen  trees  in  deep  mossy  forests:  a  dark  brown/dark  green  that  defied  reproduction. He guessed  that  even  if  he  blended  all  his  browns  and  pine-greens  he  would  never  hit  that  hue.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">    “Sorry.”  said  Forest,  suddenly  aware  he  was  staring. “Didn’t—um, hear  you  come  in.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">      “Don’t  let  me  be  your  disturbance,  please.”  the  stranger  said,  waving  him back  to  a  seat. “Sit, sit,  sit. Deep in  study  or  deep  in  a  study?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Um,  I  don’t  know.”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         The  stranger  sighed. “A brown  study.”  he  said  patiently. “Defined as  a  state  of  studious  abstraction  due  to  thinking  pretty  hard  about  something  else. I’ll wager  it  had  something  to  do  with  trees.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         “Only  one  Tree.”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">        “The  one  you  dream  about? The silver  laurel  all  in  white? That one?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Uh-huh. But there’s,  a,  something  out  of  place…on  the  side  of  it,  it’s  like  a  glow…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Gold?”  the  stranger  said. The peculiar  eyes  were  sparkling  with  an  odd  light. sympathetic and somehow  akin. Dizzily Forest  realized  the  man  was  understanding  him,  he  could  speak  the  language  the  boy’s  thoughts  spoke.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “You’ve  seen  it,  too,  you’ve  seen  it?”  he  spluttered.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Easy,  lad,  breathe  in,  breathe  out.”  the  man  drawled. “Course I’ve  seen  it. And more  than  it,  Forest. Aye, far  more  than  it.”  His  eyes  distanced  as  a  sudden  well  of  vast  age  and  memory  yawned  in  them  for  a  moment,  and  then  closed  as  he  refocused  on  the  boy.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Then  what  is  it? The glow?”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Another  Tree,  of  course.”  the  stranger  said  gently.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Forest  leaned  back  against  his  chair. The grey  table  under  him  was  invisible. The room  was  invisible. All Forest  saw  was  the  Tree,  the  thing  he  had  dreamed  of  for  so  long;  he  beheld  it  again  in  his  mind  and  examined  that  reflection,  that  glow  that  spoke  of  yet  Another  tree. One had  been  overwhelming;  that  there  could  be  Two  was  a  thought  staggering  beyond  comprehension.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Forest?”  his  mom’s  voice  echoed  faintly  down  to  him. “Wake up,  sweetheart! I’m here  to  take  you  home,  remember? Did you  get  your  studying  done? Did you  even  open  the  book??”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Forest  blinked  and  looked  around. His bottom  really  hurt,  and  that  meant  he’d  been  sitting  on  those  hard  chairs  for  an  hour  or  two. He and  his  mom  were  alone  in  the  little  room. He got  up  stiffly  and  lurched  out  into  the  hall,  peering  around. No one.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Honey,  are  you  all  right? You there  at  all? Hello in  there?”  his  mom  was  saying  in  some  far-off  distance.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “He’s  gone.” said  Forest  dismally.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           He  didn’t  respond  to  his  mom’s  ceaseless  chatter  as  she  herded  him  up  the  stairs  and  along  the  hall. The young  librarian  looked  up  with  a  bright  smile  and  said  “Oh,  you  found  him! Have a good  day!”  as  they  went  by. The rain  had  stopped  and  Forest  was  surprised  to  see  that  it  was  nearly  dark.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Are  you  all  right,  dear?”  The  anxiety  level  in  her  tone  was  beginning  to  approach  danger  point;  Forest  thought  desperately  and  said,  “I  was  thinking,  I  guess.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             His  mom,  relieved  to  hear  him  speak,  began  asking  him  what  he  was  thinking  about. Draw him  out,  encourage  him  to  talk,  the  psychologist  had  told  her.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “I  was  thinking  about  the  Tree.”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Tree. We never  should  have  named  you  Forest;  that’s  probably  what  made  you  get  like  this. Sometimes I’m  worried  about  you,  honey. What was  so  absorbing  about  this  tree,  anyway?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “There  are  Two  of  them.”  he  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         “Two? Do they  have  fall  colors  on  them? Are they  big  trees?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “They—glow.”  He  had  not  meant  that  at  all;  but  how  do you  describe  a  tree  that  grows  light?

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Oh. Well, that’s  nice;  at  least  they’re  not  big  scary  trees  like  in  the  horror  movies,  those  used  to  give  me  nightmares  with  the  skulls  on  them  and  all,  and  Cornie  would  just  laugh  and  drink  it  all  in  while  I  clung  to  him  and  couldn’t  look…”  She  fell  silent,  and  they  drove  along  the  lake  in  silence,  each  wrapped  in  their  own  thoughts.

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               Forest  and  his  mom  had  some difficulty  parking  the  car  near  their  church,  as  they  were  barely  on  time  and  the  parking  lot  and  streets  nearby  were  occupied. Mrs. Lake drove  around  a  little  before  deciding  to  just  park  on  Main  St. and walk.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           As  he  always  did,  Forest  admired  the  outside  of  the  First  Church  of  Christ,  located  about  a  hundred  yards  north  of  the  library  at  the  corner  of  Main  and  Spencer  Hill  Rd. Squat and  strong  like  a  fortress,  the  tall  steeple  rising  above  the  front  doors,  the  round  arches  and  narrow  columns  of  the  belfry,  the  rambling  castle-like  architecture  of  the  remainder  with  the  secondary  tower  on  the  right,  which  had  no  bells  in  its’  open  arches,  the  peaked  roofs  in  all  directions,  and  the  little  balcony-tower  on  the  left:  the  sandstone  trim  contrasting  nicely  with  they  grey  granite. He reached  ahead  of  his  mom  and  opened  the  blue  wooden  door  for  her;  she hadn’t  taught  him  to  do  that,  it  was  something  he  learned  from  old  books. It always  made  his  mom  look  pink  and  happy,  so  Forest  liked  to  do  it.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              The  vestibule  had  a  carpet  fern  pattern,  pale  green-white  ferns  on  reddish-purple. Windows let  in  a  flood  of  white  sunlight  and  it  was  always  bright  here. A potted  fern  stood  in  one  corner  and  Forest  remembered  how  he  had  asked  his  mom  how  it  lived  without  any  water  and  his mom  explaining  it  was  artificial. The doors  were  tall  and  square,  with  red  and  purple  stained  glass  panels. The ceiling  was  white,  offset  by  dark  brown  wainscot  and  trim. Curving narrow  stairs  on  the  left  led  up  to  the  gallery  and  down  to  subterranean  depths. Mom was  laughing  at  some  joke  the  pastor  was  making  and  her  high  laugh  bounced  upon  the  walls. Forest felt  glad. Mom laughed  a  lot  more  now,  but  there  had  been  a  time—long  ago,  maybe  three  whole  years—when  she  hadn’t  laughed  at  all. Dad had  gone,  and  he  took  all  her  laughter  with  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Finally  Mom  got  done  chatting  and  the  pastor  had  embarrassed  him  as  usual  by  talking  to  him  like  a  little  kid  and  they  could  go  in  and  find  a  seat. The semicircular  nave  was  already  nearly  full;  the  congregation  numbered  about  a  hundred,  twelve  or  thirteen  of  which  were  pretty  young  girls  in  tawdry  jean  wear. There were  several  families  with  young  children. Most of  the  worshippers  were  middle-aged,  with  only  about  a  fifth  being  old. They were  dressed  in  a  wide  range  from  ordinary  Sunday  to  casual;  some  of  the  old  men  wore  suits. Forest saw  the  two  servers  for  the  week—Melissa  and  Glen  it  looked  like,  but  they  looked  so  different  in  their  blue  cassocks—come  down  the  main  aisle  and  light  the  candles. He paid  little  attention:  something  was nagging  at  him,  something  important  he  had  to  remember. It had  been  bothering  him  all  morning.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              After  the  Bible  reading  and  responses,  they  sat  down  at  last. Forest gazed  up  at  the  glass  chandelier. The light  bulbs  radiated  out  from  it  in  a  most  extraordinary  way,  like  stars. He looked  over  at  the  high  partitions  on  the  right  side  of  the  sanctuary,  great  sliding  walls  of  wood  and  glass  panel. The glass  was  a  cloudy  white  lined  with  green,  and  somehow  it  always  made  him  think  of  fishwater. He remembered  his  old  fancy  that  the  room  behind  was  an  aquarium  full  of  water,  and  when  they  slid  back  the  panels  that  a  flood  of  cloudy  water  and  strange  heraldic  stained-glass  fish  would  pour  out  and  fill  the  sloping  nave  like  a  bowl.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                    Pouring  water.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                        Stars.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                 Pouring,  rushing  water. Distant. Far-off.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               Like  a  flash  it  came  back  to  him,  the  dream  he  had  last  night,  forgotten  when  he  awoke  though  he  dimly  knew  he  had  to  remember  something. Church and  pastor  faded  out  around  him.

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             ''The  ancient ragged  grey  farmhouse  stood  at  the  height  of  the  great  valley. Time-stained, if  it  had  ever  been  painted  the  color  had  long  since  departed  to  the  land  of  ghosts. Forest stood  with  the  strange  house  on  his  left,  gazing  out  over  the  valley. Immense, beautiful,  like  a  mighty  gulf  in  the  earth,  the  house  stood  at  its’  crest. Steep rolling  fields  and  orchard  swelled  downward  in  a  broad  plunging  ridge,  to  a  forested  floor  where  the  river  flowed;  and  sudden  shot  up  the  opposite  wall,  precipitous  and  sheer,  its’  crest  on  a  level  with  his  eyes. The valley  head  was  rounded  and  distant,  and  down  every  section  of  it  tumbled  a  broad  waterfall. Intricate with  distance,  half  concealed  by  trees,  thin  lacey  cataracts  tumbled  down  the  high  cliffs,  a  forest  of  pine  fringing  the  valley  and  filling  the  floor  and  marching  up  on  the  right. Hemlock mingled  with  pine,  vivid,  intricate green  and  brown;  but  those  were  the  only  colors,  for  the  view  beyond  could  not  be  seen,  save  for  dim  and  misty  shapes  of  blue  and  whiteish-grey. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Forest  turned  to  the  house. It was  perched  on  supports—whether  masonry  or  beams  he  could  never  remember—where  the  ground  sloped  on  the  far  side; on  this  side  was  a  porch  of  ancient  wood  facing  them,  for  he  was  not  alone,  another  was  with  him,  but  Forest  was  only  aware  of  him  as  a  vague  presence,  half-heeded  and  ignored,  as  invisible  to  him  as  he  was  to  others. Arheled was  sitting  on  the  porch  in  an  old  chair,  for  he  lived  there;  he  looked  stocky,  even  uncouth,  a  rough-looking  old  man  in  clothes  worn  so  long  by  hard  work  that  they  too  were  rough  as  split  wood. He had  a  quiet  voice  and  strange,  powerful  eyes. Yet somehow  Forest  felt  he  was…it  was  hard,  even  in  his  dream,  to  articulate,  but  he  seemed  more  than  what  Forest  saw. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “The  Daslenga  flows  everlastingly,  for  angry  is  he  that  he  cannot  depart,  nor  can  he  flow  as  he  was  wont,  lest  he  dry  up  as  all  outside  here  has.”  said  Arheled. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              Forest  had  a  dim  impression  of  saying  something,  but  for  the  life  of  him  what  he  said  he  could  never  bring  back  to  mind. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “The  Falls  has  been  in  past  Silver  Falls.”  Arheled  answered. “At the  bottom  of  the  torrent  is  the  Silver  Falls  Basin,  from  which  the  Gods  dipped  great  pitchers  when  they  went  to  make  the  Stars.” ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             He  had  been  here  before,  he  knew,  even  in  his  dream. If it  had  been  a  dream,  for it  had  an  uncanny  clarity  like  real  things,  the  roar  of  the  far  falls,  the  great  pines  some  way  off  to  the  left,  the  level  bare  forest  behind  him  out  of  which  he  had  come,  must  have  come. He wanted  to  write  down  the  things  that  Arheled  was  saying,  but  he  couldn’t. Third time  I’ve  been  here  and  I  still  haven’t  brought  writing  materials,  he  thought,  exasperated. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “You  came  not  that  way  but  this.”  Arheled  pointed. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            He  was  indicating  the  right-hand  side  of  the  gulf  valley. Here the  pine  forest  came  up  closer  to  the  house  though  still  some  way  below,  and  among  the  pines  flowed  the  river  from  the  falls. The house  was  in  some way  near  to  a  long  narrow  old  gravel  road  through  the  wild. He had  a  sense  of  wild  country  stretching  leagues  uncountable  in  every  direction. The road  was  difficult  to  study,  to  see  where  it  came  from  or  where  it  went;  sometimes  during  the  mysterious  conversation  it  seemed  to  follow  the  river  down  toward  the  falls,  sometimes  it  ran  at  the  very  door  of  the  old  grey  house,  right  behind  him  as  he  stood  facing  the  porch. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Where  does  the  road  come  from?”  said  Forest,  even  as  the  other  said,  “Where  does  it  go?” ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Where  does  it  come  from  and  where  does  it  go,  why  does  it  wander  and  where  does  it  show. It comes  from  the  mountains,  Forest. It goes  where  it  must,  Ronmond. I can  steer  and  I  can  call,  but  the  road  is  itself,  and  I  cannot  unsay  it.” ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “But  what  IS  the  road?”  said  the  other. Forest turned  in  horror,  lest  his  question  draw  down  anger,  and  saw  Ronmond:  a  sharp  intense  face  like  the  edge  of  a  blade,  burning  to  know  the  things  that  no  one  can  know  nor  has  any  right  to  know. But Arheled  was  not  angry. He began  to  speak,  and  as  he  spoke  his  voice  grew,  rising  like  a  chant. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “There  was  a  man  of  double  deed, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              Who  sowed  his  garden  full  of  weed….” ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">

''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">       Ronmond  stared  at  the  uncouth  figure,  blank  dismay  and  a  sort  of  despair  in  his  eyes. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “When  the  weed  began  to  blow  ‘twas  like  a  field  full  of  snow, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                 When  the  snow  began  to  melt,  ‘twas  like  a  ship  without  a belt…” ''

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''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          The  old  man’s  voice  was  grown  as  great  as  the  sea,  and  it  seemed  the  sound  of  storms  innumerable  were  gathered  up  in  it. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"> ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                “When  the  ship  began  to  sail  twas  like  a  bird  without  a  tail, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                   When  the  bird  began  to  fly  twas  like  an  eagle  in  the  sky, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                   When  the  sky  began  to  roar  twas  like  the  Herald  at  my  door, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                   When  the  door  began  to  crack,  twas  like  a  hammer  on  my  back….” ''

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''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         Arheled  stood  upon  his  porch  and  thistledown  flew  like  snow  past  his  ears  as  the  wind  crashed  about  him,  and  still  his  voice  roared, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">

''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                  “When  my  back  began  to  smart  twas  like  an  arrow  in  the  stars, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                    When  the  stars  began  to  flee  then  did  my  heart  begin  to  bleed, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              When  my  heart  began  to  bleed,  then  twas  death  and  death  and  death  indeed…” ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"> ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                 And  the  wind  had  filled  Forest  and  the  wind  had  whirled  Forest  away,  off  into  another  tangle  of  dreams,  but  always  running  through  them  was  that  terrible  crack  of  the  heavens  breaking  like  a  twig……….. ''

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               Mom  was  shaking  him. They had  finished  singing  the  sending  song. She was  saying  something  about  cookies  in  the  coffee  room,  and  he  came  back  to  the  church  around  him  with  a  dazed  feeling  of  disorientation,  as  if  he  had  fallen  asleep  again  in  the  pew.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           He  ate  cookies  and  enormous,  gooey,  thick  roses  of  frosting  on  the  Halloween  cake  with  a  certain  abstraction. He was  remembering  the  dream.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Who  was  Arheled?

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            What  was  the  Road?

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Mrs. Lake sat  up  with  a  sudden  gasp. The sound  that  woke  her  came  again,  rising  above  the  moan  of  wind:  wild,  desperate  bawling,  coming  from  Forest’s  room. Clutching her  nightgown  she  dashed  up  the  stairs  and  into  his  bedroom. Forest was  sitting  up  in  bed,  knees  drawn  to  his  chest  and  his  head  buried  in  them,  wailing  as  if  his  heart  would  break.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Forest! Forest, dear,  what  is  it? What’s wrong? Did you  have  a  bad  dream?”  she  babbled,  sitting  beside  him  and  trying  to  comfort  him. Seeing her  unemotional  15-year-old  boy  in  this  state  was  alarming  beyond  compare.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Forest  lifted  his  head. In the  fitful  moonlight  his  eyes  gleamed  huge  and  wet  and  agonized. “I saw  them.”  he  choked. “In my  sleep. I saw  both  of  them.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Both  of  what? Tell me  about  it,  honey,  and  maybe  you’ll  feel  better.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Forest’s  eyes,  wide  with  anguish,  bored  into  hers. He drew  several  great  shuddering  breaths. “I saw  the  Two  Trees.”  he  managed  at  last  to  say. “Gold. One was  yellow. One was  silver. They grew  light. They dripped  it. They lit  the  land.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “But,  honey,  what  happened?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Forest  began  to  sob  again.  “Darkness bit  them.”  his  voice  came  out  of  his  tears,  suddenly  rough  and  terrible. “It’s rider  stabbed  them,  and  darkness  sucked  them…They  are  dead….The  Gods  themselves  are  weeping…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              Chrissy  Lake,  mother,  divorcee,  party  girl  and  working  mom,  felt  all  of  this  drop  off  and  fade  to  an  immeasurable  distance,  and  she  was  alone  in  the  darkness,  with  no  defenses,  a  frightened  little  girl  of  thirty-one. The dreadful  words  of  her  weeping  boy  hung  in  the  air  like  a  life  of  their  own,  in  the  dark  air,  and  the  rider  of  the  darkness  looked  at  her and  laughed. The shrivelled  stems  of  two  dead  Trees  hung  before  her  mind  and  would  not  leave. She clutched  Forest  to  her,  not  as  a  mother  giving  comfort  but  as  if  he  were  somehow  the  one  who  was  stronger. He was  no  longer  crying. She began  to  shiver,  helplessly. Her son  put  an  arm  around  her  back.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “It’s  okay,  Mommy.”  Forest  said  gently. The frightening  roughness  was  gone  from  his  voice,  but  he  seemed  suddenly  older,  as  if  he  were  the  father  and  she  the  one  who  had  woken  up  with  a  nightmare. “It was  a  dream. It happened  long  ago,  and  it’s  over  now. You don’t  have  to  be  scared.” And Mrs. Lake was  the  one  who  was  now  crying,  as  she  held  her  strange  old  son  close  to  her  in  the  weird  night.

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                Forest  walked  upon  his  island  and  gazed  out  at  the  lake. He was  supposed  to  be  doing  his  homework,  but  Indian  Summer  had  come—late—and  it  was  just  way  too  nice  out. Julian and  the  others  would  probably  be  playing  or  hanging  out  in  the  park  or  something,  but  Forest  had  no  friends  to  play  with. People didn’t  notice  him  much;  he  was  the  sort  of  kid  that  would  ordinarily  get  picked  on  by  bullies,  except  for  the  odd  fact  that  his  pale  hair  and  thin  face  rendered  him  so  nondescript  he  could  pass  along  an  empty  hall  and  not  be  observed. It was  an  attribute  he  put  to  frequent  use.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              The  brown  house  stood  on  a  small  island halfway  down  Highland  Lake. Part of  it  had  a  log-cabin  facing;  all  of  it  was  brown. Forest rounded  the  corner  and  paused  at  the  big  oak  outside  his  window. It glowed  a  sort  of  bronze-russet,  and  the  boy  smiled  as  he  gazed  at  the  color. The island  shore  curved  tightly  around  the  end  of  the  house,  bending  left  as  he  faced  the  wide  southern  expanse  of  lake. Some tattered  blue  spruce  grew  on  the  right,  beside  the  gravel  parking  area. He glanced  at  the  big  sliding  doors  leading  to  the  living  room,  right  under  his  window  in  the  end  of  the  house,  and  wondered  if  he’d  unlocked  them. Probably not. Forest paced  out  onto  the  dock,  high  and  dry  above  the  rocks. The lake  had  been  drawn  down  for  the  winter,  dropping  about  4  feet  and  exposing  the  rocks  on  that  side,  as  well  as  the  pyramidal  concrete  base  of  the  dock. The floating  section  was  drawn  up  to  the  shore  under  the  barn  out  by  the  road. He sat  down  under  the  oak. The lawn  was  mostly  hard  moss  and  not  very  comfortable,  even  without  the  pavement  of  acorns. The “gwirlies”  as  Forest  had  called  the  squirrels  when  he  was  five,  would  have  a  feast  this  year.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             He  stared  out  over  the  lake  for  a  while. After the  broad  head  of  it’s  northern  end,  First  Bay,  Highland  Lake  narrowed,  opening  out  into  a  triangular  cove,  then  narrowed  still  further  as  it  passed  his  island  and  broadened  out  into  the  huge  reach  of  Second  Bay. At the  far  side  he  could  see  the  Big  Island  jutting  out,  masted  with  spiky  pines,  and  rising  above  it  the  low  cone  of  Platt  Hill. Third Bay  lay  beyond  it:  the  southern  end  of  the  Lake. When his  father  had  been  here,  he  used  to  take  Forest  and  Mom  in  the  old  green  motorboat  up  and  down  the  lake. Now the  boat  sat  on  its’  trailer  in  the  cramped  parking  area,  tarped,  unused  for  years. Forest jerked  his  head  away  from  the  Big  Island,  trying  to  put  it  away. Trying to  forget.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Summer  Rock  on  the  other  side  of  the  Narrows  met  his  eyes. It was  only  a  couple  hundred  feet  or  so  away. He called  it  that  because  whoever  lived  in  the  cabin  behind  it  had  painted  in  huge  balloon  letters  CARELESS  SUMMER  and  in  a  white  circle  farther  over  SUMMR  FOREVER  at  a  much  later  date. The balloon  letters  were  painted  a  lovely  red,  yellow  and  green. Like apples. On the  big  slope  of  stone  it  looked  quite  beautiful. Lacy green  hemlocks  grew  around  it  like  a  frame. Now that  the  lake  was  down  you could  see  the  reef  of  big  rocks  that  ran  out  from  the  southern  end. Forest got  up  and  headed  around  the  house.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               The  house  had  a  barn-like  roof  on  the  east  side,  the  side  away  from  the  road,  facing  the  Narrows. It came  down  right  to  the  ground  and  moss  grew  on  the  shingles. A peaked  gable-end  jutted  from  this  roof,  two  stories  high. A long  low  wing  ran  on  past  this,  giving  the  house  a  lopsided  T  shape  with  a  very short  leg:  it  was  this  wing  that  had  the  log-siding. Dad had  been  about  to  do  the  roof  when  he  left,  and  the  two  long  ladders  still  leaned  against  the  gable-end  and  what  Mom  called  the  “ground-roof”. This side  of  the  island  Forest  had  named  the  Pine  Alley,  due  to  the  fringe  of  tall  young  conifers  running  along  the  sea-wall  that  protected  the  east  and  north  shores. He walked  behind  them,  smiling  up  at  them:  each  one  he  had  climbed  many  times,  and  each  held  favorite  perches  and  “points”  to  sit  on. The blue  spruce  with  no  low  branches. The white  pine. The silvery  olive-bush  with  its’  huge  clusters  of  puckery  red  berries. The two  green  spruces  where  the  wall  rose  like  a  rim,  at  the  corner  where  the  shore  bent  west. There was  a  gap  in  the  wall. The rim  was  higher  after  the  gap,  where  it  turned  the  corner;  it  always  felt  like  a  ship’s  prow. Above it  the  spindly  spruce  had  finally  given  up  the  ghost,  and  now  bore  only  a  triangle  of  rusty  brown  needles  at  its’  crown. The thin  spruce  next,  around  the  corner,  looked  ready  to  follow.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              The  air  was  very  warm  and  soft. There was  hardly  a  breeze. Forest climbed  into  the  small  maple  past  the  thin  spruce. It had  lost  its’  orange  and  red  leaves  two  days  ago  and  now  was  bare  as  winter. Several more  trees  along  the  north  shore:  a  small  blue  spruce,  the  green  spruce  he’d  thought  was  a  Norway  until  Dad  taught  him  otherwise  (“That’s  a  white  spruce,  not  a  Norway  spruce;  Norways  weep”),  the  white  pine  with  the  birch  growing  through  it. Then came  the steps  in  the  sea-wall  leading  down  to  the  water. There a  sloping  shelf  of  stone  ran  out,  from  just  underwater  to  almost  four  feet  deep,  and  there  a  huge  stone  rose  up  right  out  of  the  lake. When he  was  a  kid  Forest  had  loved  to  jump  off  it. The water  was  down  farther  than  usual:  the  entire  rock  lay  dry,  banded  with  the  water-mark  near  the  crown. The lake  ran  inward  in  a  small  bay,  rocks  jutting  up  from  the  lowered  water,  until  the  shallow  strait  cutting  his  island  from  the  land. The strait  was  dry  now,  a  slope  of  leaf-paved  mud,  and  the  island  was  no  longer  a  true  island. Forest passed  the  steps  built  into  the  sea-wall  and  hopped  up  onto  the  Split  Rock  Point.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             He  was  past  the  house’s  narrow  north  end  now. The shore  turned  left  and  receded  south,  and  where  it  turned,  the  wall  was  interrupted  by  a  high  egg-shaped  rock,  cloven  in  two. It was  almost  as  high  as  Forest. Beyond it  the  sea-wall  ran  on  in  a  curve,  out  to  the  stonework  of  the  covered  bridge. There were  some  bushes  and  small  trees  growing  wild  around  the  Rock. The bridge  had  solid  sides  to  waist-height;  the  rest  was  open,  crossed  by  vertical  wood  bars  like  intersecting  X’s. It was  about  15  feet  long. After it  was  a  short  drive  to  the  street,  a  forsythia  on  the  right  and  a  larch  on  the  left  overhanging  the  old  barn  that  stood  by  the  street. It had  been  red,  once,  but  the  sides  were  faded  and  moss  grew  on  the  shingles.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Not  a  very  big  island,  thought  Forest  critically. Two hundred  and  fifty  feet  at  best  from  one  end  to  the  other,  north  to  south  that  is;  much  less  across. But he  liked  it  small.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">        One  time  long  ago,  before  Dad  left,  the  people  from  the  Big  Island  used  to  come  over  here. Forest had  crouched  in  his  room  wide-eyed  and  listening  as  his  dad  and  mom  drank  beers  under  the  oak  with  the  couple  from  Big  Island. They had  a  boy,  but  he  was  usually  at  soccer  or  something. Even at  that  age  Forest  had  realized  these  people  looked  down  at  his  parents. The lady  was  gold-haired  and  really  pretty,  prettier  than  Mom,  but  she  looked—bad. Sort of  well-bred  nasty. The man  was  big  and  jovial  and  Forest  had  hated  him  instantly. He lay  there,  listening  to  Mr. Mwaha and  Mrs. Sneer, as  he  christened  them,  saying  meaningless  little  grown-up  things. Things that  sounded  all  right,  but  under  them  were  the  things  they  were  really  saying;  and  those  things  had  a  faint  bite. Like poison. Mom and  Dad’s  laughter  had  sounded  a  bit  forced.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Forest  couldn’t  understand  why  they  kept  coming  over. Especially Mrs. Sneer. She only  seemed  to  sneer  at  Mom,  though. Why didn’t  Dad  make  them  go  away? It was  around  then  that  Mom  and  Dad  had  started  to  yell  at  each  other. Forest was  only  nine  then  but  he  knew  it  was  because  of  the  Nasties  of  Big  Island  that  they  yelled. Quite often  that  summer  they  treated  the  Lakes  to  rides  in  their  big  flashy  boat  with  the  powerful  motor;  but  Dad  especially. Forest found  the  huge  boat’s  speed  and  power  terrifying,  and  being  condescended  to  by  the  Nasties’  boy  didn’t  help.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Mom’s  little  red  Honda  came  crunching  up  the  gravel  drive,  and  then  the  tires  rumbled  hollow  in  the  bridge  and  then  gravel  crunched  again. Mom parked  beside  the  boat  in  the  little  parking  area  behind  the  sea-wall  steps  and  Split  Rock,  and  Forest  slid  resignedly  off  the  rock  and  went  over  to  close  the  gate.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “I’m  home,  darling!”  Mom  laughed  as  she  swung  out  of  the  car. “Help me  take  in  the  groceries,  OK? There’s ice  cream  in  one  bag!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Kinda  the  wrong  season.”  said  Forest  as  he  emerged  from  the  covered  bridge. A chain-link  fence  gate  blocked  the  far  end  and  had  to  be  opened  and  shut  whenever  Mom  went  anywhere. Forest always  kept  it  open  when  he  came  from  school  so  Mom  could  just  pull  in  when  she  got  out  of  work. He hefted  both  bags  at  once,  secretly  pleased  at  the  developing  muscles  in  his  arms,  and  headed  for  the  house.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Yeah,  but  it’s  so  hot  out  and  you  need  a  treat,  don’t  you,  after  last  night  and  all  that. I need  one,  too,  for  that  matter. Am I  glad  to  be  back!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Hard  day?”  said  Forest. He really  just  wanted  to  be  silent  and  let  Mom  jabber,  but  he  knew  she  liked  it  when  he  asked  about  her  day. She was  a  history  teacher.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Oh,  you  have  no  idea. Those kids  can  be  such  a  pain,  you  know  they  need  a  good  smacking  but  if  you  so  much  as  raise  your  voice  they  complain  and  they  whine  and  then  suddenly  the  principal  is  talking  gravely  to  you  about  how  you  need  to  be  more  inclusive  and  understanding. Ugh! The problem  is  the  parents  need  a  good  whack  on  the  bottom  themselves  and  they’ve  raised  their  kids  to  be  sissies  and  wimps  like  they  are—but  who’s  going  to  whack  a  parent?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Forest  found  the  ice  cream  and  uncapped  it. Strawberry swirl.  Mmmmm. He got  the  scooper  and  a  plate  and  scooped  two  heaping  scoops  onto  it.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         “Forest,  good  heavens,  you’ll  get  sick  if  you  eat  that  much…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Forest  plunked  the  plate  in  front  of  her. “Eat.” he  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Mom  giggled  and  put  her  hands  over  her  face. “I have  to  watch  my  calories!”  she  laughed. “I can’t  eat  all  this!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “You  won’t  have  to  get  seconds.”  Forest  said. He shoved  a  spoon  into  her  ice  cream  and  started  trying  to  shovel  it  into  her  mouth. “Start eating.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Oh,  you’re  such  a  sweetie.”  Mom  said,  going  pink. She took  the  spoon  and  smiled. “Since you  insist.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Forest  got  some  more  for  himself. Two heaping  scoops  more,  in  fact. His mom  was  halfway  through  her  second  scoop  when  they  heard  the  doorbell  ring.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “That’s  weird.”  she  said. “That bell  hasn’t  been  working  for  two  years. Maybe a  circuit  faulted.”  She  sighed  as  she  got  up. “I wish  your  father  was  here. He used  to  know  so  much  about  things  like  that.”  She  walked  toward  the  door. “I hope  it’s  not  that  creepy  homeless  man  I’ve  seen  wandering  along  the  shore  road,  looking  for  a  job  or  something,  probably,  I  really  couldn’t  bear  to  have  him  here  all  the  time  and  I’m  sure  I’d  hurt  his  feelings  because  I  never  can  hide  it  when  I  don’t  like  someone.”  She  peered  out  the  window,  but  no  one  was  at  the  door. She opened  it  and  tried  the  doorbell,  but  it  was  as  dead  as  ever. Forest went  outside  and  looked  around. No one.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Maybe  you  scared  him  away.”  he  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Oh,  Forest,  honey,  don’t  be  absurd! There was  nobody  here. Where could  he  have  gone,  hmm? It’s an  old  bell  and  probably  something  shorted  inside  it.”

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              Indian  Summer  left  as  quick  as  it  came. Forest woke  up  the  next  morning  and  was  greeted  by  the  sight  of  grey,  cold  clouds  scudding  through  the  half-bare  branches  of  the  oak  outside  his  window. The lake  was  a  cold  grey-white  and  rumpled;  an  intermittent  wind  was  blowing. Forest shivered  and  pulled  the  covers  closer:  the  air  in  the  room  was  very  cold  because  Mom  hadn’t  turned  on  the  furnace  as  last  night  was  so  mild. He shrugged. At least  it  was  Saturday.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              He  ate  corn  flakes  in  bed  while  reading  Garth  Nix’s  The  7th  Tower  books. They were  really  good;  there  was  a  simple  sort  of  brilliance  in  the  imagery,  like  jewels,  or  stained  glass. The only  thing  he  didn’t  like  was  the  rushed  feel  of  the  narrative  and  the  constant  overuse  of  cliffhangers. Cliffhangers were  annoying. But after  only  a  few  pages  beyond  the  end  of  his  bowl  of  cereal,  Forest  found  himself  losing  concentration. This was,  after  all,  the  third  time  he’d  read  the  series. He tossed  the  book  aside  and  got  up. What he  really  wanted  was  to  climb  the  mountain  across  the  road;  a  sudden  desire  to  see  the  deep  old  greens  of  that  forest  was  coming  upon  him. He dressed  warmly;  it  felt  like  it  was  going  to  be  cold.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              Mrs. Lake was  still  asleep,  as  her  closed  door  testified,  so  Forest  got  his  coat  and  hat  very  quietly  and  scrawled  on  the  bathroom-door  marker  board,  GONE  UP  MT. LOVE, F.  He  had  forced  himself  to  make  a  habit  of  leaving  messages  when  his  odd  urge  to  enter  the  woods  took  him,  after  a  few  disastrous  scenarios  of  very  worried  Mom. Now it  came  second  nature. Mrs. Lake knew  perfectly  well  what  MT  meant,  as  he  went  there  most  often,  so  he  didn’t  need  to  specify.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               He  was  right  about  the  cold. A raw  late  October  wind  blew  in  stiff  gusts  from  the  south,  making  him  think  briefly  about  going  back  for  his  gloves. But he  knew  he’d  only  be  taking  them  off  during  his  climb  and  probably  losing  them  into  the  bargain,  and  besides  the  exertion  would  warm  him  up. He walked  across  the  covered  bridge  and  opened  the  chain-link  gate,  leaving  it  open  in  case  Mom  had  to  go  somewhere. He passed  the  old  red  barn  and  crossed  the  shore  road. On the  far  side  he  had  to  cross  the  Henriques’  rising  yard—they  had  the  rambling  little  brown  house  right  under  the  mountain,  but  they’d  long  ago  given  him  permission,  as  yards  shut  off  the  mountain  in  both  directions  along  the  road. True, you  could  cross  the  camp  cabins  down  the  road  as  they  were  empty  for  the  winter,  or  you  could  climb  the  worst  cliff  in  the  world  over  by  the  Ugly-house  in  the  other  direction,  where  the  mountain  rose  right  up  from  the  road. He’d done  that  a  couple  times  before  the  Henriques  gave  him leave  to  cross,  and  for  a  boy  of  ten  that  was  a  daunting  feat.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             A  crazy  little  shed  covered  with  irrelevant  and  random  signs  stood  on  the  floor  of  what  had  obviously  been  an  ancient  cabin. Only the  stone  chimney  remained,  rising  incongruously  behind  the  shed. The Henriques  had  barbecues  there  in  summer. Forest passed  it  by  and  began  the  long  hard  scramble.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               The  western  shore  of  Highland  Lake  is  bounded  by  a  sheer  edge  of  land,  where  the  highlands  of  Winchester  drop  in  broken  walls  and  rolling  vertical  slopes  over  two  hundred  feet  to  the  shore  road. Opposite his  island  was  a  stack  of  great  piled rocks,  grey-blue  litchened  chunks  the  size of  cars  or  boats,  as  well  as  a  few  sheer  faces  of  bare  mountain. Forest knew  every  inch  of  the  rocks  and  the  delightful  miniature  caves  in  them,  and  did  not  pause. Higher up the  golden-brown  and  yellow  of  beech  and  tall  oak  gave  way  to  tall  snarled  hemlocks,  rising  like  green  pillars  against  the  bright  brown  floor. The worst  part  was  past  as  the  slope  lessened. The hemlocks  grew  more  thick  and  mysterious  as  he  neared  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  their  rough  tangled  limbs  upholding  wings  of  ancient  green. Young hemlocks  grew  among  their  sires,  filling  air  and  ground  with  thick  deep  green.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Forest  smiled. This was  his  favorite  place. He followed  a  sort  of  trail,  made  by  the  fall,  perhaps,  of  some  broken  pine;  rotted  logs  all  thick  with  bright  green  moss  paved  it,  at  any  rate. An occasional  white  pine  or  oak  reared  itself  among  the  old  hemlocks. The green  limbs  drew  close  about  him  like  feathered  hands. He turned  a  curve  and  came  out  at  last  into  the  place  he  sought.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           In  a  glade  where  the  old  green  hemlocks  drew  aside,  an  incredible  white  pine  stood. Four twisted  trunks,  spiked  with  long-dead  branches,  rose  in  all  different  angles;  one  or  two  large  limbs  joined  them,  jutting  to  the  sides. The stump  and  moldering  logs  of  another  pine  lay  about  it,  and  the  interrupted  pillars  of  kinked  old  hemlock  and  the  ragged  cloaks  of  the  newer  ones  beneath  shrouded  the  glade  in  a  mystery  and  beauty  of  green. Forest leaned  against  the  ancient  pine  and  lost  himself  in  wandering  thought,  gazing  at  the  forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           This  glade  was  a  strange  place. There was  always  a  sort  of  feeling  about  it,  an  atmosphere  the  old  green  trees  exuded,  so  to  speak. It was  weakest  on  sunny  days. Strongest on  grey  ones. Like today. An atmosphere  of  mystery. If he  had  been  raised  on  fairy  stories  Forest  might  have  fancied  this  a  place  they  would  choose,  but  his  parents  being  Baptist  disliked  magic  and  told  him  stories  about  Sherriff  Honest  and  Deputy  Truthful  (that  would  be  his  mom)  or  Captain  Kirk  and  the  Cleons  (his  dad,  definitely)  and  so  fairy  stories  were  a  thing  acquired  in  later  years,  accepted  as  charming  tales  rather  than  part  of  a  child’s  reality. His strange  mind  was  free  of  such  subconscious  stereotypes  as  a  result:  not  something  he  always  liked.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                Free,  perhaps,  to  see  what  was  really  there.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                He  wondered,  as  he  gazed  at  the  green  forest. What was  there? What might  have  walked  here  in  the  times  before  man? Perhaps, when  he  turned  around,  he  might  be  gifted  with  a  glance,  a  glimpse  of  what  had  been,  of  what  had haunted  lake  and  hill  since  first  this  place  was  carved  out  of  the  ground. Wonder and  soft  anticipation  grew  in  him,  as  he  imagined  turning  to  meet  the  eyes  of  some  tall  and  ancient  being  of  earth  and  stone  and  tree. Slowly he  turned.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Hello,  Forest.”  said  a  man  standing  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  hemlocks.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Forest  gazed  in  blank  letdown. Ordinary life  had  caught  up  and  entered  even  this  mysterious  grove.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “I  thought.”  he  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Yes,  I  can  see.”  the  man  in  the  brown  leather  coat  answered. “Reality hits,  I  call  it. Even if  I  had  been  the  sort  of  being  you  expected,  it  would  have  been  a  letdown. Such people  never  look  the  way  you  think  they  would.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             His  voice  was  different  than  it  had  been  in  the  library. For the  life  of  him  Forest  could  not  figure  out  what  it  was. The tone,  grave  and  considerate,  underlaid  with  a  strange  kind  humor,  was  the  same. The quiet  low  voice  was  the  same. Maybe it  was  because  he  stood  in  the  mysterious  forest,  where  even  usual  things  took  on  subtle  and  new  meanings.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “They’re  here?”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            The  strange  man  chuckled. “Most children  would  have  said,  ‘Are  they  real?’  You  and  I  need  no  such  questions. We know  better.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             He  fell  silent,  and  neither  spoke  for  a  time. Forest felt,  in  this  old  forest  and  with  this  unusual  man,  a  sense  of  peace,  of  kinhome. He and  the  man  in  brown  knew. They didn’t  need  to  ask.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Been  a  long  time  since  I  last  stood  here.”  the  stranger  said,  gazing  toward  the  lake. A few  sparkles  of  grey-white  were  visible  between  boles  in  that  direction,  and  save  for  the  infrequent  rubbery  hiss  of  a  car  passing  far  below  they  might  have  been  removed  from  all  civilized  lands,  in  some  forgotten  place  between  whens,  gazing  out  upon  the  ancient  lake  that  was. “Yep, a  long  time.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “How  long?”  Forest  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Oh,  you’d  be  surprised,”  the  other  answered  with  a  warm  chuckle. “Last I  was  here,  that  island  of   yours  really  was  an  island. Your house  wasn’t  there. In fact,  most  of  the  houses  weren’t,  either. They’d just  carved  out  the  shore  road. Great farms  covered  Ward’s  Hill,  and  Spencer  Hill  was  all open,  not  just  the  crown. The hills  had  names  back  then.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Where’s  Ward’s  Hill?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Right  there.”  said  the  man  in  brown,  pointing  to  a  place  where  an  oak  interrupted  the  hemlocks. In the  gap,  through  the  leaves  and  branches,  a  rising  hill  could  be  made  out  the  peak low  but  definite. Forest was  pretty  sure  it  was  the  hill  above  Bachelor  School,  the  one  Pratt  St  climbed. The man  in  brown  was  not  pointing  toward it,  however,  but  to  the  left,  where  pines  marked  the  high  place  above  Summer  Rock.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “That?”  said  Forest. “I didn’t  know  it  had  one.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Nobody  does,  these  days.”  the  man  said  sadly. “Even the  old  fellows  who  lived  here  all  their  lives  have  never  taken  it  into  their  heads  to  wonder  if  the  heights  have  names  upon  their  brows. I ask  the  men  outside  the  Y:  ‘Where  is  Cobble  Hill? Where is  Pond  Hill?’  They  give  me  a  blank  stare  and  go  on  gabbing  of  the  Yankees. I ask  the  men  in  the  Coffee  Corner,  ‘Where  is  Street  Hill? Do you  know  of  Case  Mt?’  They  shrug  their  grease-stained  shoulders  and  go  back  to  drinking  beer. The only  one  who  knew  those  names  was  a  young  fellow  picking  cans.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “What’s  picking  cans?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Picking  them  up.”  replied  the  man  in  brown  leather. “To cash  them  at  Super  Stupor. Each one’s  worth  a  nickel,  Forest.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “You  mean,  like  the  tramps  and  homeless  people?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Many  people  have  homes  and  still  need  money?”  he  answered. “As did  Ronnie  Wendy. And he  only  knew  the  names  because  he  studied  the  town  annals—not  even  the  library  historian  could  tell  him  the  names  of  the  Nine  Hills  of  Winsted.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “But  what  happened  to  their  names?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “No  tradition,  my  lad.”  said  the  man. “Old folks  died  childless,  or  young  folks  moved  away. Homes were  sold. Families went  extinct. Half the  houses  of  the  proud  white  men  are  now  inhabited  by  Hispanics  and  blacks  who  neither  know  nor  care  to  know  about  the  hills  and  homes  around  them;  they  are  not  native  here,  they  are  strangers,  and  Winsted  is  a  city  now. Yet still  the  stars  look  down  on  Winsted,  though  none  look  up  to  them.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Silence  fell  between  them  for  a  time  as  the  two  unlikely  friends  stared  out  upon  the  hemlock  forest,  each  in  his  own  strange  thoughts.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “What  is  your  name,  sir?”  said  Forest  suddenly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              An  odd  smile  crossed  the  man’s  face. “I have  names,  aye;  but  to  speak  them  aloud  before  it  is  time  would  be  unwise,  so  close  to  the  Big  Island.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “What’s  wrong  with  it?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Does  your  island  have  a  name,  Forest?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               Startled,  Forest  looked  up. “Um, no,  my  dad  used  to  call  it  ‘Little  Island’  and  the  other  one  ‘Big  Island’. I call  it  Home  Island,  sometimes. I thought  about  Pine  Island,  but  that  didn’t.”  Didn’t  fit,  he  completed  in  his  head.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Small  wonder.”  said  the  Man  in  Brown. “When I  knew  it  it  had  many  trees—chestnut,  mostly,  and  oak,  in  fact  one  of  those  oaks  is  still  there—but  only  a  couple  small  hemlocks. No, but  back  then  it  had  a  name  of  its’  own,  only  remembered  now  on  lake  maps.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “What  is  its’  name?”  said  Forest. He felt  short  of  breath,  somehow,  as  if  a  great  secret  was  about  to  be  exposed.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “It  is  Wintergreen  Island.”  said  the  man  in  the  brown  coat. “The island  across  from  it  is  Club  Island,  from  the  old  ladies’  club  that  once  stood  there,  and Russel’s  Island,  from  its’  subsequent  owner,  long  now  passed  into  the  shadows. The two  islands  are  in  opposition,  and  ever  shall  be;  one  named  after  a  plant  of  the  earth,  the  other  named  after  passing  things,  a  club  soon  gone,  a  man  soon  dead. And now  one  of  them  is  home  to  the  Wood  of  the  Road,  while  the  other  is  fastened  to  the  land  and  no  more  a  true  island;  and  he  that  dwells  there,  he  is  not  true  either.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “What  is  he,  then?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              The  face  of  the  man  in  brown  seemed  suddenly  very  old,  drawn  and  grim. “Do not  ask.”  he  said. “It is  not  good  to  speak  of  him  and  his  like,  not  now,  not  with  the  Hallowed  Even  so  near. On another  day,  if  the  Road  allows,  I  will  tell  you  of  him;  but  not  today.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “The  Road?”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              The  other  looked  at  him,  long  and  solemnly. “Aye, the  Road.”  he  said. “We have  talked  well,  Forest  of  Wintergreen  Island. I pray  all  such  may  go  likewise.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Forest  looked  at  him  with  a  grave,  puzzled  expression. The man  in  brown  did  not  return  it;  somehow,  during  the  last  part  of  the  conversation  he  had  become  farther  off,  and  now,  thirty  feet  away,  he  lifted  his  hand,  inclined  his  head  and  slipped  into  the  hemlocks. He moved  so  softly  it  was  as  if  he  had  faded  into  them.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Forest  remained,  staring  after  him,  for  a  long  time.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Tuesday  came.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Forest  called  home  and  left  a  message  for  Mom  that  he  was  going  to  be  at  the  library  looking  up  something. It was  easy  to  evade  the  school  bus  and  walk…or  so  he  had  thought. It turned  out  Winsted  was  wider  than  he  had  expected. Or he  was  just  tired. At any  rate,  when  he  got  to  the  library  he  found  he  had  been  walking  for  nearly  an  hour. The sun  was  near  the  horizon  even  though  it  was  only  3:30  or  so,  for  November  was  only  a  few  days  away  and  cold  winds  blew  over  Winsted. He was  just  glad  to  sit  down.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Upstairs  the  Library  Gang  was  hanging  out  and  chattering  around  one  or  two  of  the  computers. A cubicle  at  the  far  side  was  empty  and  Forest  scooted  into  it. He clicked  “Internet  Explorer”,  the  funny  blue  E  with  the  swirl  through  it,  and  when  the  green  Beardsley  home  page  came up,  he  clicked  on  the  search  engine.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            For  a  moment  he  paused,  fingers  on  the  keyboard. Then quickly,  using  one  finger  as  always,  he  typed  in  the  little  box  a  single  word.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                                 ''Arheled ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              A  younger  girl  of  about  11  passed  him  and  ensconced  herself  in  the  cubicle  on  his  left,  by  the  window. She had  light  brown  hair,  he  noticed;  well,  a  sort  of  gold-brown-pale,  actually. Some would  call  it  dirty  blond. He hated  that  term. She had  grave  grey  eyes  and  a  small  shrewd  face  with  a  continuous  twinkle  in  it. He heard  her  murmering  something  to  herself  in  a  monotone  chant,  some  kind  of  rhyme.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             He  hit  the  ENTER  key.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Hammers  and  urns,  say  the  bells  of  1st  Church…. ''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">” the  girl  hummed,  rather  to  the  tune  of  Frodo’s  inn-song  in  the  cartoon  Lord  of  the  Rings.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          A  list  of  entries  appeared  on  the  reloading  screen. He gazed  in  disbelief. Some chemical  combination  bore  an  Arheled  tag….Arheled  was  the  name  of  some  obscure  germ…..Arheled  in  a  list  of  rare  materials  for  an  RPG  game…..

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “When  did  they  close  it? say the  bells  of  Methodist’s…. ''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               Forest  spoke  before  he  was  aware  of  it. “They closed  the  Road.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                 The  girl  spun  her  head,  a  little  startled. He glanced  up  and  their  eyes  met.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “What  did  you  say?”  she  said,  a  little  breathlessly. There was  a  keen  sharp  anxiety  in  her  eyes.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Your  song.”  said  Forest,  feeling  intensely  uncomfortable. “When did  they  close  it. What is  ‘it’?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                “No,  what  did  you  say  just  now?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                    “They  closed  the  Road?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                “Yes!”  she  said,  quick  and  sudden. “That was  it! I’ve been  racking  my  brains  over  what  did  it  mean,  and  you  just  gave  me  the  answer.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Yeah,  but  what  was  that  song  you  were…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Oh,  that? Some odd  man  at  church  told  me  this  funny  rhyme  about  the  Five  churches  of  Winsted,  and  I  looked  up  another  song  that  it  was  just  like  but  it  says  here  that  one’s  from  England;  but  anyway  I  wrote  it  down  and—here.”  She  thrust  a  paper  at  him  and  Forest  stared  in  dismay  at  several  lines  of  flowing  girly  but  very  sloppy  handwriting.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “I  can’t  read  your  scrawls.”  he  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Hmph. I guess  I  could  have  been  a  bit  neater. Oh, all  right,  I’ll  read  it  to  you—“  and  she  launched  into  the  rhyme.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Hammers  and  urns,  say  the  bells  of  First  Church, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                 When  did  they  close  it? say the  bells  of  Methodist’s, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                 Smite  on  the  heavens,  say  the  bells  of  St.  Joseph’s, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                 Till  they  are  broken,  say  the  bells  of  New  Baptist, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                 Come  down  and  play,  say  the  bells  of  St.  James.” ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Smite  on  the  heavens….”  Forest  murmered,  “till  they  are  broken….with  hammers  and  urns…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Yeah, that’s  what  makes  like  no  sense,  I  mean  what  have  hammers  got  to  do  with  Christ  Church? Oh, I’m  Bell,  by  the  way.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Bell.”  he  repeated,  a  little  strangely.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Bell,  daughter  of  Light.”  She  gave a  tinkling  laugh. “With no  E  at  the  end. My last  name  really  is  Light,  though. And you?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “I’m  Forest.”  he  said,  mustering  a  stiff  smile. “Forest Lake.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Holy  cow,”  she  said,  a  little  awed. “And I thought  my  name  was  good!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Yeah.”  he  said,  feeling  really  awkward. Both of  them  were  quiet  for  a  while.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Here  it  is.”  she  announced,  face  turned  to  her  computer. “Oranges and  lemons,  say  the  bells  of  St. Clemens…when will  you  pay  me,  bells  of  Old  Bailey…hmph. Nothing in  that  one…nothing  at  all.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Forest  glanced  at  his  own  screen  and  remembered  with  a  start  what  he  was  doing. He clicked  on  the  RPG  game.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “What  are  you  looking  up?”  Bell  said,  leaning  back  in  her  chair.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         Forest  didn’t  answer. A list  of  materials  and  strength  points  had  appeared  on  his  screen,  and  there  was  the  word  he  had  hunted:

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         5. Arheled +  10. VH (very  high)  work  difficulty. High Glass  (high  tensile  strength  and  heat  resistance) ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          The  game  appeared  to  be  something  called  The  Crimson  Pirate. Looking farther  down  the  list,  the  next  entry  made  his  eyes  bulge.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Report  errors  in  transcription,  National  Archives,  Census  of  Ireland  1911. Original: Cairns,  William,  19,  male,  son. Presbyterian, Co. Antrim, Arheled  Apprentice  to  solicitor,  Read  and  write,  single. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          He  clicked  on  it  and  had  a  moment  of  bitter  disappointment:  the  enticing  second sentence  did  not  show  on  the  page. But when  he  clicked  SHOW  ALL  INFO  it  did. Apparently in  1911  in  Ireland  a  youth  named  William  Cairns  had  been  an  “Arheled  apprentice”,  whatever  that  meant.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            The  next  one  was  at  first  promising,  a  Lord  of  Rings  RPG  wiki,  but  the  entry  for  Arheled  said  exactly  the  same  as  the  materials  sheet,  only  phrased  in  normal  English. Then back  at  the  search  results  was  something  in  what  had  to be  Spanish,  but  was  likely  again  about  this  weird  Arheled  glass. Here however  it  was  called  Cristal  Noble.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Noble  Crystal.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Whoever  thought  ‘high  glass’  was  a  good  translation  of  that  should  be  in  the  insane  asylum.”  muttered  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            There  were  two  other  pages  of  search  results. He went  to  the  second.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           A  rare  chain  mail  waistcoat  that  could  be  made  from  ardarcer,  arborang  (high  steel)  or  arheled. Magic materials  listed  Arheled  High  Glass,  Celeb  silver  and  several  other  Elvish  names  for  metals. He recognized  galvorn  with  a  smile—that  was  from  the  Silmarillion. Then something  in  Italian  describing  arheled  as  vetro  superior  argento.   Argent  he  knew  was  the  heraldic  word  for  silver. Vetro had  something  to  do  with  glass  or  crystal. Superior silver-crystal. This got  more  and  more  interesting.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           And  that  was  it.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Forest  got  up  dispiritedly. He could  call  now  to  see  if  Mom  was  back…or  he  could  look  for  a  really  good  book  or  two  and  call  later. Trying to  decide  which,  he  walked  out  the  right-hand  exit  of  the  youth  room. The left  one  opened  on  the  balcony  and  the  front  stair,  and  a  school-type  door  shut  off  the  balcony  from  the  second-story  corridor,  into  which  the  right-hand  exit  opened. There were  bathroom  (locked—you  needed  a  key),  the  elevator,  the  genealogy  room,  and  a few  intriguing  twisting  dead-ends  with  locked  doors. There was  also  a  door  to  the  children’s  room  down  a  few  steps,  and  past  it  a  door  to  the  back  staircase,  where  Forest  was  heading. A tall  young  man  was  coming  out of  the  genealogy  room  in  a  quick  rushing  stride,  stooped  forward,  eyes  gleaming  abstractly. He almost  ran  into  Forest,  and  both  of  them  started,  staggering  back,  staring  at  each  other.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “You!”  the  sharp-faced  man  gasped.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Forest  found  it  hard  to  breathe. He stared. The face  was  the  same. The red-bronze  hair. Even the  voice. He opened  his  mouth  and  made  himself  speak.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Ronmond.”  he  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “That—isn’t—my  name.”  said  the  other. He too  was  staring  as  if  at  a  ghost. “You—your name  is  Forest?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                Forest  nodded.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “I  saw  you.”  Ronmond  said. His voice  had  become  almost  a  whisper. “At the—“

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “At  the  house  of  Arheled.”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Above  the  Silver  Falls.”  the  other  affirmed. “Um—I suppose  I  might  as  well  introduce  myself;  I’m  Ronnie  Wendy. You’re—Forest?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Forest  Lake.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Tell me,  Forest…what  is  the  Road?  And  why  did  Arheled  grow  angry  when  I  asked  him?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Because  they  closed  it.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Did  they.”  said  Ronnie. “When, I  wonder  indeed. Smite on  the  heavens,  say  the  bells  of  St. Joseph’s. I begin  to  suspect  that  I  never  shall  know.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “I  like  not  knowing.”  Forest  replied. “It’s so—“  Again  he  could  not  say  what  he  wanted.  So mystical  and  powerful  that  way,  was  what  was  in  his mind.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “It  is.” Ronnie  nodded  somberly. “Well, I  think  I’d  better  get  going. Still got  errands  to  run. We will  see  each  other  again—I  don’t  know  how  or  why,  but  we’re  part  of  something.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Or  caught  in  it.”  said  Forest. But Ronnie  was  already  going  down  the  stairs  and  nobody  heard  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">