Ch. 1: The Quest of the Nine Hills



          Forest  looked  around  as  he  opened  the  gate. His mom’s  car  wasn’t  there. He unlocked  the  door  and  made  himself  a  sandwich  or  two:  mayonnaise,  cheese  and  P&P  loaf  (he  never  could  remember  whether  that  stood  for  Pickle  and  Pimento,  or  Pepper  and  Pimento). Absently munching,  he  headed  up  to  his  room. Off of  his  desk  he  drew  the  cardboard  cover  he  had  rigged  to  cover  the  painting. He did  not  survey  it,  only  studied  it  with  an  artist’s care  to  make  sure  everything  in  it  was  complete. He chose  as  frame  a  black  square  of  artist’s  pasteboard  on  the  verge  of  which  were  taped  delicate  silver  shapes,  cut  with  a  paperknife  out  of  tinfoil:  curliques  and  stars  and  strange  convoluted  shapes,  silver  on  black. Amid this,  very  carefully  with  a  thin  film  of  glue,  he  fastened  the  painting. He could  hear  Mom  pulling  in,  and  taking  it  he  ran  downstairs.

           Where  to  put  it? He tried  the  mantel  and  then  various  places  on  the  wall,  settling  for  an  expanse  of  white  wall  opposite  the  door. Mrs. Lake came  in  as  he  was  finishing.

           “Oh,  you’re  back  already! How was  the  hike,  honey?”

           Forest  looked  at  her  gravely. “I wanted  to  show  you  something.”  he  said  at  last,  and  stood  aside,  so  that  the  Stars  were  revealed  to  her  eyes.





           Mrs. Lake  forgot  to  move. Nearly forgot  to  breathe.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Framed  in  black  and  elaborate  silver,  a window  of  unbearable  beauty  had  opened  in  her  wall. She seemed  to  behold  another  world  entirely,  where  amid  a  frame  of  black  night  trees,  upon  a  gleaming  lake,  white  and  silver  shapes  of  indescribable  loveliness  danced  in  motion  so  fluent  and  graceful  that  frozen  as  they  were  they  almost  seemed  to  move. And then  she  became  aware  that they  were  moving,  drawing  her  in,  reaching  to  her;  she  could  hear  their  cold  high  singing,  passionful and  beautiful  as  ice,  hear  their  crystalline  voices  behind  the  world  around  her  that  she  had  forgotten. Unutterable longing  and  an  ache  beyond  enduring  filled  her  heart  and  tears  flowed  unnoticed  and  her  nose  was  running  clear  and  watery  the  way  it  always  does  when  you  cry,  and  then  Mrs. Lake began  to  sob. Beside her  Forest  stood  as  if  turned  into  stone:  he  had  succeeded  beyond  his  intentions,  he  had  not  merely  captured  a  shard  of that  beauty,  he  had  created  a  window  into  the  past,  he  had  called  up  the  memory  of  that  which  had  been. Quickly rushing  forward  he  took  it  down  and  sheathed  it. The voices  ceased.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Mrs. Lake sat  on  the  floor  and  cried. Weeping for  all  the  beautiful,  beautiful  things  she  had  known,  now  gone  forever. Odd things  you’d  never  notice:  her  daughter’s  green  velvet  dress  with  lace  on  the  edges,  worn  at  Christmas  when  she  was  three;  Hunter’s funny  solemn  face  with  wind  in  his  hair  on  a  sunset  hilltop,  lit  up  with  gold;  how  little  Bell  had  acted  so  cute  when  having  a  pillow  fight  with  Forest—did  he  even  think  about  her,  now  that  over  four  years  had  passed? The abstract  glow  in  Hunter’s  face  when  telling  her  some  absurd  impossible  scientific  discovery. Bell picking  flowers  with  dirty  hands  and  face. Gone, gone,  all  gone  through  her  own  fault  alone,  never  to  return  by  her  own  banishing. She wept  harder,  great  wrenching  sobs  that  hurt  her  ribs  and  made  her  cough. Why was  it  always  like  this? Why did  love  have  to  die? She reached  out  for  her  son,  needing  comfort  of  some  kind;  and  through  the  swimming  tears  she  saw  his  face  as  set  as  stone,  and  he  avoided  her  touch.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  heaved  a  few  shuddering  breaths. “Wh…?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">            “If  you  were  really  sorry  for  what  you  did  to  us,  pick  up  that  phone.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  couldn’t  stop  the  shuddering  sobs. “I can’t.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">             Forest  took  the  covered  painting  of  the  Stars  and  brought  it  toward  her.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Do  you  want  to  look  again?”  he  said  severely.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It…wo…would  kill  me.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Then pick  up  the  phone.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Just…I…;et  me  calm  down  a…”  she  managed. Forest went  into  the  kitchen  and  got  her  a  glass  of  water. Drinking it  helped  her  control  return. She sat  there,  on  the  floor,  reluctant  to  get  up,  to  even  move;  for  if  she  moved,  she  would  have  to  move  toward  the  phone.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Where  did  you  ever  learn  to  be  so  cruel?”  she  said,  and  was  angry  at  herself  when  she  heard  how  her  voice  wavered.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  learned  it  from  you.”  he  answered.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  recoiled  as  if  he  had  jabbed  her  with  a  needle. Looking beseechingly  at  him,  she  got  up  and  took  the  receiver  that  he  was  holding  out  to  her. Her parents  had  used  an  old  rotary-dial  phone  and  as  she  normally  had  a  cell  phone,  she’d  never  replaced  it. She looked  at  the  large  old  receiver  a  little  fearfully,  got  up  and  went  over  to  the  phone  where  it  hung  from  the  wall. Whiirup—whir—r—r—r went  the  old  dial  as  she  put  her  finger  in  the  little  holes,  just  like  when  she  was  a  girl,  over  each  number  and  pushed  the  dial  all  the  way  over,  waiting  for  it  to  whirr  back  before  she  could  do  the  next  number. She needed  no  address  book;  the  number  of  Hunter  Light  was  branded  in  her  mind. She heard  the  phone  ringing. Three rings;  maybe  he  wasn’t  in. The click  of  a  voice-mail:  maybe  his  phone  was  off,  the  trial  forestalled  a  little. Then another  click,  and  a  voice  that  had  haunted  her  the  last  four  years,  waking  or  sleeping,  was  saying,  “Hello,  hello?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Is…this  Hunter?”  she  quavered,  sounding  like  a  schoolgirl.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Dead  silence. Then: “Chrissy??”  Dazed,  incredulous,  and  wary.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yes.” she  said  more  firmly. “It’s me.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Um.”  Pause. “How’s everything?”  Another  pause. “Forest all  right?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  have  no  idea.”  she  said,  half-laughing  and  half  about  to  cry. “What’s Bell  up  to?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Oh,  the  usual,  school,  hanging  out  with  friends,  watching  movies  and  helping  me  cook.”  Another  long  pause. “Um, why  the  call,  is—something  wrong?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “If  I  said  there  was,  what  would  you  do?”  she  asked. Her voice  sounded  weird,  frittery.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’d  drive  over  at  top  speed.”  Was  that  a  shake  in  his  voice? And was  she  imagining  the  pent  emotion  in  it?

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You’re  gonna  make  me  cry.”  she  said. “Forest is…well…listen,  Hunter,  I…”  She  blurted  it  out. “I wanted  to  say  I’m  sorry.” She  felt  herself  about  to  go  to  pieces  again  and  had  to  take  several  deep  breaths.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You’re…sorry.”  he  repeated. “What are  you  sorry  for?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’m  sorry  I  wouldn’t  marry  you. I’m sorry  for  all  the  fights. For taking  Forest  away  from  you.”  She  felt  her  voice  beginning  to  wobble. “I’m so  alone  here. So afraid. Hunter, I  love  you.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Had  she  said  that? Babbling like  a  soft-headed  teenager  in  a  romance  novel? She blushed  like  fire.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Can  Bell  and  I  come  up  for  supper?”  he  said,  in  an  ineffably  male  putting-you-at-your-ease  tone  of  voice. Four years  ago  it  would  have  irritated  her  beyond  belief,  but  today  it  made  her  want  to  laugh.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Ah,  the  eternal  quest  to  eat  something  besides  your  own  cooking.”  she  said,  relieved  to  hear  her  voice  sound  almost  normal. “Sure, come  around  7. That’ll give  me  time  to  whip  up  some  insane  fancy  stuff.”  She  felt,  suddenly,  ready  to  bubble  over. All was  right  with  the  world. There were  rainbows  in  the  sky. Hunter wanted  to  come.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Great! I’ll look  forward  to  meeting  you  again,  Goldilocks.”  His  voice  was  the  one  now  that  quavered. She hung  up  in  a  delirious  mood.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What’d  he  say?”  Forest  asked.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “He’s  coming  for  dinner!”  she  crowed. “Him and  Bell!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “If  he  asks  you  to  marry  him,  you’d  better  say  yes.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  why  else  would  he  want  to  come  up?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Just  remember,”  her  strange  fathomless  son  said  to  her,  not  even  smiling,  “I  cannot  forgive  you  until  you  have  married  him.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  stared  at  him,  her  new  fear  of  him  back  in  full  force. “Who are  you?”  she  exclaimed.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  am  Forest,  son  of  Light.”  he  answered. “And son  of  Lake. But water  and  light  are  not  opposed. Light began  as  liquid.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  wish  you  were  just  plain  Forest  again.”  she  said  wistfully  as  she  began  digging  in  cupboards. “The boy  who  never  talked,  rapt  in his  cute  little  picture-world. I used  to  try  to  make  you  talk,  to  bring  you  back  to  reality—now  I’m  almost  wishing  I  hadn’t.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  always  was  in  reality.”  said  Forest. “You were  the  one  who  dwelt  in  illusions. It was  my  vision  of  reality  that  called  you  out  of  them  at  last.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yes,  that  painting. I’ve never  seen  anything  remotely  like  it,  and  I’ve  been  to  art  museams  too,  with  those  pudgy-faced  Raphaels  and  so  unrealistic  Michaelangelos—or  was  that  one  a  da  Vinci? You could  probably  make  a  fortune  out  of  that  if  you  sold  it  to  the  right  people—“

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I   painted  it  for  you  and  for  no  others.”  said  Forest. “The dancing  of  the  Stars  upon  the Long  Lake  is  too  terrible  to  be.”  He  closed  his  eyes,  frustrated. Why could  he  never  say  what  he  meant? Too terrible  to  be  unleashed  upon  the  world  at  large,  was  what  he  had  been  thinking.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Those  were  stars?”  said  Mrs. Lake, surprised. “Oh wow. I never  thought  of  stars  as  being…like…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Starstricken.”  said  Forest.''  Anyone  who  looked  on  them  was  Starstricken  and  went  mad  from  the  beauty  that  he  saw. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  hours  passed  with  unbearable  slowness. Forest tried  to  read  a  book  but  he  found  he  couldn’t  concentrate. Mrs. Lake was  keeping  herself  fiercely  busy  in  the  kitchen  and  a  lot  of  good  smells  came  wafting  up.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           About  ten  minutes  before  seven  a  battered  Toyota  pulled  into  the  parking  lot. Forest had  been  wandering  around  outside  the  house  so  he  could  open  the  gate,  and  did  so  with  a  sense  of  ceremony. The man  of  the  house  welcoming  the  master  of  the  house. He could  barely  endure  to  turn  and  look  at  the  car. His father  got  rather  heavily  out,  a  little  stouter  and  greyer  than  Forest  remembered. And all  the  heartache  and  all  the  misery  of  four  years  faded:  Dad  was  back,  that  was  all  that  mattered. He felt  an  enormous  grin  splitting  his  face  as  he  went  up  to  greet  his  father.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Dad.”  he  said.  Welcome, ten  thousand  welcomes,  he  wanted  to  shout.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Goodness,  you’re  as  tall  as  I  am.”  said  Hunter  Light. This was  not  strictly  true,  as  Forest  was  still  three  inches  shorter;  but  he  had  been  barely  four  feet  high  when  he last  saw  Dad. The two  men  stood  for  a  few  minutes,  beaming  at  each  other,  before  they  shook  hands  and  Dad  was  messing  his  hair  like  he  used  to  and  Forest  was  grinning  like  an  idiot  and  saying  nothing  at  all. Bell was  standing  nearby  pretending  not  to  notice  and  looking  her  old  home  over  with  some  interest. Forest tried  to  remember  her  and  couldn’t:  not  a  shard  remained  of  any  memories  of  his  younger  sister. She was  wearing  a  fine  green  dress  and  had  apparently  brushed  her  hair. He felt  shy  toward  her,  suddenly:  not  only  was  she  the  tart  friend  from  the  library,  but  his  own  real  sister  as  well.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Hello,  Forest.”  she  said. “You know,  it’s  really  funny,  ever  since  our  WBF—er,  Arheled—said  we  were  siblings  I’ve  been  wracking  my  brains  and  I  cannot  remember  you. I remember  Mom,  and  Dad,  and  this  house,  but  not  you. And that’s  so  weird.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Freaky. It’s like  somebody  went  and  wiped  our  memories. Can we  go  in? I’m freezing.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Oh,  um,  sure,  won’t  you  come  in?”  said  Forest,  leading  the  way. “Hey, Dad,  just  for  the  heck  of  it,  ring  the  doorbell.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Why?”  said  Dad  curiously,  but  he  pressed  the  button  anyway. The deep  somber  Ding-dong  could  be  heard  even  outside. Forest could  have  sworn  he  heard  Mom  give  a  little  shriek,  but  then  she  called  “Come  in.”  and  they  did. Mom had  put  on  her  Sunday  dress  and  let  her  hair  down,  and  Forest  thought  she  looked  stunning. She smiled,  a  shy,  hesitant  sort  of  smile,  and  then  Hunter  had  crossed  the  distance  between  them  and  gave  her  a  close  embrace. Forest heard  her  giggle  a  little,  and  her  eyes  were  shining,  and  then  she  was  hugging  him  back.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Honey,  I  wanted  to  tell  you  I’m  sorry  for  letting  you  alone  all  these  years.”  Hunter  told  her. “I said  so  many  awful  things…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It’s  my  fault  mostly.”  she  said. “I mean…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Not  entirely  yours.”  he  hastened. “That Cornello  guy. Him and  his  snooty  girl,  I  mean,  it’s  like  I  was  out  of  my  mind  or  something.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yeah.”  she  said  faintly. “Or under  a  spell….”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You…you’re  three  times  as  gorgeous  as  I  remembered.”  He  laughed  a  little. “I used  to  daydream  about  this  sometimes  at  night…about  meeting  you  again….all  the  marvelous  and  witty  things  I’d  say. And now  I  can’t  remember  any  of  them.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’ve  missed  you  so  much,  and  I  never  even  realised  it.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Hunter  Light  cupped  her  face  in  his  hands. “I didn’t  bring  the  ring  along,”  he  said  softly,  “but  I’ll  say  it  anyway:  Christie  Lake,  will  you  marry  me?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Chrissy  Lake  was  overcome  with  giggles. “You’re not  on  your  knees.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  can’t  exactly  kneel  with  your  arms  around  my  neck.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Forest  would  never  forgive  me  if  I  turned  you  down.”  she  murmered. “Yes, I  will  marry  you.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  and  Bell,  who  were  setting  the  table,  gave  each  other  huge  grins  and  high-fived. Their parents  were  kissing.

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

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           March  left  as  it  had  come  in—like  a  lion, cold  and  windy  with  wet  snow. Two traditions  broken  at  once,  thought  Ronnie  Wendy  whimsically:  the  groundhog  didn’t  see  his  shadow  because  it  was  snowing,  and  March  neither  came  nor  left  like  a  lamb. He was  getting  a  trickle  of  yard  work  now  that  the  snow  was  melting;  that  and  sawing  wood  was  keeping him  busy. He saw  his  strange  landladies  maybe  once  in  the  last  two  weeks;  but  that  suited  him  just  fine.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  first  Sunday  of  April  dawned  warm  and  very  windy. The sky  was  a  deep  hard  blue  and  the  budding  redness  of  the  twigs  against  it  looked  purple. He biked  up  to  the  10:30  Mass  and  found  Lara  there  doing  the  readings. Her eyes had  a  sort  of  hard  abstract  brilliancy  from  the  lectern. After Mass  he  waited  while  she  chatted  with  a  couple  old  ladies  and  finally  said,  “Hello,  Lara.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  done  anything  on  that  Quest?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Not  yet;  I’ve  been  working  awfully  late. I am  so  tired  lately.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  have  no  idea.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  left  her  to  continue  discussing  The  Abolition  of  Man  with  the  little  old  ladies  and  headed  up  Main  St,  mulling  the  cemetery  rhyme  in  his  head.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  was  so  deep  in  thought  as  he  pedaled  by  1st  Baptist  he  almost  didn’t  hear  somebody  shouting  his  name;  but  when  he  looked  up,  to  his  surprise  he  saw  not  only  Forest  but  also  Brooke  and  Bell,  talking  to  each  other. A thickset  older  man  and  a  very  pretty  woman  were  walking  a  little  behind  them. Bell shouted  his  name  again  and  Ronnie  biked  over.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Hey,  guys!”  he  called. “Hello, Mr.  Light.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Hi,  Ronnie.”  said  Hunter  Light. “Oh, this  is  my  fiancée,  Chrissy  Lake.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Pleased  to  meet  you. I was  just  on  my  way  to  hiking  up  behind  the  hospital.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Dad,  Dad,  if  Ronnie  is  with  us  can  we  go  on  a  hike? He’s a  responsible  adult!”  Bell  was  begging.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well…”  said  Hunter,  glancing  shyly  at  Mrs. Lake, who  was  pink  and  giggling,  “I  did  want  to  spend  some  time  alone  with  your  mother…Oh,  all  right,  fine. But no  more  than  two  hours,  hear?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Oh,  thank  you,  Dad,  you’re  so  sweet.”  said  Bell,  giving  him  a  quick  hug. She went  up  to  Chrissy  and  hugged  her  as  well. “See you  later,  Mom.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Bye,  honey,  have  fun.”  said  Chrissy. Forest gave  his  mom  a  little  awkward  wave  and  headed  quickly  off  before  she  could  kiss  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  know,  this  is  kind  of  freaky,”  said  Bell  to  Ronnie  as  he  walked  his  bike  beside  them,  “we  were  badgering  Dad  for  permission  to  go  hiking  behind  the  hospital  just  when  you  showed  up. Say, do  you  know  how  to  get  up  there?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’ve  been  over  Cobble  Hill  once,”  Ronnie  said  slowly,  “and  I  got  in  from  Rt. 44. Right  ahead,  in  fact.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  side  road  curved  off  the  main  street,  parallel  and  at  a  higher  level,  before  curving  back  in:  it  was  quaintly  patched  and  rutted,  one  car  wide,  and  seemed  to  be  intended  solely  to  serve  three  or  four  houses  above  on  the  right. A side  road  slated  steeply  down. Main Street  bent  left  and  the  houses  ended,  a  strip  of  wooded  hillside  lying  ahead. The sun  was  bright  and  warm  but  the  continuous  wind  made  it  seem  much  colder.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Um,  isn’t  that  kind  of  trespassing?”  Bell  said,  glancing  at  the  houses  a  couple  hundred  feet  away  on  the  right  and  uphill.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  don’t  see  any  Posted  signs.”  said  Ronnie. “Anyway, I  think  the hospital  owns  down  here.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “All  right,”  said  Bell  as  they  crossed  the  grassy  space  and  pushed  past  reaching  maple  twigs,  “just  don’t  expect  Lara’s  dad  to  give  you  a  Get  out  of  Jail  Free  card.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  climbed  over  an  old  stone  wall. A steep  leafy  hillside  came  down  on  the  right,  the  foot  of  it  running  straight  north,  and  on  the  left  flowed  the  stream  from  Indian  Meadow. Ronnie locked  up  his  bike  here,  taking  his  Sunday  pants  out  of his  backpack  and  leaving  them  in  his  basket. They plowed  diagonally  up  the  hillside  under  old  oaks  and  occasionally  a  hemlock. The bright  brown  of  the  leaves,  the  bright  deep-green  of  the  hemlocks,  the  bright  hard  blue of  the  sky. Above they  could  see  the  big  rectangular  hospital,  and  a  slope  of  tumbled  fresh-white  rocks. Ronnie’s dark  blue  coat  had  a  long  attached  scarf  of  red  plaid,  the  ends  of  which  flowed  and  fluttered  as  he  moved.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Ooh! A can! “ he  exclaimed,  unslinging  his  omnipresent  backpack. He pulled  out  of  the  leaves  a  weathered  faded  aluminum  can  with  an  A&W  root  beer  logo  from  the  80s  on  it  in  dull  brown  and  orange.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That  must  be  a  really  old  can.”  said  Brooke  dubiously.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yeah,  I  would  bet  at  least  twenty  years  old.”  he  answered.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Do  they  even  sell  that  kind? I don’t  think  you  can  get  a  refund  for  obsolete  cans.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It  still  says  CT  on  it.”  Ronnie  remarked  as  he  put  it  away. “Who knows  how  long  it  lay  here,  waiting  in  the  shadows  for  someone  to  find  it  and  redeem  its’  long-held  value?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  have,  like,  an  obsession  with  cans.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yeah,  I’m  a  member  of  the  Order  of  Can  Pickers.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Oh  really. Do you  have  standing  orders  to  pick  cans? Don’t you  get  time  off?”  grinned  Brooke.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “We  of  the  Ancient  and  Benevolent  Order  of  Can  Pickers  are  under  a  holy  obligation  to  seize  and  cash  every  can  they  see  in  their  travels.”  Ronnie  said  with  vast  solemnity. “Oooh! Can!” as  he  picked  up  a  stash  of  ancient  Budweiser’s  abandoned  by  some  long-ago  hunter. The others  were  laughing.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  if  they  are  prevented  by  main  force  from  fulfillment  of  their  sacred  duties?”  said  Brooke  ferociously,  wrestling  him  away  from  the  last  can.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “They  of  the  Ancient  and  Benevolent  Society,  Order,  and  Fellowship  of  Can  and  Bottle  Hunters  must  by  the  laws  of  our  Order  pick  up  every  can  they  see,  unless  prevented  by  lack  of  capacity  or  other  serious  impediment.”  laughed  Ronnie  as  he  fought  her  off  and  triumphantly  seized  the  last  can.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  made  their  way  up the  steep  and  leaf-slick  hillside  slowly. Farther above  thick  hemlock  mantled  the  rocks. Brooke asked if  that  was  The  Cobble,  and  if  so,  why  didn’t  they  climb  it?

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  gargoyle  was  not  pointing  to  it.”  replied  Ronnie. “It was  pointing  to  the  middle  summit  of  Cobble  Hill. We’ll go  there  on  our  way  back.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  followed  a  roughly  piled  stone  wall  uphill  as  the  slope  lessened. A simply  enormous  black  birch  grew  on  the  rocks,  its’  base  flowing  over  them. Then they  came  to  an  equally  huge  oak,  and  climbed  up  onto  a  sort  of  saddle. To the  right  a  shelving  narrow  knoll  of  rounded  exposed  faces  of  granite  swelled  under  spreading  trees. Downhill in  front were  more  houses  along  Spencer  Hill  Rd. On the  left  was  a  level  upland  meadow. A small  foundation  of  rough  masonry  stood  on  the  saddle.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  was  this?”  Bell  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Who  knows.”  murmered  Ronnie. “It served  a  purpose  once  when  all  this  was  farmed,  and  yet  now  it  sits  here  forsaken.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  led  them  out  onto  the  field. Thorns and  brambles,  red  and  tangled,  were  moving  in,  but  much  of  it  was  still  open,  the  goldenrod  stems  flattened  by  the  heavy  snow. Ronnie wove  his  way  among  the  thorn  clusters  diagonally  across  the  field.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  hope  you  know  where  you’re  going.”  said  Bell,  breaking  off  her  conversation  with  Brooke.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Last  time  I  came  here,  I  went  that  way  and  had  to  crawl  through  thorns  to  escape.”  he  said,  pointing  to  the  right. “But I  found  this  way  on  the  return  trip.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  wove  around  a  clump  or  two  of  thorns  and  ducked  under  a  black  cherry  hung  with  bittersweet. The ring-fence  of  red  bramble  that  sealed  off  the  field  had  a  gap  here,  and  squeezing  between  solitary  canes  and  the  stems  of  bushes  Ronnie  led  them  under  the  trees. The neeping  of  frogs  interrupted  the  wind-moan  and  they  came  out  on  the  banks  of  a  lovely  deep  little  pond. Barberry covered  the  near  bank  and  thorns  on  two  others,  and  trees  grew  on  the  high  berm  that  shut  it  in.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Wow,  you  could  actually  go  swimming  in  this.”  said  Brooke.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  water  would  be  pretty  icky.”  said  Bell.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It  won’t  get  stagnant  till  June,  likely  enough.”  observed  Ronnie. “And if  you  jumped  far  enough  out,  you  might  not  stir  up  too  many  leaves.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  wonder  what  the  water  is  like.”  said  Brooke,  stooping  down  to  dip  her  hand  in.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “And  you  had  to  go  and  forget  your  suit.”  Bell  teased.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  not  today,  of  course! It would  be  freezing  in  this  wind!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  followed  the  berm  on  the  left  side  of  the  pond  and  picked  their  way  across  a  swamp,  filled  with  scraggly  barberry  bushes. Uphill it  ended  at  a  spring,  and  there  to  their  interest  they  found  a  great  clay  pipe  sunk  in  the  ground  and  full  of  water. In which  weird  slimy  green  growths  were  growing.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  I  guess  that  water  is  no  good.”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Pipes  like  this  need  to  be  cleaned,  or  they  go  foul.”  Ronnie  agreed. “Well, come  on. We’re almost  there.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Where exactly  is  this  middle  summit?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  looked  around. Through the  open  trees  houses could  be  made  out  far  off  on  the  right. Hemlocks concealed  the  view  ahead  and  to  the  left.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That  way.”  he  said,  pointing  to  the  hemlocks.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  headed  through  the  barberries  and  up  through  the  brown  and   grey  wood,  shining  white  in  the  sun. When they  entered  the  hemlocks  they  saw  a  high  stony  knob  rising  ahead  of  them,  falling  on  the  west  into  great blocky  masses  of  mossy  rocks. Hemlocks grew  on  top  and  among  the  big  stones,  and  there  were  several  great  fallen  dead  trees.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Everyone  turned  to  look  where  he  was  pointing. To the  right  an  old  red  house  glared  out  from  behind  the  hill. But nearby,  sprawling  over  a  mossy  rock,  was  what  had  to  be  the  grandfather  of  all  grape  vines.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That’s  it.”  Ronnie  whispered  excitedly. “That’s what  we’re  looking  for.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It’s  too  close  to  the  house.”  Bell  was  protesting.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Duck  low  and  you  won’t  be  seen. And talk  in  whispers.”  Ronnie  ordered. They crept  up  to  the  low  wall  of  rock,  an  exposed  face  5  feet  high  under  some  small  hemlocks,  up  which  crawled  the  ancient  vine.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           It  was  the  craziest,  shaggiest  old  grape  vine  any  of  them  had  ever  seen  or  imagined. Thin hollow  walls  of  vine  ran  down  to  the  roots,  and  a  twisted,  folded,  hollow  trunk  so  old  the  veins  of  sap  had  seperated  like  cables. At intervals  the  trunk  kinked,  V-folded  like  the  layers  in  folded  rock. Underneath was  shaggy  with  uncounted  years  of  shed  layers  of  bark. It snaked  in  a  big  loop  back  on  itself  like  a  double  S  before  climbing  up  into  a  small  hemlock.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It’s  dead.”  Forest murmered  in  a  tone  of  disbelief.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           In  a  recent  storm  a  tall  dead  beech  tree  up  which  the  few  limbs  of  the  great  vine  had  been  borne to  the  light,  had  snapped  at  the  base,  bringing  all  the  vine’s  life-giving  tendrils  to  slow  death  in  the  deep  shade. Ronnie picked  at  the  wood  of  the  cordlike  sap  veins:  dry. Forest broke  a  twig  or  two:  dead  and  brittle.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Four  hundred  years  and  more  this  vine  has  grown  here,  only  to  die  even  as  we  find  it.”  muttered  Ronnie. “But what  does  it  mean? What possible  significance  can  a  giant  grapevine  hold?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Is  there  anything  else  on this  hill?”  asked  Bell.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  wandered  over  the  big  rocks  at  the  bottom  while  Ronnie  risked  his  neck  on  the  bluff  trying  to  examine  the  summit  and  stay  out  of  view  of  the  house. They gathered  again  at  the  old  vine  and  discussed  it  in  whispers. Nothing else  like  a  vine  had  been  found.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Maybe  it’s  something  in the  shape.”  suggested  Brooke.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  might  be  on  to  something.”  muttered  Ronnie. “I wish  I’d  brought  a  pen  and  paper. If that loop  matches  a  letter—or  a  Tengwar—“

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Better  than  paper.”  said  Brooke  whimsically  and  began  photographing  it  with  her  cell  phone.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Maybe  those  kinks…”  said  Ronnie. “Yeah, if  those  kinks  match  Tengwar…no,  I  don’t  think  it’s  that  either…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Can  we  sort  it  out  somewhere  else?”  whispered  Bell. “I’m cold.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Those  rocks  are  cool,  too.”  said  Brooke,  holding  her  phone  towards  the  nearby  wall  of  a  bluff.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Folded  rocks.”  said  Ronnie. “That might  be  it,  If  the  kinks  in  the  vine  match  the  folds  in  the  rocks—“

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You’re  reading  way  too  much  into  this.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yeah,  probably.”  sighed  Ronnie. All right,  we  might  as  well  head  back.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  climbed  up  on  the  Cobble  itself  for  the  return  trip. It was  much  less  impressive  than  it  looked:  a  narrow  hilltop,  leafy  and  stony,  open  on  the  left  with  a  sudden  drop  overlooking  houses,  hemlocks  on  the  right  where  the  hill  fell  swiftly  to  Indian  Meadow  Brook. They descended  a  steep  area  to  the  jumble  of  rocks  beneath  the  hospital  parking  lot.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Where  did  all  these  come  from?”  Bell  wanted  to  know.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Blasting.”  replied  Ronnie. “When they  expanded the  hospital  they  ate  a  good  deal  of  slope.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Skirting  the  rocks  they  returned  to  where  they’d  entered. Ronnie walked  his  bike  with  them  all  the  way  to  where  Brooke  had  parked. “All right,  which  hill  are  we  doing  next?”  he  said  when  they  reached  Old  Baptist.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  want  to  do  Spencer.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  about  Pratt? That sounds  cool.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’ll  concentrate  on  Case  Mt,  I  guess.”  said  Ronnie. “I daresay  we’ll  probably  overlap.”

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           ''Darkness  within,  darkness without. Primordial darkness,  from  which  all  began  and  into  which  all  would  return. Despite the  darkness  he  could  see  perfectly  well,  for  were  not  his  eyes  grown  strong,  strong  with  the  sight  with  which  he  had  been  gifted? He did  not  gaze  only  upon  the  sealed  chamber  in  which  he  now  stood,  but  through  its’  walls,  and  the  earth  and  rock  behind  them,  and  out  across  the  land  and  up  through  tree  and  sky  like  the  eyes  of  a  bird,  out  to  the  dreadful  mountain  and  beyond,  plying  from  village  to  village  of  the  Five,  and  yet  foiled,  stymied  by  the  simplest  things. There were  dozens  of  candidates. Impossible to  say  which  ones  had  actually  been  called. One’s gaze  lingered  longest  on  the  College,  where  most  of  the  Winsted  candidates  were;  after  all,  the  Warden  was  a  tricky  one  and  residence  in  Winsted  was  not  a  necessary  prerequisite. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           One  candidate  loomed  large  above  the  others  in  his  mind. The one  that  he  could  never  see. The old  Warden  thought  he  was  clever  keeping  the  kid  out  of  sight, and  therefore  out  of  mind;  but  Cornello  was  clever  too. He could  put  ten  and  ten  together. In his mind  there  was  no  doubt:  the  boy  who  had  invoked  the  Road  against  him  was  of  the  Six. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           His  fingers  worked  deftly  in  the  darkness. Slowly the  wax  took  shape,  a  manlike  doll,  minute  but  detailed,  the  face  with  recognizable  features  pricked  in  with  a  nail-point. Turning it  Cornello  rotated  it  with  hands  held  rigidly  outward,  rotated  west  to  east  against  the  sun,  then  held  it  before  a  mirror. Black in  the  black  room,  it  reflected  nothing—yet. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Now,  my  little  Forest,”  he  murmered, <span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt"> “where  are  you?”

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  and  Bell  were  walking  up  Williams  St,  enjoying  their  truancy. Bell had  discovered  how  simple  it  was  to  skip  school:  you  got  off  the  bus  at  the school  yard  of  Mary  Hinsdale  Elementary  (she’d  been  transferred  there  from  Pearson  for  some  reason)  and  went  around  to  the  field  north  of  it,  where  the  other  kids  were  on  the  playscape  there  or  rampaging  around  the  meadow. The long  low  brick  school  stood  about  two  hundred  yards  east  of  Old  Baptist,  seperated   by  a  garage,  yards  and  a  stony  brook  in  a  narrow  ribbon  of  woods. The brook  bounded  the  field  on  the  north  and  west,  tumbling  down  from  Gilbert  High. Honeysuckle and  wild  rose  bordered  the  field  under  the  short  scraggly  trees. It was  easy  to  jump  the  fence,  ford  the  brook  on  stones  and  then  walk  up  Brookside  and  down  Spencer  Hill  Rd  to  the  library. Here she  met  Forest,  who  was  using  his  invisibility  to  leave  the  bus  when  it  unloaded  and  walk  down  here.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  do  this  like  every  day?”  she  said  to  her  new  brother.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yup.”  said  Forest. “Well, sometimes  I  explore  Gilbert  or  follow teachers. But I  usually  head  for  the  library.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Cool. I don’t  know  why  I  never  did  this  before. Heck, it’s  not  like  they’re  actually  teaching  anything  worth  learning! I can  read  a  book  if  I  want  to  learn  history,  preferably  a  Christian  book,  and  a  Christian  science  book  while  I’m  at  it.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yeah. Science is  interesting,  but  when  you  have  to filter  out  evolution  it  is  so  exhausting. And I  learn  a  lot  more  when  I’m  not  trying  to  stuff  stupid  details  into  my  head  to  pass  a  test.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Still,”  said  Bell,  “I  feel  a  little  guilty,  you  know? cause I’m  supposed  to  be  getting  educated  and  here  I  am  goofing  off. So I  guess  I’ll  do  some  reading  or  history  or  whatever…”  She  broke  off. Forest had  stumbled.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Don’t  look  at  me. Don’t talk  to  me.”  he  said  in  a  queer,  rushed  way.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  wore  an  expression  as  if  hundreds  of  ants  were  walking  up  him. “Just don’t  talk,  OK?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Why? What is  it?”  she  said,  almost  whispering.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “He  is  looking  for  me.”  said  Forest  in  a  pale  voice.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Her  own  flesh  crawling,  Bell  walked  on  in  complete  silence.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           ''Stare  at the  ground. Nice strong  ground. Part of   the  earth  from  which  we  were  made. Look at  the  sidewalk;  the  many  many  fine  cracks  in  the  old  concrete  from  the  harsh  winter,  the  sand  dropped  in  soft  coats  as  if  by  a  tiny glacier,  dusty  twigs  and  a  sand-covered  soda  bottle  among  the  snowpile  till. Stare at  the  ground  and  you  cannot  be  seen. Do not  lift  your  eyes;  not  even  up  to  the  trees;  if  you  so  much  as  cross  the  gaze  of  another being  he  will  see  you,  he  will  know  you,  he  will  find  you  and  will  have  you. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  came  to  a  small  side  street  opening  off  Williams,  the  old  houses  closer  and  more  comfortable  here. Forest turned  up. It was  literally  paved  with  sand,  yellow  grainy  sand  and  little  yellow  rocks  big  as  chickpeas  strewn  in  rough  bands  over  the  arched  tarmac. The street  rose. The crawling  feel  on  his  skin  dimmed. The street  made  a  square  L  turn  and  grew  steeper,  and  it  was  far  older,  asphalt  rough  and  patchy,  the  sand  thicker. A few  straggling  old  houses  staggered  on  up  the  hill. Right at  the  inside  corner  of  the  bend  stood  a  yellowed  wooden  house,  the  front  porches  draped  in  tattered  black  taps  and  scaffolding. It seemed  blind  and  eyeless. One more  structure  stood  above  it,  a  sagging  yellow  garage,  maybe  once  a  barn:  and  the  houses  ended,  though  a  foundation  or  two  still  staggered  on  up  the  hill,  and  the  road  with  them,  a  concrete  barricade  painted  with  big  orange  X’s  walling  it  to  cars. Over this  they  climbed.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  suddenly  felt  the  crawling  eyes  release  him. He stood  up  straight  as  if he  had  just  dropped  a  big  load.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Can  I  finally  talk  to  you  again?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  forget  I’m  invisible.”  said  Forest  with  an  odd  quirk  in  his  lips. “You’ll look  like  you’re  talking  to  yourself.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “So,  then  people’ll  assume  I  have  a  handset.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “One  of  the  few  advantages  of  cell  phones.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yes,  they  make  it  fashionable  to  talk  to  yourself  and  normalize  lunatics.”  Bell  said  lightly. “Who was  he? And how  was  he  ‘looking’  for  you?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Cornello.”  said  Forest. He tried  to  say  something  else  and  fumbled. “Magic.” he  got  out. “He was  looking.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “One  of  these  days,  Forest,  you  are  going  to  have  to  work  on  using  complete  sentences.”  sighed  Bell.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           I  do  use  complete  sentences,  kid  sister;  the  problem  is  getting  them  out  of  my  head,   <span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">said  Forest’s  thoughts,  and  he  smiled  as  if  he’d  delivered  a  stinging  retort. His sister  heard  only  the  continued  silence  and  impulsively  said,  “Sorry,  Forest,  didn’t  mean  to  be  unkind.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Um.”  said  Forest  in  a  positive  tone. Bell guessed  his  meaning  and  smiled.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Beyond  the  concrete  barrier  was  a  road  of  washed  yellow  cobbles,  loose,  the  soil  long  since  scrubbed  from  them. It was  a  cloudy  day  but  rather  warm;  the  grey  light  had  a  warm  feel  to  it. They climbed  up  this  road  as  they  talked. The hill  rose  steeply  before  them. Green feathery  hemlock  grew  amid  warm-gray  oak  and  ash. They came  to  a  patch  of  ancient  tarmac  still  clinging  to  the  rocks;  the  rest  had  long  since  been  washed  away. They were  near  the  brow  of  the  hill:  above,  a  steep  wall  of  tossed  ledges  scalloped  round  by  the  primeval  ice  blocked  the  way,  and  the  road  curved  right  to  go  around  it. It was  beautifully  narrow;  if  ever  it  had  been  paved,  even  one  car  would  have  fit  on  it  with  difficulty. It curved  up  and  around  to  the  left  in  a  delightful  little  loop,  the  stone  brow  on  the  left,  the  hillside  falling  away  on  the  right.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “This  must  be  what  Ronnie  called  Street  Hill.”  said  Bell  excitedly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “At  One  the  Moveless  none  could  rope.”  Forest  quoted. “I wonder  what  that  could  be.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “This  was  the  hill  the  mismatched  spire  was  pointing  to!”  Bell  exclaimed. “Come on!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">          Street  Hill  is  a  long,  narrow  granite  ridge  running  NE  on  the  northern  end  of  Winsted. It comes  to  a  sloping  end  at  a  point  halfway  between  the  horns  of  the  crescent  of  the  Winsted  valley,  thrusting  a  steep  nose  out  into  the  northern  suburbs. A gap  sunders  it  from  Camp  Hill,  part  of  the  same  ridge  but  now  a  flat-topped  knob. Around this  nose  the  narrow  road  climbs,  then  running  on  straight  it  forms  a  ledge  going  down  into  the  backyards  of  West  Winsted. Encircled by  this  U-curve  Forest  and  Bell  found  a  rounded hump  of  hill-end  like  a  forehead  of  bare  bluish-grey  rock,  green  with  moss-stripes  and  mountain-grass.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  saw  a  rough  jeep  track  following  the  crest  of  the  hill,  so  ignoring  the  road  they  went  up  this. It became  deeper  and  more  regular,  until  it  was  a  road  in  its’  own  right. The deep  green  hemlocks  of  the  hill-crest  fell  away  to  hug  the  leftward  slope;  on  the  right  there  now  fell  a  steep  drop,  that  grew  steeper  and  higher  the  farther  they  climbed,  until  it  was  a  tree-grown  cliff. Young sparse  hickories  and  maples  stood  up  from  the  mountain-grass,  green  and  white  where  some  of  the  blades  had  died. Worn and  stamped  through  the  middle  of  this  went  the  road,  maybe  seven  feet  wide. The rising  hill-crest  was  narrow,  perhaps  40  feet  from  cliff-brink  to  steep  hemlock  slope.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  hill  levelled. They were  travelling  along  a  slender  ridge,  rounded  and  grassy. In places  the  old  road  showed  traces  of  cobbling,  stone  sunk  regularly  into  the  bed,  while  in  other  places  it  had  been  washed  clean  to  the  rugged  bedrock,  that  rolled,  a  solid  piece,  beneath  a  scant  foot  of  earth. Queer grooves  and  hollows  scoured  the  surface,  in  long  lines  parallel  with  the  hill. A massive  rock  covered  with  papery  worts  stood  on  the  hemlock-fringe  to their  left. Bell looked  at  this  a  little  nervously,  thinking  of  the  sinister  standing  stones  of  Temple  Fell,  but  Forest  walked  by  with  scarcely  a  glance.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It’s  only  a  solitary  rock.”  he  said  when  he  noticed  his  new  sister’s  apprehension.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It  looked  kind  of…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It’s  a  stone. Not an  altarstone. It doesn’t  feel.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Bell  looked  back  at  the  stone. Forest was  right,  there  was  no  creeping  feel  here  at  all. It was  ordinary.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Another  shape  became  visible  through  the  greyness  of  the  trees  ahead. To the  right  a  broad  view  could  be  fuzzily  made  out  through  the  twigs,  blue  and  grey. The hill  rose  to  a  height  and  sank  again,  and  where  it  sank  lay  a  darker  mass,  rounded  like  a  bullet  case.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  know,  I  expected  we’d  see  more  cans.”  said  Bell  as  they  passed  another  fire  pit. “But I  haven’t  seen  even  one  yet. That means  that…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Ronnie  was  here!”  they  both  choroused.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  drew  near  the  dark  mass. It was  a  boulder,  immense  and  mighty,  resting  on  the  hilltop. The downhill  end  was  narrower  and  pointed,  like  a  rough  egg,  and  it  seemed  to  be  resting  on  the  bare  stone  of  the  hill. A scraping  sound  was  coming  from  the  far  side  and  suddenly  a  bright  spot  of  red  appeared  on  top. It was,  indeed,  Ronnie  Wendy,  wearing  a  brilliant  red  shirt.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Hello,  Forest,  hello,  Bell.”  he  greeted  with  his  warm  but  ironic  smile. “I didn’t  expect  to  meet  you  here.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “We  guessed  you  came  here  because  of  the  suspicious  absence  of  cans.”  Bell  said  slyly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “And  I  heard  you  coming  about  ten  minutes  ago,  you  pair  of  elephants.”  Ronnie  shot  back. “I knew  this  was  the  Sign  of  Street  Hill;  it  came  to  me  on  the  way  home. The Moveless—couldn’t  be  anything  but  the  Jumbo.”

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

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “How’d  it  get  up  here?”  marveled  Forest,  walking  around it. The boulder  had  to  be  about  twenty  feet  long  and  ten  high,  and  at  least  twelve  feet  thick.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  Grinding  Ice.”  Ronnie  answered. “You know,  the  Ice  Age.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Which  one?”  Bell  said  pertly. “There were  four.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “There  was  only  one.”  Ronnie  answered. “You see,  your  textbooks  never  give  you  the  field  evidence. They only  give  you  the  conclusions  derived  therefrom,  which  are  frequently  erroneous. The same  evidence  can  point  in  many  ways. But I delved  deeper  than  your  textbooks. I actually  read  geology  books  of  fifty  years  ago,  when  geologists  were  still  concerned  with  facts  and  not  with  theories. The Red  Book  of  Flint  was  especially  interesting. Despite maintaining  the  four-Ice  Ages  theory,  he  then  gave  the  evidence  upon  which  it  rests,  and  admitted  one  crucial  fact  that  destroyed  his  whole  case.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  squatted  froglike  on  the  stone,  his  long  arms  dangling. “The case  for  four  ice  sheets  rests  on  weathered  till  buried  by  unweathered,  and  weathered  rocks  found  among  unweathered  gravel. As well  as  drumlins  buried  by  later  glacial  sediment,  and  glaciated  channels  with  superimposed later  glacial  markings. But the  admission  Flint  made  was  that  all  this  evidence  occurs  only  towards  the  edges  of  the  ice  sheet,  in  southern  New  England,  up  in  New  York,  out  in  Michigan. That means  that  there  was  only one  Ice  Age,  which  covered  the  same  ground  several  times. First it  came…then  it  melted. It came  again…and  melted. I doubt  it  came  four  times;  a  single  retreat  and  advance  would  cover  the  evidence  given. At any  rate,  when  it  melted  it  left  this  behind.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Did  the  glacier  dig  out  all  these  valleys?”  Bell  said. “My teacher  says  they  were  eroded.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  Ice  Age  seems  to  have  merely  smoothed  the  hills  in  New  England,  and  then  simply  stopped  moving.”  answered  Ronnie. “It moved  all  different  directions. Did you  see  those  grooves  in  the  roadbed,  on  the  way  up? Those were  scraped  by  the  Ice. Over Winsted  it  seems  to  have  headed  in  two  clashing  directions, because  Flint  gives  a  recorded  direction  of  SE,  but  the  grooves  on  this  hill  move  SW. And that  is  very  important. Because it  lines  right  up  with  the  Torrington  valley. The valley  of  the  Still  River  was  doubtless  begun  by  water,  for  its’  sides  are  polished  and  rounded,  but  the  Ice  finished  it,  digging  down  the  Winsted  valley  until  it  cut  Mad  River  in  half.” “Yeah, but  why  is  this  rock  called  Moveless?”  Forest  said,  feeling  they  were  wandering  from  the  topic.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That’s  all  right.”  laughed  Ronnie. “According to  the  Demars  annals  of  Winsted,  a  lot  of  folks  have  tried  to  push  this  down  the  hill. One local  strong  man  tried  to  do  it  by  hand. He must’ve  been  at  least  ten  men  strong  if  he  thought  he  even  had  a  chance. Then there  was  a  guy  in  the  excavating  business  who  claimed  he  could  move  anything,  and  as  advertising  decided  to  lever  this  down  the  hill.”  He  paused  dramatically. “After a  day  of  trying  to  jack  up  one  end  while  pulling  with  teams  of  oxen  from  the  other,  he  asked  for  fifty  pounds  to  start  things  going. Needless to  say  nobody  wanted  to  put  up  the  dough,  so  he  was  able  to  back  out  and  still  keep  his  face. Why he  never  brought  in  some  dynamite  I  can’t  imagine.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yeah,  that’s  Moveless  none  could  rope  all  right.”  said  Bell.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  was  crouched  down,  peering  underneath  the  Jumbo. It was  pointed  downhill,  toward  the  cliff,  resting  on  an  incline. From its’  nose  the  slope  fell  away  ever  more  steeply,  and  the  hickories  nearby  also  leaned  downhill,  as  if  poised  to  plunge. It rested  not  on  earth  but  on  the  living  stone  of  the  hill;  the  soil  had  formed  around  it  from  ages  of  autumns  mingled  with  whatever  till  the  Ice  had  dropped. Nor did  it  rest  flat;  there  was  a  narrow  space  running  under  it  for  quite  a  ways  in  and  its’  base  seemed  to  be  only  a  segment  of  itself,  a  few  feet  wide. Added to  the  fact  that  on  the  downhill  end  the  recess  was  higher,  it  really  did  look  like  it  could  be  knocked  loose.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  see  anything  on  this  rock,  Forest?”  said  Ronnie. “Because that  mismatched  spire  of  St. Joe’s was  pointing  straight  for  this  part  of  the  Hill. And there’s  a  reason  this  is  the  Sign  of  Street  Hill.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Graffiti.”  shrugged  Forest. “Anything up  there?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  there  is  a  hole  drilled  into  a  crack.”  said  Ronnie. “Probably a  last  trace  of  Mr.  I-can-do-it.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  hopped  straight  down. “Where?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  was  standing  at  the  northerly  face  of  the  granite  boulder. The pale  litchen  here  was  darkened  in  curving  streaks  of  bare  stone…as  if  something,  old  paint  perhaps,  had  killed  the  litchen  and  it  was  still  growing  back. Traces of  old  blueish-grey  paint  were  still  visible,  and  the  bands  were  almost  an  inch  wide,  as  if  sprayed  on  once. The streaks  met,  meshed,  seperated,  a  weird  faint  hierloglyphic  upon  the  enduring  stone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Any  of  you  got  a  pen  and  paper?”  Ronnie  said,  quick  and  sudden. “I want  to  trace  the  pattern.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Bell  found  a  pencil  in  her  backpack  and  pulled  a  page  from  one  of  her  notebooks. Ronnie stared  hard  at  the  stone,  tracing  down  lines. “I’ll be  heading  home  after  this,  guys.”  he  said. “I haven’t  got  too  much  time  left.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  guess  we’ll  push  on,  then.”  said  Bell. “See-ya.”

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

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

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  walked  on  up  the  hill. Ahead it  began  to  rise,  a  last  climbing  head  of  grassy  wood,  the  road  cobbled  with  loose  small  stones. Ronnie had  said  some  ancient  developer  had  wanted  a  hotel  up  here  and  even  erected  a  tower,  but  no  trace  of  this  now  remained  on  the  hilltop,  unless  some  scattered  but  arranged  stones  had  been  its’  foundation. They passed  a  broad  outlook  over  all  of  West  Winsted,  the  streets  of  Wallens  Hill  like  a  slanted  grid,  the  hilltop  rising  dark  with  pine  trees  above  them. Past the  summit  they  came  to  a  fork,  one  branch  leading  left. There was  no  longer  a  steep  fall  in  that  direction;  the  valley  between  Street  and  Spencer  Hills  had  risen  to  just  below  crest-level  and  the  branch  road  descended  gently  through  a  rolling  forest. It was  lovely  and  green  with  the  tall  thick  hemlocks  and  low-growing  laurel—“ivy”  as  the  settlers  had  called  it. Patches of  snow  appeared  now  in  the  shady  featherlock  valley,  still  patiently  melting. One curve  of  the  road,  framed  by  walls  of  emerald  hemlock  and  the  banks  bright  green  with  the  low  laurel,  looked  with  the  snow  like  a  gateway  to  the  North  Pole.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  crossed  the  low  valley  and  began  to  climb  up  a  ledge  in  a  farther  hill. Trees and  bushes  were  more  openly  spaced,  causing  the  hemlocks  to  grow  thick  foliage in  the  oddest  places.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Not  odd,”  Forest  said  aloud,  “strange.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “This  place  feels  weird.”  Bell  muttered,  shivering  a  little. It was  cooler  under  the  cloudy  sky. But it  didn’t  feel  weird. It felt…strange. The way  the  knotty  hemlocks  stood,  the  way  the  wood  was  arranged  around  an  odd  clearing,  hemlock  at  intervals  like  conical  spires  or  ragged  clusters  round  as  cedars:  the  wood  felt  strange,  not  eerie,  not  mysterious,  and  not  like  Temple  Fell.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  climbed  up  the  increasingly  fainter  jeep  trail  with  relief,  leaving the  strange  wood  below. The slope  on  the  left  was  now  higher,  steep  as  a  cliff,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley  rose  Street  Hill:  they  were  pointed  back  southwards. The soil  seemed  dreadfully  thin,  washed  off  the  smooth  lumpy  stone  of  the  hill-skull  where  the  jeep-trail  ran:  a  mere  skin. Cedars stood  here  and  there. A big  hickory,  so  swollen  and  burled  with  bulging  cankers  Forest  thought  at  first  it  was  a  willow,  stood  near  the  edge. Nearby was  an  ancient  maple,  only  one  ragged  reaching  limb  alive,  the  warty  trunk  as  knobbed  and  gnarly  as  the  hickory. Wood steps  were  nailed  to  it,  maybe  for  a  tree  house,  or  a  long-fallen  hunter’s  nest. The thick  erect  branch  was  riddled  with  big  woodpecker  holes. A little  farther  on  was  a  round  lone  boulder,  worty  and  significant,  on  the  edge  of  the  thin-skinned  slope.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “We’re  looking  for  an  oak,  not  a  boulder.”  Forest  told  Bell  when  she  pointed  it  out.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  there’s  plenty  of  oak  trees,  take  your  pick,  oh,  there’s  a  huge  one  just  below  the  boulder.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Then  what  is  that?”  said  Forest,  turning  to  the  right.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  had  left  the  hemlocks  below  them. The slope  rose  at  the  same  steady  gentle  grade,  open,  warm-grey  hickories  and  maples  growing  among  dark-gray  oaks  on  a  brown  floor  of  leaves. To the  right  some  way  ahead  was  the  square  corner  of  a  wide  open  field,  swelling  upward,  and  ahead  at  the  top  the  trees  stood  out  against  another  field. They were  in  a  triangle  of  woods,  the  fields  forming  the  sides  and  the  edge  on  the  left  running  diagonally  across. Not far  ahead  was  the  ruin  of  a  simply  gigantic  tree.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           There  was  no  mistaking  it  for  anything  but  the  Oak  of  the  Skinless  Slope. Two-trunked, so  huge  at  the  base  where  ancient  roots  writhed  down  to  grip  the  very  foundations  of  the  hill,  that  Forest  lying  full  length  would  not  have  spanned  it,  it  stood,  shattered,  eternal,  enduring. One mighty  half  had  broken  at  the  base,  falling  months  ago  with  a  crash  that  must  have  cracked  the  very  stone  it  smote,  huge  muscled  limbs  and  short  odd  twigs  with  withered  leaves  fastened  to  them  sprawled  prone  upon  the  floor. The half  that  stood  had  sprouted  great  shoots  all  along  the  upper  surface  of  the  outreaching  trunk  and  thick  powerful  boughs. So old  was  it  the  heart  was  crumbling,  and  one  vein  of  sapwood  that  remained  alive  as  the  trunk  died  around  it,  thickening  year  by  slow  year  as  the  dead  wood  rotted  away,  now  stood  alone  like a  column  a  foot  thick,  fusing  into  the  trunk  higher  up  at  a  great  knotty  junction. The forest  around  held  many  older  hornbeams,  flowing  wood  over  smooth  jutting  knots  and  graceful  lumps. These had  seeded  themselves,  so that  a  grove  of  young  hornbeam,  slim,  tan-brown  and  straight,  ringed  the  ancient  oak  like  the  retainers  of  a  king.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Nothing’s  carved  into  it.”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Do  you  suppose  some  ancient  artifact  of  power  is  embedded  in  the  trunk?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  shrugged. “I don’t  think  so. I don’t  think  it’s  that  obvious.”  ''Or  that  simplistic. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  ate  lunch  sitting  on  the  great  fallen  trunk. It was  windy  so  near  the  open  hilltop,  and  Forest  pulled  on  his  hat.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’m  cold.”  said  Bell. “And I’m  tired  of  sitting  still. Can we  get  going?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  track  curved  its’  way  up  through  the  brown  wood. Other oaks  and  maples  of  vast  age  stood  here  and  there,  especially  on  the  stonepile  that  bordered  the  field  ahead  of  them,  but  none  were  half  so  ancient  as  the  great  oak  behind  them. The field  on  the  right  was  also  bordered  by  a  stone  wall;  huge  drifts  still  lay  behind  it  like  giant  white  slugs. They passed  between  the  thick  reaching  trees  and  out  into  the  open  field.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  hedgerow  divided  this  from  the  field  on  the  right,  tall  trees  and  bushes  atop  the  stone  wall. The entire  top  of  the  loaf-shaped   hill  was  open,  hay-stubble  and  short  grass  yellow  and  brown  covering  it. Great lumpy  hills  loomed  around  them. In their  lap,  almost  due  south,  gleamed  the  Long  Lake  like  a  floor  of  blue-grey  glass. First Bay  was  open,  first  to  freeze  and  to  melt,  but  past  the  First  Narrows  the  grey  soft  ice  lay,  opaque  and  white. Steep pine-girt  walls  plunged  down  to  it  from  the  rolling  highland. A lone  hill,  high  and  conical,  stood  to  the  left  of  the  Lake:  Pratt  Hill,  overtopping  the  hills  around. The piney  height  of  Case  Mt. curved around  from  behind  it. Dark, somber  gray-purple  and  black-green  were  the  hills  under  the  white-grey  sky.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  headed  south  down  the  field. The grass  ceased  and  the  field  was  all  rough  dark-brown/grey  weed  stubble:  evidently  idle  land  recently  reopened. A copse  of  slender  white  birches,  erect  purple-red  twigs  and  white  stems  like  a  mist,  stood  out  from  the  wood. The field  crested  the  narrowing  brow  of  the  fell’s  end  and  plunged  more  steeply  to  a  dark  wood. Pines and  hemlock,  tangled  oak,  even  a  few  spruce. A path  appeared  leading  into  the  tree-wall,  narrow  but  ATV-rutted  in  the  brown  earth. The pines  watched  them. As they  walked  through  the  wood  the  two  children  found  themselves  walking  softly,  as  if  afraid  the  dark  glowering  pines  might  hear. The air  was  oppressive  and  hostile. They were  relieved  when  the  jeep  track,  with  a  final  twist,  left  the  evergreens  behind  and  headed  downward  into  more  open  forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  were  in  a  rising  valley  between  the  two  limbs  of  Spencer  Hill:  the  upper,  behind  them,  and  the lower,  a  long  sloping  hogback  of  a  field  that  ran  on  southward  along  a  broad  ridge  to  end  just  above  Gilbert. The track  climbed  along  the  hillside,

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">passing a  stream. The path  wound  down  the  descending  valley,  into  drooping  hemlocks,  then  quite  suddenly  along  a  chain-link  fence  beside  a  narrow  triangular  field. A shed  stood  to  the  right,  and  voices  carried  from  the  parking  lot  beyond  it.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  know  where  we  are!”  Forest  said  excitedly. “This is  the  practice  field  near  Gilbert!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yeah,  and  if  I  ran  at  light  speed  I  might  get  to  Hinsdale  in  time  to  catch  my  bus.”  Bell  said  lightly. “Is your  bus  due  to  leave  soon?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  looked  at  his  watch. “We’ve got ten  minutes.”  he  said. They made  their  way  out  to  the  bus  loading  area,  mingling  with  the  crowds  of  teenagers  milling  around  toward  the  various  busses. Forest stared  at  the  ground  so  he  wouldn’t  be  seen. He whispered  the  number  of  his  bus  to  Bell  and  they  found  it,  filing  on  board. The bus  driver  didn’t  notice  Bell  as  she  had  mounted  close  behind  a  pair  of  giggling  girls, and  Forest  sat  by  the  window  midway  and  Bell  sat  on  the  outside. Nobody paid  them  any  attention,  and  they  got  off  behind  Julian  and  Delilah  near  Wintergreen  Island.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  sure  your  mom—umm,  Mom—won’t  mind  me  dropping  in?”  Bell  said  shyly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  Mom  and  Dad  are  getting  married  next  month,”  said  Forest,  “and  then  you’ll  be  living  with  us.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yeah,  won’t  that  be  cool?”

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

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Saturday  was  a  lovely  warm  day. It was,  after  all,  halfway  through  April. Brooke felt  herself  stretching  like  a  cat  when she  looked  at  the  sun  and  felt  how  yummy  warm  it  was. She almost  caught  herself  purring.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  look  like  a  pussy.”  her  brother  teased. As modern  parlance  was  beginning  to  ascribe  to  this  word  a  meaning  akin  to  “sissy”—leaving  aside  its’  darker  and  uglier  obscene  meaning—he  fully  understood  and  intended  the  triple  implication,  and  only  laughed  when  Brooke  hissed  and  made  mock  clawing  motions  at  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Getting  on  her  bike  she  bowled  down  the  rolling  miles  of  Boyd  St  until  she  was  in  Winsted. It seemed  like  the  perfect  day  to  poke  around  one  of  the  Nine  Hills. Not having  a  clear  memory  of  Bell’s  map,  the  only  hill  she  was  at  all  conversant  with  was  Wallens  Hill. The sun  was  clear  and  bright,  although  a  cool  breeze  kept  it  from  feeling  really  comfortable,  and  Brooke  smiled  as  she  felt  her  hair  blow  loose  and  her  arms,  bare  to  the  wind,  tingle. She was  wearing  grey  over  blue  jeans,  with  her  sweater  tied  around  the  handlebars. Main St  was  full  of  people  walking  from  store  to  store,  and  young  people  were  out  enjoying  the  air,  and  boys  whistled  at  her  as  she  smiled  at  them. It was  exhilarating,  freedom  after  a  hard  grim  winter. A Fell  Winter,  the  WBF—no,  Arheled—had  named  it.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  biked  up  the  side  streets  of  Wallens  Hill,  higher  and  higher,  until  she  realized  the  top  of  the  hill  was  wooded  and  untenanted. Gleefully she  headed  up  the  last  street  to  the  crossway  with  Wallens  Hill  Rd.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  road  climbing  up  from  the  old  clock  factory,  as  Lara  Midwinter  had  noticed  when  she drove  up  it  to  Riverton,  joined  Wallens  Hill  Rd  like  the  leg  of  a  Y:  the  road  came  in  on  the  right  and  curved  sharply  left  between  high  banks  toward  the  old-style  new  barn. Brooke turned  right. The road  grew  small  and  quiet. She passed  a  few  very  old  houses  sinking  into  the  land,  trees  standing  comfortably  around. There was  a  large  and  very  old  garden  whose  fences  were  thick  walls  of  grapevine,  most  of  it  unused  with  goldenrod  pressed  flat  from  the  snow. Then a  big  swell  of  worted  hill  jutted  out,  a  craggy  face  of  blocky  stone  green  with  moss. Brooke went  up  a  small  rise. The road  ended. A new  development  street  went  downhill  to  the  left,  but  the  sign  informed  her  it  was  a dead  end. And ahead  it  became  a  delightful,  patched,  bumpy,  potholed  curving  driveway,  with  a  sign  frowning  to  trespassers. Privet hedges  stood  on  the  left  and  old  barns  and  fields  beyond  proclaimed  it  a  farm. Above the  drive,  which  curved  over  a  small  rise,  on  the  left  was  a  quaint  detailed  complicated  gardened  old  house,  with  the  hexagonal  barn-like  roof  common  to  many  older  dwellings. Turning around  Brooke  headed  back  to  the  flat  between  the  mossy  bluff  and  the  hedged  garden,  where  a  huge  stone  wall  across  a  shallow  wet  swale  fenced  off  a  rising  forest. Hiding her  bicycle  in  the  lee  of  this  she  set  off  up  Wallens  Hill.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  hot  sun  was  white  and  shining  on  the  pale  brown  leaves  and  pale  grey  twigs. She climbed  up  to  the  top  of  the  slope. White pine  grew,  bright  soft  green,  some  way  ahead,  but the  forest  here  was  open  and  warm. Following a  stone  wall  she headed  west.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  did  that  rhyme  say?...pale  on  the  woodland’s  eve?...I  wonder  what  that  could  be.”  she  said  aloud.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ahead  was  a  junction  of  walls. Tall skeletal  oaks  raised  long  fingers  above  green  pine  seedlings. A pine  wood  lay  to  the  left  where  the  ground  began  to  rise,  and  another  stone  wall  came  out  of  the  woods  ahead,  bent  in  a  square  to  the  left,  and  ran  into  the  pines. But what  was  that  straight  ahead? A long  pale  shape  like  some  beached  stone  whale…

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           It  turned  out  to  be  a  huge  pale  white-grey-blue  rock,  extraordinarily  smooth,  sunk  in  the  earth. “Well, that’s  a  candidate.”  Brooke  remarked,  passing  around  to  the  west  side. It was  long  and submarine-like,  pointing  north  and  south,  a  man’s  length  or more. Suddenly she  stopped.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Letters  were  graven  into  the  stone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  looked  closer. Carefully chiselled  in  square  letters  it  said

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">                   19      46

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Barn-red  traces  of  paint  in  some  of  the  letters  suggested  it  had  once  been  more  visible. Brooke frowned  over  the  second-last  letter  of  the  first  name:  was  that  a  Y,  or  a  lower-case  R  with  a  big  stem  and  no  down-hook? Robeyt would  certainly  be  an  unusual  name.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’m  pretty  sure  this  is  it,”  Brooke  muttered  to  herself,  “but  I’ll  check  the  rest  of  the  hill  to  make  sure.”  She  turned  her  face  to  the  April  sun  with  pleasure. “And then  I’ll  go  and  jump  in  Mad  River. Ooh! That’ll be  fun.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  walked  into  the  pine  wood. White pine  mingled  with  sweeping  deep-green  hemlock,  and  thick  red-green  moss  showed  the  intermittent  flat  heads,  fingerlike  spring-green  fronds  thrusting  horizontally  from  a  central  stem,  of  the  odd  woodland  plant  she  knew  only  as  “creeping  vine”,  which  she  and  her  dad  would  gather  with  princess  pine  for  Christmas  wreaths. The land  climbed  steadily. There was  a  lovely  early-morning  feel  about  the  sunlight,  the  pale  blue  sky,  the  green  trees. She came  to  the  hilltop,  a  strange  pile  of  stones  and  cinder  blocks  under  a  queer  branching  oak. Downhill to  the  west  the  greenery  grew  thicker. To the  left  she  saw  the  immense  silvery  panels,  like  outthrust  hands  on  very  short  arms,  that  ringed  the  top  of  the  great  cell  phone  tower  on  the  farther  shoulder  of  the  hill. Behind and  a  little  left  downhill,  opposite  from  the  tower,  she  saw  the  farm’s  small  fields  below.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Following  a  high  tottering  stone  wall,  Brooke  angled  down  the  hillside. She wanted  to  see  if  Wallens  Hill  Rd  continued  on  any  further after  the  farm. Below in  the  flats  she  saw  a  silvery  patch,  like  a  pond  half-icy  still,  but  a  little  farther  down  she  realized  it  was  just  a  broad  patch  of  snow. The wall  was  single-course,  stacked  with  some  care,  but  much  of  the  crest  had  toppled,  and  many  sections  had  fallen  outright. A razor-back  rock  had  been  built  into  it  partway  down. Then she  came  to  a  circular  structure,  stacked  rocks  making  a  ring-wall  atop  a  big  embedded  rock,  the  ring-wall  filled  with  small  stones  culled  from  the  field. A plantation  of  white  pine  filled  half  the  flat:  an  old  Christmas  tree  farm,  perhaps. Brooke followed  the  stone  wall  east  along  the  pines. After some  ways  she  passed  a  gap  in  the  pines;  on  the  far  side  they  changed  to  spruce. The forest  to  her  right  was  light  brown  with  beech  leaves. She met  another  road,  and  a  glance  to  the  left  showed  she  was  right:  there  were  the  brown  barns  she  had  seen  from  the  street,  and  a  grassy  lane  passing  from  them  right  back  to  her. The road  was  wet  and  sandy,  and  too  exposed  to  view  from  the  distant  buildings,  so  Brooke  picked  her  way  through  the  forest  beside  it.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           After  a  short  while  enough  hemlocks  were  between  her  and  the  barns  a  quarter  mile  away  for  her  to  take  the  road. She was  surprised  to  see  a  real  estate  sign,  blue  and  white,  stuck  casually  out  here  in  the  woods  as  if  on  a  main  highway. A little  farther  on  she  came  on  something  that  made  her  clasp  her  hands  and  squeal  to  herself.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  deep,  clean  little  drain-pond  lay  beside  the  road. The water  had  an  opaque  blue  quality  to  it  that  told  Brooke  it  would  probably  be  full  of  algae  by  May  or  so,  but  right  now  it  looked  perfect. Probably an  old  pond  recently  dredged. A rusted  pipe  emerged  from  under  the  road,  providing  a  perfect  spot  to  stand  and  dive.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Brooke  undressed  quickly. She debated  with  herself  whether  to  go  in  all  naked  or  not,  and  decided  in  the  end  to  keep  her  underthings  on  in  case  someone  came:  she  was  rather  close  to  civilization. She stood  on  the  pipe,  luxuriating  in  the  warm  sun,  the  breeze  on  her  skin,  the  pleasant  really  cold  water  so  inviting  before  her. Then she  dived  forward  and  felt  her  body  instantly  encased  in  wonderful  icy coldness. She surfaced,  gasping  for  breath:  it  was  really  cold. She pulled  herself  out  with  some  difficulty,  her  feet  slipping  in  the  steep  mud,  and  stood  on  the  pipe,  gasping  and  exultant  as  blood  rushed  through  her  and  a  powerful  glow  of  delirious  health  and  warmth  surged  up  in  her. Laughing she  jumped  right  in  again. This time  she  had  to  climb  out  quicker:  she  was  chilled  wonderfully. It was  hard  to  get  a  foothold.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “If  you  will  permit,”  a  rough  deep  male  voice  said  above  her. Brooke felt  her  hand  seized  by  a  mighty  grasp  and  then  the  world  turned  upside  down  and  she  was  flying,  and  then  she  was  on  the  bank,  streaming  wet  and  frozen  solid,  in  the  arms  of  a  big,  strange,  bearded  man. She couldn’t  seem  to  get  her  breath. He was  so  close,  so  very  male,  so  attracting  and  so  wild,  and  here  she  was,  practically  naked  in  his  embrace. He was  rubbing  her  cold  back,  and  his  hands  were  warm,  so  nice  and  warm,  and  his  beard  was  silky  on  her  face. She felt  a  hot  fierce  blush  suddenly  rise  in  her  as  she  realized  he  was  trying  to  kiss  her. She pushed  away. “Stop! No! Please, just  put  me  down!”  she  cried,  half  laughing. He only  hugged  her  tighter.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Alarm  bells  ringing,  Brooke  fight  for  real. “Let go!”  she  shouted.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “But  you  liked  it  at  first,  girlie.”  he  murmered. His beard  suddenly  wasn’t there  as  he  began  kissing  her  again,  and  her  mouth  was  captured,  and  she  realized  with  a  sudden  sick  dismay  that  he  was  right,  she  did  like  it,  or  part  of  her  did,  and  part  of  her  wanted  to  let  this  masterful  stranger  do  what  he  wished  and  enjoy  it  as  he  did.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Who  are  you?”  she  gasped,  fighting  down  the  passion.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’m  a  wild  man,  little  hottie.”  he  chuckled. Brooke looked  up,  half  in  fascination  and  delight  and  half  in  fear,  and  saw  his  eyes. There was  something  in  his  eyes  that  suddenly  sent  all  the  passion  from  her  and  left  her  as  cold  as  if  her  blood  was  ice. Those eyes  were  not  human  eyes. They reminded  her….

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Release  me,  in  the  name  of  the  Road!” ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  effect  was  so  sudden  she  was  astounded. He seemed  to  be  literally  blown  off  of  her  like  a  cloud  of  dirt,  and  when  he  stopped  he  was  ten  feet  away.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Hey,  what’s  the matter,  baby,  we  were  getting  along  so  fine…”  he  wheedled  as  he  advanced  quickly  upon  her  again. As she  stumbled  backward  she  shouted,  “By  Arheled  I  compel  you!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  stopped  as  if  he  had  slammed  into  a  tree. She looked  at  him,  quivering  as  if  rooted  by  some  unseen  force,  looking  balefully  at  her.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  would  you  have  me  do?”  he  asked  darkly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  command  you  to  turn  around  and  not peek  so  I  can  get  some  clothes  on.”  she  said  coldly. Slowly, like  a  great  ship  revolving,  the  strange  wild  man  turned  his  back.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  dressed  frantically,  wadding  up  her  wet  underthings  and  stuffing  them  in  her  backpack. Presentable, she  looked  up  at  him. He stood  with  shoulders  hunched  and  head  lowered  so  that  it  almost  looked  like  he  had  no  head. “You may  turn.”  she  bade  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  strange  man  did  so,  and  Brooke  was  able  to  take  in  his  full  appearance  for  the  first  time. He was  indeed  wild. Long rough  black  hair  flowed  below  his  shoulders,  and  on  a  grim  craggy  face  a  black  beard  again  grew. He had  dirty  grey  jeans  and  a  T-shirt,  but  incongruously,  over  it  was  draped  a  huge  tattered  mantle. The eyes  were  the  most  frightening  thing  about  him:  alive,  mocking,  with  a  strange  unholy  mirth  they  gleamed  in  his  dark  earthy  face.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You’re  the  Wild  Man  of  Winsted,  aren’t  you?”  she  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Why  else  would  I  have  been  subject  to  such  commands?”  he  answered  in  his  strange  rough  voice. “You must  be  one  of  the  Six,  or  you  would  never  have  known  them. And the  one  whose  province  is  water,  to  judge  by  your  activity  this  early  in  the  year.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  thought  you  worked  for  Arheled.”  she  said. “He seemed  pretty  moral  to  me. So he  just  lets  you  go  around  and  rape  the  local  girls?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  am  permitted  to  woo,”  the  deep  odd  voice  sighed,  “but  not  to  force;  if  she  yields  to  my  wooing,  she  has put  herself  in  my  power  and  he  may  not  intervene,  for  that  would  interfere  with  our  free  wills. But if  I  was  to  force,  he  would  come  and  stop  me  before  I  could  consummate;  and  then  I  would  be  punished.”  A  spasm  of  such  fear,  and  grim  acceptance,  flashed  through  his  face,  that  Brooke  suddenly  felt  a  little  sorry  for  him. Even Wild  Men  get  lonesome,  she  supposed.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  hope  it’s  not  too  painful.”  she  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  Wild  Man  gave  her  a  puzzled  look. “I am  uncomprehensive,”  he  said,  “why  should  it  not  be?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  I  mean,  I  wouldn’t  want  you  to  be  tortured  when  you  hadn’t  even  done  it  yet,  I  mean,  we  shut  rapists  in  jail  or  execute  them,  but  we  don’t  torture  them.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Ah,  you  still  do  not  grasp  it.”  he  said. “You see,  even  if  I  have  not  fulfilled,  I  have  transgressed. And when  I  transgress,  then  I  deserve,  and  when  I  deserve,  I  must  be  paid,  whether  well  or  ill.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “He  sounded  kind.”  Brooke  protested.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  boss  has  great  mercy,  but  he  only  gives  it  to  those  who  need  it. The weak,  and  the  foolish. But those  who  are  strong,  such  as  I,  neither  need  nor  ask  for  mercy.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “But  what  if  you  did  something  deserving  of  death?!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  Wild  Man  of  Winsted  seemed  almost  amused. “Ah, that  may  be  how  it  works  with  you,  but  for  us  venda,  not  so.”  His  face  became  drawn,  hard,  as  if  gazing  beyond  her  to  sights  too  awful  to  bear. “There are  punishments  compared  to  which  death,  even  a  painful  one,  is  a  mercy.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Faint  visions  of  horrible  implements  half-remembered  from  various  movies,  shoes  of  iron  heated  red,  screws  wrapped  around  members,  hooks  and  chains  and  barbs  and  twisted  devices  whose  function  could  not  be  guessed  because  it  was  too  gruesome  to  even  be  spoken,  passed  like  phantom  shadows  behind  Brooke’s  mind  at  his  words. Tears welled  suddenly  up  in  her  eyes.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  hope  your  wooing  goes  well  next  time,  Wild  Man.”  she  said  in  a  broken  voice.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Even  pity  is  a  consolation  and  a  solace  to  be  grateful  for.”  said  the  Wild  Man  of  Winsted. “But cheer  up. When I  am  allowed  out,  I  have  more  success  in  my  wooing  than  rejection.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Then  he  was  gone,  as  suddenly  as  if  he  had  dropped  into  the  earth,  and  Brooke  in  a  daze  began  the  trek  back  to  her  bike.

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Lara  Midwinter  walked  up  the  road  winding  along  the  east  shore  of  the  Long  Lake. A careful  study  of  the  library’s  topo  map  had  shown  there  were  only  a  few  ways  to  enter  the  vast  swath  of  woods  between  the  lake  and  the  wall  of  Case  Mt:  houses  fenced  it  in  elsewhere. She had  parked  at  Resha  Beach  and  walked  up  the  rolling  road  under  hemlocks. The cove  of  Resha  Beach  was  left  behind,  but  when  she  crossed  a  hump  of  land  another  cove  thrust  in  from  the  right. A side  street,  lumpily  paved,  ran  uphill  on  the  left  between  cottages. Then woods  closed  in,  and  the  houses  were  left  behind. She saw  a  still-standing  deserted  cottage  under  a  giant  white  pine  some  way  in  on  her  left. The pavement  ended  as  the  road  bent  right,  a  driveway  running  straight. A high  crazy  house  entirely  built  of  mortar  and  rock,  dated  1790,  stood  on  the  left. The road  sloped  down  into  a  sort of  saddle  and  the  pavement  ceased:  smoothed  compressed  clay-gravel  ran  down  into  the  hollow. There was  a  T-crossroad,  and  leaving  the  road  she  turned  left  up  a  side  road  paved  with  coarse  white-blue  gravel:  it  seemed  to  be  in  her  direction. Odd little  cabins,  weird,  primitive  and  lonely,  stood  here  and  there  far  within  the  hemlock  wood,  dirt  lanes  connecting  them.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Her  road  abruptly  started  climbing  and  became  lumpy  and  stony. She came  into  a  clearing. The forest  looked—burned,  as  if  half  of  it  had  died,  but  the  “slash”  of  discarded  branches  told  her  it  was  more  likely  logged. The road,  now  rolling  and  muddy  from  heavy  jeep  passage,  went  on  ahead  into  sparse  hemlocks—featherlock  pines,  she  remembered  Forest  had  named  them  on  Temple  Fell. A smaller  logging  track  headed  left  into  the  raspberries,  uphill. Lara took  it.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  track  climbed  increasingly  steeper. Hemlock grew  close  but  were  themselves  thin-looking  and  sparse. Lara hoped  this  was  Pratt  Hill. She had  gotten  letters—she  still  thought  of  emails  as  letters—from  the  others,  letters  sent  “to  all”  the  other  Six,  about  the  progress  of  the  Quest. A terse  and  thoughtful  letter  about  a  folded  grapevine  on  Cobble  Hill  from  Ronnie,  a  long  rambling  letter  from  Bell  about  a  big  rock  on  Street  Hill  and  a  mother  of  all  oaks  on  Spencer  Hill,  an  even  more  rambling  letter  from  Brooke  about  a  carved  rock  on  Wallens  Hill  and  a  bizarre  encounter  with  the  Wild  Man  himself  which  Lara  found  frightening  but  Brooke  seemed  to  think  romantic. She decided,  accordingly  that  she  would  head  up  Pratt  Hill  herself,  as  she  had  Monday  off.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           It  was  so  warm  it  was  almost  hot. Lara wiped  sweat  from  her  face  and  was  glad  she’d  worn  short  sleeves. The sun  was  hot  and  bright  on  the  dull  brown  leaves. The slope  lessened  and  the  top  came  in  sight  far  above. Lara climbed  up  an  area  of  broken  rocks:  odd  ricks,  curiously  square-edged,  as  if  shaped  by  hands  and  not  nature. One in  particular,  a  four-foot  square  like  a  rock  table,  caught  her  eye. The hemlock  grew  greener  and  there  were  white  birches  among  them. Then she  came  out  of  the  shade  and  into  a  strange,  bright,  open  place. Low trees,  sparse  and  spreading,  stood  far  apart  amid  the  short  hill-grass:  ash,  hickory,  maple,  grey  and  sunlit. There was  a  certain  feel  to  the  place;  not  queer  like  Temple  Fell,  or  strange  like  Spencer  Hill,  more  like  the  steady,  grave  regard  of  an  old  man  with  head  erect,  all  others  whom  he  looked  at  less  wise  than  he. It felt  like  that. Open, grave  and  solemn.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  first  noticed  the  stones  that  were  tumbled  below  the  edge  of  the  round  sloping  cap  of  the  hill;  odd  stones,  almost too  squared  and  regular  to  be  natural. Did granite  naturally  cleave  that  way? A hemlock  stood  by  itself  off  to  the  left,  shading  some  longer  stones,  and  Lara  went  over  to  look.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           What  met  her  eyes  was  a  neat  L-shaped  cut  in  the  sloping  caprock;  the  edges  were  straight  as  if  hewn,  forming  a  square  pit  a  couple  feet  deep. The far  side  was  formed  by  an  erect  slab  ten  feet  long,  sunk  endwise  in  the  earth.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That  doesn’t  look  natural.”  Lara  mused.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  headed  across  the  sloping  crown. It dropped  in  a  sudden  abrupt  tumble  of  more  curiously  even  stones  to  the  slopes  rising  up  from  the  far  side,  as  if  the  smooth  dome  of  the  hill-top  was  a  helm  of  stone  upon  the  sunken  head  of  some  primeval  giant. And there,  above  the  main  slopes,  imprinted  into  the  edge  of  the  dome,  was  another  square  pit—or  rectangular—with  one  edge  an  L  of  cut  rock  and  the  other  bordered  by  huge  upright  slabs.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Seven  stood  tall  and  prints  did  leave… ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Seriously  perturbed,  Lara  climbed  back  up  on  the  main  slope  of  the  dome. Blue-grey rocks,  pale  and  bright  in  the  sun,  stood  here  and  there  on  the  smooth  grade. A faint  jeep  track  climbed  over  the  dome. And there,  forming  a  triangle  with  the  first  two  squares,  was  a  larger  L-shaped  cut.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Lara  went  on. It could  be  a  prehistoric  tower…or  it  could  be  something  else….or  it  could  be  the  stone  of  Pratt  Hill’s  cap  just  naturally  had  a  habit  of  breaking  off  in  near-perfect  blocks  that  looked  almost  shaped…but  Arheled  had  sent  them  on  this  quest,  and  a  tower  was  the  best  bet.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Star-tower…palace  of  stars… ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  shook  her  head. She was  on  the  summit  now,  grassy  and  bright  with  sun. A couple  of  rocks  that  were  anything  but  square  stood  nearby,  one  a  pale  blue-white  chunk  three  feet  high,  the  other  a  queer  sloping  boulder  shaped  just  like  a  car  covered  with  a  tarp  and  turned  to  stone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “So  this  is  Pratt  Hill.”  she  said  aloud. The air  was  soft  and  warm,  and  very  quiet. Lara chuckled. “I bet  Brooke  is  in  swimming  right  now.”  she  said  as  she  began  the  climb  down.

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  would  have  won  her  bet. Brooke at  that  moment  was  jumping  off  the  dam  at  Stillwater  Pond  in  Torrington,  in  a  swimsuit  this  time,  while  Delilah  and  Vanessa  above  were  shrieking  she  was  crazy. Brook came  up  gasping  and  pulled  herself  out  very  quickly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “How  cold  is  it?”  screamed  Delilah,  teetering  on  the  brink. Brooke was  just  standing  there,  feeling  the  rush  that  cold  water  always  brought  on  and laughing.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Oh,  it’s  cold,  but  it’s  really  good  when  you’re  wet.”  she  called.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You’re  insane,  girl!”  Vanessa  shrieked. Brooke plunged  back  in  and  swam  around  to  the  fence. Her girlfriends  did  eventually  slide  in  up  to  the  neck,  scream,  and  climb  out. After which  it  was  pretty  much  just  sunbathing  for  them. Brooke called  them  wusses.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  lay  on  her  back,  eyes  closed,  and  remembered  that  encounter  on  Wallens  Hill. Now that  it  was  two  days  ago  it  felt  like  an  adventure,  a  wild  wonderful  happening  to  be  recounted  and  smiled  at  for  a  lifetime  of  memory. She half  wished  she  could  meet  him  again;  but  then  remembered  the  mocking,  wild  eyes  and  the  rough kisses,  and she  both  shuddered  and  thrilled.

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Bell  and  Forest  were  playing  truant  again. They both  felt  a  little  guilty  and  were  reading  their  textbooks  in  the  park;  and  laughing  about  how  breathtakingly  important  it  was  to  know  exactly  how  many  products  Ecuador  exported,  or  that  the  Cambrian  Period  was  how  many  million  years  long. It was  wonderfully  warm. It felt  like  a  release.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Say,  Forest,  why  don’t  we  go  and  look  around  Church  Hill?”  said  Bell.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  rhyme  didn’t  mention  it.”  argued  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">          Bell  fished  out  her  copy. “Does too.”  she  insisted. “Tenth line  deals  with  two  places,  cause  there’s  two  hills  in  the  middle:  Camp  and  Church.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Oh  all  right.”  muttered  Forest,  getting  up''. Have it  your  way.''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  walked  back  up  Winsted  Rd  to  Dairy  Queen  and  bought  a  strawberry  sundae  each. Savoring it  as  they  walked,  they  dawdled  up  Main  St,  Bell  talking  to  Forest  and  Forest  not  meeting  anyone’s  eyes. They came  after  a  while  to  St. Joseph’s.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It’s  Catholic.”  said  Bell  dubiously.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  ignored  her  and  mounted  the  stairs. Bell threw  her  empty  ice  cream  dish in  the  gutter  and  followed.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Inside  the  church  felt  cool. They moved  up  the  aisle,  looking  about  with  a  certain  wary  interest. Then suddenly  Forest  stopped. His heart  chilled.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           All  the  statues  were  masked  and  shrouded  in purple. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           On  the  side  altars,  the  niches  beside  the  altar,  the  crucifix,  all  the  statues  were  veiled. Even the  life-size  crucifix  on  the  left  wore  wings  of  purple. Faceless, awful  in  majesty,  the  shrouded  statues  seemed  like  hooded  figures  of  doom  that  might  in  any  moment  utter  suddenly  from  their  mantled  mouths  words  beyond  hearing  in  voices  like  thunder. They did  not  know  that  this  was  due  to  it’s  being  Holy  Week,  and  that  during  Lent  in  older  times  all  Catholic  churches  shrouded  the  statues. Forest and  Bell  backed  quickly  out  of  the  church.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That  was  creepy.”  Bell shivered. “It was  like  they  were  alive  under  there,  watching.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  want  to  see  that  grotto.”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “But  St. Anthony’s School is  still  on,  isn’t  it? It’s not  even  2:00!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “They  should  be  just  getting  out.”  Forest  answered. “You forget  I  went  here  for  a  few  years.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  was  right. In the  crowded  parking  lot,  with  a  playground  full  of  children  nearby,  nobody  noticed  the  pair—or  nobody  noticed  Bell,  as  Forest  couldn’t  be  seen.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  looked  the  grotto  over  with  great  interest. “You got  that  map?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Never  leave  home  without  it.”  and  she  fished  it  out  of  one  pocket  of  her  backpack.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Thought  so.”  said  Forest. “Look. The grotto’s  on  the  highest  part  of  Church  Hill. It’s also  in  the  exact  center  of  the  Nine  Hills. They’re not  very  regular,  but  look,  see? This is  the  midmost  place.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  headed  back  to  the  park  and  spent  that  lovely  warm  day  rambling  aimlessly  around  in  the  odd  swampy  woods  near  Sand  Bank  Cemetary. They even  followed  the  RR  grade’s  long  high  narrow  fill  across  the  swamp,  until,  quite  abruptly,  it  ended  at  a  stone  rampart. Still River  crawled  out  of  the  grassy  tussocks  to  the  south  and  flowed  over  an  old  beaver  dam. The bridge  had  long  since  gone. The grade  was  a  pleasant  place,  grey  beech  and  brown  graceful  hornbeam  and  dark  birch  growing  on  the  bare  earth  of  the  sides. Honeysuckle bushes  covered  the  top,  pale  whiteish  brittle  twigs  bending  aside  as  one  pushed  through. They climbed  down  and  waded,  but  the  water  was  still  so  icy  it  numbed  their  feet  in  moments  and  made  them  ache.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’m  so  glad  I  have  you  as  a  brother,  Forest.”  said  Bell  suddenly. “It’s just  so  nice  hanging  out  with  you.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  gave  her  a  shy  but  warm  smile.  I couldn’t  have  asked  for  a  greater  gift  than  to  have  a  sister  who  is  also  a  friend,  he  thought,  but  he  didn’t  say  anything.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  went  over  to  the  College  library when  evening  closed  down,  as  the  park  was  beginning  to  fill  with  shadowy  loud-voiced  young  people  who  were  having  one  beer  too  many. It closed  at  eight  and  they  had  to  head  for  Forest’s  house,  as  Bell  had  permission  to  sleep  over  for  the  first  time. Mom was  super-busy  planning  the  wedding,  quiet  and  simple  though  it  was  to  be,  but  she  had  said  all  right.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  walked  up  Willow  street  and  Prospect  Street,  once  or  twice  passing  couples  or  groups  of  teenagers,  and  at  Bell’s  whispered  plea  Forest  met  their  eyes  so  Bell  wouldn’t  seem  to  be  alone. As they  climbed  up  Lake  St,  Forest  turned  to  look  across  the  valley  at  lighted  Winsted  and  caught  his  breath.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  is  it?”  said  Bell. She was  getting  a  little  tired,  and  they  still  had  a  couple  miles  to  go.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “There  is  a  star  on  the  tower.”  Forest  said. His voice  sounded  awed.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Bell  looked. Across the  valley  Soldier’s  Tower  rose,  dark  above  the  trees  atop  its’  hill. A white  light  gleamed  from  the  roof.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It’s  just  an  aircraft  warning  light.”  she  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Don’t  you  see  it?”  Forest  said  impatiently. “There is  a  star  on  the  tower!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Bell  looked  again. Suddenly the  world  bent  just  a  little  and  she  saw  what  he  meant:  there,  resting  on  the  tower,  gleaming  from  the  hill,  was  a  gigantic  star  like  a  burning  gem.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  rested  at  the  spillway  for  a  long  time and  got  to  Wintergreen  Island  late—the  clock  said  ten. Forest let  himself  in  with  his  key. The ice  had  just  dissolved  over  the  weekend,  and  waves  were  happily  chuckling  among  the  stones  again. It was  a  dreamy,  familiar  sound. Forest and  Bell  found  covered  dishes  of  meatloaf,  corn  and  mashed  potatoes  in  the  fridge  with  a  note  from  Mom  saying  she’d  be  back  late. They microwaved  it  and  ate  quickly,  then  reeled  upstairs. Bell’s room  was  all  ready  for  her,  even  a  pair  of  her  pajamas  on  the  bed. Dad must  have  brought  them  up. They brushed  their  teeth  and  waved  good  night  at  each  other  before  heading  off  to  bed.