Ch. 6: The Three Haunts

(Return to Arheled)

           He  got  up  very  early. The great  thunderstorm  yesterday—there’d  even  been  hail—had  ended  the  heat,  and  it  was  remarkably  cool  and  dry  and  clear. Wind dappled  the  green  trees  with  white. The lake,  when  he  waded  over  by  the  Split  Rock,  was  still  gorgeously  warm  from  the  rain. He swam  a  little  then  got  out:  he  didn’t  really  feel  like  getting  wet  much. Changing, he  headed  across  the  street  and  up  to  the  Mountain;  it  was  a  woods  day. He reached  the  top,  out  of  breath  but  triumphant,  and  sat  down  on  a  rock.

           This  time  he  witnessed  Arheled  appearing. Snow swirled  together  in  the  air  and  turned  solid,  and  there  he  stood,  in  his  brown  pants  with  a  green  flannel  shirt,  leaning  on  a  tree  and  squinting  into  the  new  sun.

           “Hi,  Mr. Brown.” smiled  Forest.

           “It  is  lovely  weather  at  last.”  Arheled  answered. “Too muggy  before  this  for  anything  serious,  wonderful  weather  for  bathing  and  pleasure  but  an  ill  time  for  work. And there  is  so  much  work  to  be  done.”

           “I  saw  the  Stone  of  Death.”  said  Forest.

           “Yes,  I  rather  thought  you  might.”  Arheled  replied. “The Road  runs  stronger  as  the  year  advances  and  it’s  return  draws  near.”

           “Why.”  Why  did  the  trees  hate  her,  was  what  he  wanted  to  say.

           Arheled  looked  off  into  the  distance. Green trees  shut  them  in  and  fenced  them  round. “When the  year  turns  to  high  summer,  the  stars  would  descend  to  earth. But they  could  not  come  near  the  ground  when  they  came,  for  the  trees  hated  them. But into  the  water  the  trees  could  not  come,  and  so at  the  turn  of  the  summer  the  stars  would  come  down  to  the  lakes,  and  on  the  water  they  would  dance.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  Long  Lake  was  where  they  loved  to  come,  and  when  the  Road  returned  once  every  century  it  was  a  time  of  great  merriment  to  them. There was  a  shadow  in  the  trees  and  a  darkness  in  the  valleys,  but  the  Lake  stayed  clean,  and  upon  it  they  would  dance. For the  trees  are  creatures  of  the  day  and  children  of  the  Sun, and  they  wove  a  roof  with  their  branches  to  shut  out  the  host  of  heaven.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  hills  looked  different.”  said  Forest. “The valleys  were  barely  there,  just  ravines  and  gorges. Was it  that  long  ago?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Why  do  you  say  it  must  be  long  ago,  Forest?”  queried  Arheled.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “So  it  is  now,”  Arheled  replied,  “and  therefore  it  is  natural  to  assume  it  always  was  hard. So is  sandstone  hard,  and  one  assumes it  always  was  so;  but  how  is  rock  formed,  Forest,  and  how  does  stone  come  into  being? Have geologists  ever  observed  any  stone  but  lava  and  cement  in  the  act  of  formation,  aside  from  the  conditions  they  create  in  their  laboratories?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “But  granite  would  take  millions  of  years  to  wear  down  this  far.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yet  you  believe  in  the  Protestant  theories  of  a  young  earth,  do  you  not? The earth,  though  not  as  young  as  they  think,  is  far  far  younger  than  the  scientists  assume. They see  the  enduring  stone  of  this  land,  and  they  presume  it  was  thus  forever;  but  granite  is  igneous,  and  schist  is  metamorphic;  both  were  formed  in  the  bending  of  the  world,  when  stone  was  squeezed  like  dough  and  folded  like  clay  up  through  the  seam  in  the  world  to  tie  the  earth  together. Nor did  it  stiffen  at  once. For long  generations  the  stone  was  soft  and  settling,  and  far  more  water  coursed  over  it  then,  and  wide  valleys  were  eaten  out. And then  there  were  the  wars  of  power,  when  the  beings  of  old  fought  over  this  ancient  chunk  of  land:  the  stone  was  shaped  and  shaken  by  forces  scientists  have  no  conception  of.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  thought  they  explained  it  by  tectonic  action.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Tectonic?”  Arheled  laughed. “That only  started  at  the  Flood! What cracked  the  Earth  into  pieces,  Forest,  if  Iluvatar  cast  it  back  and  made  it  round? Did he make  it  cracked? Or did  powers  no  longer  present  do  battle  on  these  hills?”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Very  good.”  Arheled  said  gently. “If all  men  of  science  could  admit  as  much,  they  would  be  wise  at  last. But when  one  has  knowledge  without  understanding,  how  can  one  gain  wisdom?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  fell  silent,  and  when  Forest  looked  up,  Arheled  was gone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  next  day  was  just  as  dry  and  clear  and  cool. Forest got  on  his  bike  after  surreptitiously  studying  his  sister’s  copied  map. She’d been  adding  to  it  until  the  entire  area  around  Winsted  was  shown,  and  he  soon  found  a  dotted  patch  far  up  a  back  road  that  was  labelled  Danbury  Quarter  Cemetary. This was  likely  to  be  the  famous  Green  Lady  Cemetary. After studying  the  roads  he  set  off  on  his  bike.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           It  was  already  midafternoon;  he’d  gotten  a  late  start. The ride  was  the  longest  and  most  tiring  he  had  ever  experienced. Up and  up  Boyd  Street  climbed,  descending  once  to  the  Crystal  Lake  dam  and  once  again  to  a  queer  pond,  woods  and  houses  dappled  green  in  the  cool  wind. He came  out  on  the  open  heights  of  Winchester  Center  and  looked  around  to  see  Brooke’s  house,  but  the  trees  concealed  it. He turned  right  past  the  green  and  then  reached  the  blue  sign  where  the  old  Waterbury  Turnpike  branched  off. Coach fares  from  hundreds  of  years  ago  were  painted  in  white  on  the  blue  background. Forest headed  down  the  old  road.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           For  the  first  quarter  mile  it  was  paved  with  white  marble  process,  level  and  even,  the  green  trees  close  above  it. A farm  of  great  age  set deep  in  od  fields  and  gardens,  and  a  newer-looking  house  in  the  open,  and  then  the  road  narrowed  as  Forest  passed  a  sign  saying  No  winter  maintenance,  becoming  more  bumpy  and  woodsey. He descended  a  long  hill  and  curved  on  to  the  north.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  road  crossed  an  open  swamp. Forest came  to  a  halt. The place  was  different  from  any  he  had  yet  seen. Something about  it,  the  way  the  scattered  short  swamp  maples  stuck  up from  the  dry  yellowed  reeds,  the  white-green  fluttering  of  their  leaves,  the  odd  close-set  twiggage  of  the  clumped  shrubbery,  the  tussocks  and  the  deep  mounds  of  sphagnum  moss,  the  stark  brightness  of  the  staring  sun…it  felt  queer  and  peculiar,  strange  and  remote,  as  if  he  had  crossed  an  unseen  boundary  into  an  overlaying  world  where  things  were  half normal  and  half  alien.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Venda.”  he  murmered  aloud. “This place  is  venda.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  road  left  the  swamp  after  crossing  a  seeping  waterway  of  broad  sedgey  pools  stained  a  deep  brown-red,  peculiar  hemlocks  studded  with  new  green  and  old  green  ringing  it  around. It climbed  again,  winding  along  the  side  of  a  long  narrow  valley. Through the dull  brown  forest  of  old  hemlock,  where  all  the  green  was  high  above,  that  dropped  away  on  the  left,  he  saw  an  open  place. Overcome with  curiosity  he  left  the  bike  and  headed  down  to  the  edge. Parting hemlock  branches  he  stared  out  across  a  weird  open  mead,  tall  skeletons  projecting  here  and  there,  low  spike-like  clumps  of  saplings  and  those  queer  bushes  amid  patches  of  reed,  all  carpeted  with  a  deep  wet  rug  of  the  strange  moss. Here it  grew  so  deep  you  sank  above the  ankle  in  it  and  water  sloshed  about  your  feet,  twiggy  stems  piled  over  one  another  like  a  woven  net,  each  year’s  new  growth  growing  on  the  dead  mat  of  last  year. A creek  of  dark  water  wound  down the  valley,  and  across  the  narrow  open, a  hundred  yards  away,  tall  pines  and  hemlock  formed  a  wall  of  deep  green. The sun,  low  in  the  west,  stared  down  with  a  stark  heat;  and  yet  the  air  was clear  and  cool. It was not  a  canny  place.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  scrabbling  noise  sounded  from  above. Forest dodged  and  looked  up,  startled. Somebody was  climbing  down  the  tree. Forest got  behind  another  tree. But when  the  climber  jumped  down  he  forgot  about  hiding,  for  it  was  Ronnie  Wendy.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  thought  it  was  you.”  Ronnie  greeted,  smiling  his  odd  wrinkled  grin. “Saw you  from  the  top. Are you  looking  for  the  Battle  Mound,  too?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Arheled  mentioned  that  at  the  Tower.”  said  Forest. “But I.”  ''Was  going  to  seek  out  the  Skull  and  Cemetary. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  then  let  us  journey  together.”  said  Ronnie. He glanced  at  the  sun. “Most likely  be  dark  by  the  time  I  find  the  place.”  he  muttered.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “A  mile  or  so  north  of  the  Center,  according  to  the  Bronsen  annals,  along  the  turnpike  is  a  mound  like  a  luge  inverted  bowl  rising  above  a  swampy  meadow. There were  two  rival  chiefs,  Paugnut—or  Nepaug—and  the  lofty Owleout. Nepaug tried  to  attack  Owleout,  but  he  discovered  their coming  and  met  them  at  the  knoll. There in  the  starlight  Nepaug  was  trapped  on  the  island,  the  peat  bogs  on  eary  side,  and  Owleout  pressed  on  up  the  knoll,  tomahawking  as  he  climbed,  until  the  men  of  Nepaug  lay  dead  and  only  a  few  escaped  in  the  peat  swamp,  Nepaug  among  them. Overcome with  gloom  he  travelled  north  and  east  to  the  gorge  of  Robertsville  Falls. There the  Mad  and  Still  roar  down  a  canyon  and  over  teeth  of  stone  and  sudden  whirling  pools  at  the  foot  of  eroded  columns  of  soft rock. He sang  his  death  song,  buried  his ax  in  a  hemlock  tree,  and  hurled headlong  into  the  falls.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  shrugged. “You can  see  how  eerie  the  place  is.”  he  replied. “The peat  bogs  are  strange  and  uncanny  spots  to  be  in  by  day  or  night. There were  all  sorts  of  tales  by  night  travellers  of  hearing  war  screams  and  seeing  ghosts  without  their  heads,  even  the  towering  form  of  Owleout  with  his  bloody  ax  upon  the  hillcrest. Find it  first,  I  say,  and  then  say  a  prayer  for  the  dead.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  made  their  way  back  to  the  road,  where  Ronnie  had  left  his  bike  concealed  by  a  laurel  bush,  and  biked  on  down  the  road—at  a  crawl,  for  Ronnie  was  staring  continuously  into  the  swamp,  trying  to  see  any  islanded  clumps  of  trees  that  might  mark  higher  ground.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  came  to  a  stop  again,  peering  down  at  a  gleam  of  water. Forest followed  him  as  he  abruptly  dropped  his  bike  and  headed  down  to  the  swamp  edge. “Spagnum forms  mats.”  he  said  absently. “Over ages,  the  dead  matter  builds  up  underneath,  into  a  compacted  turf  which  when  dried  out,  burns. High acid  in  the  water  keeps  it  from  decaying. I waded  the  swamp  back  there,  when  I  thought  I  saw  a  mound;  very  little  mire,  peaty  grainy  mud  in  the  creek  bottom  that  quickly  goes  solid. The moss  sinks  but  keeps  you  up. Water’s clean,  too,  enough  to  swim  in.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  came  to  the  edge  of  a  broader  expanse  of  water. A white-barked  log  reached  out  over  it,  and  white  bony  stumps  jutted  from  it. A beaver  dam  caused  the  pond,  Forest  saw,  an  old  dam  hidden  under  blueberry  and  those  strange  compact  bushes. Foliage of  maple  and  hemlock  rose  up  like  a  cauliflowered  wall  on  the  pond’s  near  side,  and  the  moss-mounded  shrubs  clustered  across  the  meadow.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That’s  why  all  the  skeletons.”  said  Ronnie,  pointing  to  the  dam. “Raised the  water  level.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  light  filled  the  valley  in  a  most  unsettling  way;  as  if  it  was  walled  into  the  valley,  walled  light  concealing  something  behind  it. The day  felt  slanted,  as  if  sliding  steadily  and  undetectably  downhill,  descending,  falling:  despite  the  stark  dry  hotness  of  the  sunlight,  it  had  a  late  feel,  and  at  the  end  of  it  was  death.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Why  is  the  water  so  dark?”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Bog  iron.”  answered  Ronnie. “Bacteria in  peat  bogs  secrete  iron,  which  piles  up  in  nuggets. Main source  of  ore  for  Nrsemen. That, and  being  filtered  through  peat,  makes  it  so  opaque.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  went  back  up  to  the  road,  which  now  followed  a  ledge  in  the  hillside  under  the  green  forest  trees,  level  except  for  cup-like  dry  puddles,  one  lane  wide. Then suddenly  Ronnie  peered  off  to  the  left,  more  intently  than  ever. “Holy cow,  I  believe  that’s  it!”  he  exclaimed,  and  they  hid  the  bikes  again  and  headed  downhill.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  dome-like  hillock  rose  up  at  the  very  edge  of  the  swamp. A scummy  lagoon  cut  off  most  of  the  base  from  the  hill. The dull  brown  hemlock  forest  ended  at  the  neck,  and  the  knoll,  some  twenty  feet  above  the  swamp  and  shaped  like  an  inverted  bowl,  was  open  and  green  with  short  fern. Swamp maples  stood  here  and  there  upon  it,  and  thickets  of  blueberry  and  the  nameless  compact  shrub fringed  the  base. An old  hemlock  with  twisted  branches  grew  at  one  end. It had  a  peaceful,  repose-like  air  about  it,  with  the  fern  and  maples.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It  doesn’t  feel  at  all  haunted.”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “No,”  murmered  Ronnie,  “it  doesn’t. Interesting. Well, at  any  rate,”  making  the  Sign  of  the  Cross,  “may  God  grant  eternal  rest  to  all  those  who  died  here.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “See  those  close-knit  shrubs  growing  everywhere?”  Ronnie  said. “Astilbe. At least  they’re  the  spitting  image  thereof. A landscape  plant  with  carrotlike  flower  clusters  in  the  umbel  pattern,  pink  and  white. And here  they’re  growing  wild. Wonder if  they  ever  bloom?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  mound  was  maybe  fifty  feet  long,  so  Forest and  Ronnie  soon  had  explored  all  of  it  and  found  nothing  remarkable. “Now to  look  for  that  Cemetary—if  we  can  make  it  by  dark.”  Ronnie  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  know  where  the  Blue  Skull  is.”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  listened  intently  as  Forest  related  his  dream. “That is  very  interesting.”  he  said. “I wonder  why  Arheled  has  us  go  seek  it  out. Well, let’s  get  moving,  shall  we?”  as  he  began  frantically  swatting  several  brigades  of  killer  mosquitos that  had  finally  noticed  their  presence.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Battle  Mound  fell  behind. The road  descended  off  the  high  ground  and  crossed  a  curious  arm  of  swamp. Alder and  maple  fringed  the  road. The sun  fell  behind  the  hills  and  the  valley  grew  shadowed. They passed  the  outlet  of  the  peat  swamp,  where  Rugg  Brook  spilled  down  over  a  stair  of  old  stones  and  splashed  on  beside  the  road,  dark  red-black  and  foamy. Then they  reached  the  Waymeet.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  old  turnpike  crossed  an  ancient  bridge  of  wooden  beams  worn  and  eroded  with  traffic. Another road  came  in  on  the  left. The dark  trees  drew  back  and  the  waymeet  was  open  to  the  sky. Foundations of  forgotten  buildings  stood  at  the  corners. It had  a  remote  feel,  as  of  a  place  at  the  back  of  the  world. Ronnie went  up  the  left-hand  road. It immediately  steepened,  slabbing  the  side  of  the  hill  that  bounded  the  Rugg  Brook  Valley. In the  shadow  of  evening  the  trees  seemed  gloomier  and  grimmer  than  they  were. The road  forked  at  the  top,  one  branch  heading  left  and  another,  narrow  and  smooth,  running  on  straight.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Preston  Av.”  said  Ronnie,  pointing  left. “That’s not  our  way,  though. They closed  this  for  a  while,”  as  they  passed  the  remains  of  a  chain-link  gate,  “because  of  the  vandals,  but  I  guess  it’s  been  reopened.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  narrow  road  dipped  down  and  plunged  into  a  deep  valley,  crossing  a  second  brook  in  a  high  fill. Then it  ran  on  at  a  level  for  a  long  time,  occasionally  climbing. The hemlocks  and  maples  closed  in  like  green  walls. They passed  a  firepit  in  a  pleasant  alcove  among  rocks  and  hemlock  and  then  a  few  muddy  turnaround  places. After a  mile  or  two  they  came  to  an  open  glade  under  high  old  maples  where  a  triangle  of  dirt  roads  met  on  the  left.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Inside the  triangle,  was  an  immense  fire-ring,  piled  stone  sides  a  good  yard  high  and  the  ashes  a  foot  off  the  ground. A cellar  pit  lay  behind,  and  above  this  the  roads  merged  and  ran  on  into  the  forest. And paving  the  sides  of  it  were  about  five  hundred  beer  bottles.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  Pit  of  Countless  Cans,  sure  enough.”  said  Ronnie. “Let’s find  the  Skull  first.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  logging  road  was  so  rutted  and  full  of  puddles  they  left  their  bikes  and  headed  onwards  afoot. It crossed  a  level  region  and  climbed  up  onto  a  height,  and  at  that  point  a  smaller  track  branched  right,  following  the  crest  of  the  narrowing  ridge. Laurel and  sparse  hemlock  stood  around  them.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           In  the  gloomy  evening  forest  the  round  stone  almost  seemed  to  shine,  a  hundred  yards  into  the  trees  on  the  right. It was  pale,  not  exactly  blue  but  a  litcheny  white-grey  granite  with  a  faint  blue  tinge. In the  evening  shadow the  dents  for  eye  socket  and  nose  could  be  plainly  seen. Fern grew  green  about  it,  for  the  logged  forest  had  many  open  glades,  and  the  Skull  sat  in  one  of  them.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Let’s  head  back.”  said  Ronnie. “I want  to  reach  the Cemetary  before  dark. Oh, do  your  folks  know  where  you  are?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “They  all  went  to  Lake  Quassapaug  and  then  the  Pleasant  Valley  Drive-in.”  said  Forest. “I said  I  was  sick.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What,  you  can’t  stand  them  already?”  kidded  Ronnie.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  gave  a  half-smile. “I don’t  like  crowds.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  find  crowds  rather  exhilarating  myself,  especially  crowds  with  a  high  percentage  of  attractive  young  dirlas.”  Ronnie  grinned. “But I’m  never  part  of  a  crowd. I walk a  lonely  road…”'' ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “…And  I  walk  alone. ''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">” murmered  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  reached  their  bikes  and  headed  on  down  the  road. It ran  on  for  a  long  way  further,  as  the  evening  grew  quieter  and  sadder. They went  up  a  small  sudden  hill and  then  began  going  down. The road  plunged  in  a  leftwards  curve  around  a  level  open  green  area,  and  Ronnie  put  on  the  brakes,  for  it  was  the  cemetery.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Green  Lady  Cemetary  was  a  relatively  level  lap  of  green  mead,  open  but  walled  by  high  trees  beyond  its’  stone  wall,  maybe  fifty  yards  across. A small  pine  grew  in  the  middle. Ancient thin  marble  slabs  graven  with  names  tilted  and  leaned  in  uneven  rows;  many  had  been  broken  and  the  pieces  carefully  stacked  back  against  the  base. The turf  was  thick  moss,  mingled  with  grass  and  buttercup  and  creeping  raspberry,  and  even  the  small  clumps  of  wintergreen  sprigs  with their  big  red  berries. Ronnie said  you  could  eat  them. There was  a  sad,  remote,  quiet  feeling  to  the  place,  a  sort  of  weary  peace. It did  not  feel  haunted,  either.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  road  grows  worse  and  worse  beyond  the  cemetery,  until  it  turns  into  a  driveway,  from  what  I’ve  heard.”  said  Ronnie. “I don’t  think  it’s  graded  much  farther. This is  the  supposed  grave  of  the  Green  Lady,  here,”  indicating  a  tall  slab  to  the  memory  of  Mary  Croft,  “but  since  the  ghost  stories  only  see a  woman-shaped  mist,  and  occasional  green  lights,  I’m  not  sure  how  they  arrived  at  that  conclusion.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Or  the  stone’s  occupant  has  a  romantically  sad  story.”  answered  Ronnie. “Apparently Mary  Croft  was  a  Civil  War  widow  who  died  of  grief. Perfect material  for  ghost  stories.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. “Eternal rest  grant  unto  our  sister  in  Christ,  Mary  Croft,  and  to  all  buried  here,  may  they  rest  in  peace,  amen.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  light  dimmed  another  notch. “It’s getting  dark.”  he  added. “How will  we  get  out?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “We’ll  walk  our  bikes.”  said  Ronnie. “We’re not  staying  past  darkfall.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           It  was  very  quiet  here. Occasionally a  car  on  the  distant  Danbury  Quarter  Road  in  the  valley  north  of  them  could  be  heard,  and  the  strange  chirring  of  frogs  from  the  swamps  below  them,  and  the  faint  whining  drone  of  about  ten mosquitos  per  square  inch. Ronnie unpacked  a  blanket  and  wrapped  it  around  both  of  them,  even  their  heads. It helped.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  evening  steadily  deepened. Under the  eaves  of  the  wood  the  shadow  faded  into  gloom,  and  then  darkness. Color drained,  until  everything  was  a  faintly  green  dark-grey. The old  stones  gleamed  pale  in  the  open  place. The sky  overhead  remained  bright,  white  with  a  hint  of  violet,  though  it  too  began  to  dim. Shapes grew  murky  and  hard  to  discern,  like  when  you  open  your  eyes  underwater. A cool  breeze  stirred  the  blurry  leaves,  and  Forest  pulled  the  blanket  closer.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  saw  the  faint  lights  before  Ronnie  did. At first  he  thought  they  were  lightning-bugs,  but  then  he  realized  they  were  larger,  and  dimmer,  and  did  not  blink. Slowly a  figure  of  misty  green  took  shape,  wavering  as  if  battled  by  unseen  winds,  standing  by  the  grave  of  Mary  Croft. The eyes  of  Forest  widened,  for  he  knew  her,  despite  her  filmy  aspect  and  featureless  shape. Ronnie could  see  her  too,  for  he  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  Forest  got  up  as  well. Neither of  them  felt  fear;  only  a  great,  wrenching  sadness.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  peace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  be  with  you.”  said  Ronnie.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  know  you.”  whispered  Forest. “You’re the  Star  that  was  captured  at  the  Blue  Skull.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Still  she  regarded  them  from  indistinct  eyes,  as  if  waiting  for  something.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “We  stand  under  the  Road.”  said  Ronnie  Wendy. “This I  ask,  in  the  name  of  Arheled:  whose  is  your  side?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           And  the  Green  Lady  answered,  in  a  voice  so  faint  and  wispy  it seemed  part  of  the  night, '' “Against  those  who  serve  the  Lord  of  Chaos.” ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  Wendy  bowed  deeply,  and  so  did  Forest,  somehow  feeling  it  right  to  do. But as  they  straightened  up  the  Green  Lady  spoke  again.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  am  not  free. The King  of  the  Dead  keeps  me  here. I may  not  stray  beyond  this  yard.” ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “If  the  Road  allows,  you  shall  be  freed,  madam.”  said  Ronnie. “May Jesus  grant  you  rest.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  Green  Lady  was  already  fading  away,  until  all  that  remained  was  a  brightness  in  the  air,  and  then  that  too  was  gone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Get  your  stuff.”  said  Ronnie,  packing  up  the  blanket. “We did  what  we  have  come  for. Now we  have  to  find  our  way  out.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Neither  of  them  said  anything  as  they  headed  out  of  the  graveyard  and  up  the  road. The granite  process  was  pale  in  the  dark  gloom,  and  the  road  was  plain  enough  before  them. They walked,  pushing  their  bikes. Now and  again  an  animal  rustled  in  the  underbrush  nearby,  but  neither  of  them  were  the  kind  who  jump  at  shadows,  and  they  filed  slowly  on. Trees seemed  to  slide  past  with  amazing  speed,  as  there  was  no  distance  to  reveal  how  slow  they  were  actually  going. Gravel crunched  under  the  tires. The air  was  almost  cold,  as  nights  are  in  early  June,  and  Forest  was  glad  he’d  brought  a  sweater.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           As  they  passed  the  Place  of  Cans  they  saw  a  sickle  moon  rising  above  the  ridge  that  concealed  the  Skull. Forest was  glad  they  did  not  have  to  go  up  there,  and  at  the  same  time  felt  a  presentiment  that sooner  or  later  they  would. Stars were  coming  out,  faint  in  the  dark-lilac  sky. The gloom darkened,  until  the  pale  road  was  barely  there  and  Forest  found  he  could  see  it  best  by  turning  his  head  and  letting  his  peripheral  vision  pick  out  the  course. Fireflies blinked  on  and  off,  and  so  deep  was  the  gloom that  nearby  ones  actually  caused  a  flicker  of  illumination  below  them,  visible  from  the  corners  of  the  eye. Lights became  visible  up  ahead. Red lights  like  eyes.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Taillights.”  said  Ronnie. “Someone’s parked  up  there  to  have  a  few  beers.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           That  wasn’t  much  better  than  eyes. It was  strange,  Forest  thought,  but  wild  animals  didn’t  scare  him  half  so  much  as  other  men. As they  approached,  walking  slower,  they  saw  a  Chevy  off-roader  with  the  engine  running,  parked  on  the  side  facing  into  the  woods,  poisoning  the  forest  with  car  headlights  for  about  a  mile  in  front  of  it. The dim  jabber  of  rap  music  sounded  from  inside,  and  a  couple  guys  were  swigging  away,  oblivious  of  anything  outside  them. Like ghosts  in  the  shadows  the  two  Children  of  the  Road  slipped  past,  and  began  walking  faster. Soon the  eerie  patch  of  lit  forest  was  far  behind  and  the  comfortable  silence  of  blurry  dimness  enclosed  them  again.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  long  time  later  the  road  began  to  fall  steeply  under  their  feet,  even  though  the  pale  strip  before  them  seemed  level. The sound  of  falling  water  drew  near  as  an  invisible  stream  crossed  under  the  road,  and  then  they  were  at  the  roadmeet. Ronnie headed  to  the  right. “I want  to  be  clear of  the  forest  before  it  gets  pitch-black.”  he  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           This  road,  Preston  Av,  climbed  so  steeply  both  of  them  were  out  of  breath  at  the  top. A while  and  many  turns  later,  they  passed  a  house  that  stood  ghostlike  and  dark  in  a  dim  yard. So far  away  from  anywhere,  it  seemed  unnatural  for  it  to  be  there.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Houses  begin  here.”  murmered  Ronnie. “And the  road  is  more  open  as  well. We can  ride;  it’s  much  smoother  where  houses  are.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           It  was  a  relief  after  the  long  walk  to  actually  pedal. The road  was  still  dim,  although  wider,  and  a  stream  of  open  purple  sky  ran  between  the  trees  above  them,  letting  in  a  little  starlight. The bright  pricks  of  stars  stood  out  in  the  misty  grape-hued  heaven. It was  a  little  scary  when  downhills  came  and  the  bike  accelerated  down  a  dim  road  with  unknown  obstacles  or  curves,  but  Ronnie  seemed  to  be  unaffected  and  Forest  followed  him. It was  almost  like  doing  something  with  an  older  brother,  this  bizarre  night  ride.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  came  to  an  intersection  where  another  ghostly  road  slanted  in  from  the  right,  and  the  road  bent  left. Houses appeared  here  and  there,  some  lit,  many  dark  and  lightless  as  if  abandoned. The graveled  road  had  some  rather  frightening  downhills  where  brakes  were  necessary,  but  Forest  was  used  by  now  to  the  faint  dimness. Mile after  mile  passed  in  silence. A paved  road  slanted  in  from  the  right  and  they  left  the  gravel  behind. Fields opened  out  on  the  left.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Is  the  Herald  up?”  said  Forest. “And where  are  we?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  pulled  to  a  stop  and  glanced  around. “There’s the  Dipper,  and  Polaris,”  he  said,  pointing  left  and  behind,  “but  the  Herald….must  be  under  that  pinky  haze  on  the  horizon. This time  of  year  he  never  shows  until  really  late  at  night. So we’re  heading  east  by  SE,  which  hopefully  will  take  us  to  Winchester  Center  and  Chapel  St.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Progress  was  faster  on  the  paved  road. Now and  then  a  farm  showed  up  ahead  like  an  island,  a  cloud  of  sudden  sharp  shapes  clearly  outlined  in  a  garage  light. Music came  from  one  house. It was  queer, passing  by  all  these  isles  of  life  and  home,  individual  worlds  and  circles  of  influence,  as  if  he  was  seeing  the  world  from  behind  or  outside. Then they  would  fall  away  behind  them  and  the  night  would  close  around. This far  out  there  were  no  streetlights,  a  bizarre  thing  to  Forest  who  was  accustomed  to  well-illumined  orange  streets. “Arheled would  like  this.”  he  thought.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  brilliant  silver-white  light   like  a  rising  moon  shone  up  from  around  a  curve,  painting  trees  and  limbs  and  leaves  in   brilliant  detail  of  blue  and  stark  green-white  amid  black. Brighter and  brighter  it  grew,  like  a  halo  or  corona,  and  then  the  blinding  glare  of  a  headlight  took  away  all  sense  of  the  road. Forest shielded  his  eyes. Then the  car  was  past  and  utter  darkness  fell  around  them.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ahead  a  stark,  lit  island  appeared  amid  the  night:  a  town  gazebo,  floating  like  a  ship  in  the  enclosing  blackness. They had  reached  Winchester  Center.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  eyed  him  with  some  concern as  they  dismounted  at  the  gazebo. Forest was  quivering. “Are you  weak?”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “When  did  you  last  eat? This morning? Noon? Oh dear. Let’s hope  Brooke  is  home. You’re not  tired;  you’re  having  a  sugar  attack.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  barely  wanted  to  get  up. There was  a  quaky  weakness  in  every  limb. Ronnie helped  him  onto  his  bike  and  they  glided  down  the  green  and  up  the  driveway  of  the  Pond  house. Brooke’s car  was  there. Ronnie knocked  on  the  door.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  young  man  with  a  face  as  darkly  gorgeous  as  some  foreign  god  opened  the  door. He gave  them  a  blank  look. “Where the  hell  did  you put  Mart  and  Deli?”  he  said. “I thought  they  were  ringing  the  bell.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “And  who  are  you?”  said  Ronnie. Forest had  instantly  lowered  his  eyes,  for  he  knew  who  this  was.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Whaddaya  mean,  who  am  I?  you’re  the  guy  who’s  knocking  on  the  freakin’  door  at  11:00.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Ronnie,”  said  Forest  suddenly  and  clearly,  “keep  him  talking. Something’s wrong  here.”  He  staggered  down  the  hall.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  came  to  talk  to  Brooke,  not  some  rude  kid  who  won’t  even  give  his  name.”  said  Ronnie. “What are  you,  her  brother  or  something?”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Like  hell  she  ain’t.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Listen  here,  weirdo. You don’t  go  giving  me  this  ‘tude. I can  get  you  in  trouble  real  fast. All kinds  of  trouble. Don’t you  know  who I  am?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Unless  you’re  Brooke’s  father  or  brother,  you’re  just  a  stuffed-up  spoiled  ass.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You’ll  pay  for  that,  dude. Boy will  you  pay. I’m Kevin,  son  of  Cornello!”

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  made  it  to  the  kitchen  and  stopped  with  bulging  eyes.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Supper  had  evidently  been  interrupted  very  rudely. Food was  thrown  everywhere  and  some  dishes  were  broken. Eating three  brownies  from  a  spilled  pile  helped  restore  some  strength,  and  he  hurried  toward  the  living  room. There Mr. Pond, red  with  rage,  was  lying  on  the  sofa  tied  with  duck  tape,  Mrs. Pond lying  unconscious  nearby. Forest didn’t  stop,  but  hunted  until he  found  stairs  and  then  climbed up.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  froze,  with  his  head  barely  out  of  the  stairwell. Delilah and  Julian,  dead  drunk  and  high,  were  staggering  around  the  room  in  a  drunken  imitation  of  dancing. The most  awful  thing  in  the  room,  however,  was  Brooke. She hung  suspended  in  the  air,  arms  spread  like  a  cross,  and  floating  like  a  ghost. Power seemed  to  be  leaching  out  of  her,  like  invisible  liquid  dripping  from  her. Forest pressed  himself  against  the  railing  as  somebody  climbed  up  behind  him  and  came  out  into  the  attic. It was  a  man  he  didn’t  know,  however,  muscular  and  biker-like,  a  young  bearded  face  with  absolutely  no  features  in  his  expression.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Will  you  two  boobies  go  jiggle  your  a--  somewhere  else?”  he  said  off-handedly,  and  they  giggled  and  staggered  to  a  seat. He walked  around  Brooke,  examining  her. What he  saw  seemed  to  satisfy  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  tests  are  just  what  we  expected.”  he  muttered. “She affines  with  water,  but  does  not  know  it. This is  another  of  the  Six.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           From  downstairs  came  a  crash  and  boom,  like  falling  bodies  being  slammed  into  walls. Then Ronnie’s  voice,  roaring  some  battle  cry. Then another  roar,  also  from  Ronnie,  but  a  roar  of  pain.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Kevin  came  up  the  stairs. He was  breathing  heavily,  and  his  arms  had  a  scaled  appearance  about  them  somehow. In them  he  carried  with  ease a  half-dead  Ronmond  Wendtho. Ronnie’s clothes  were  burnt  and  singed  and  his  face  and  hands  were  blistering,  and  he  seemed  barely  conscious  as  Kevin  tossed  him  carelessly  to  the  floor.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  don’t  believe  it,  man!”  he  was  saying. “We nabbed  two  of  ‘em  alive! In one  night!”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Drop  dead  positive,  dude. Dead ringer  for  the  picture. This one’ll  be  Ronmond  Wendtho,  who  was  formerly  of  Pleasant  Valley. Won’t the  old  man  be  sore?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  crept  slowly  forward. His nerves  were  strung  to  a  pitch. Picking up  a  baseball  bat  he  swung  at  Kevin’s  head  like  he  was  batting  a  home  run.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           At  the  instant  before  impact,  Kevin’s  head  shifted  shape. For a  flicker  of  time  it  was  not  a human  head,  but  reptilian,  monstrous,  scaled  with  iron;  and  the  bat  splintered  in  half.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Fire  burst  against  Forest,  burning  like  nothing  he  had  ever  felt. Screaming he  dived  for  the  stairs. They could  not  hear  him,  no  more  than  they  could  see  him,  but   Kevin  knew  that  he  was  near. Fire jabbed  into  every  corner  of  the  room,  but  Forest  was  downstairs,  scorched,  reeling  to  a  closet  in  which  he  crouched  and  hid.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  can’t  see  you,  little  fly,  but  I  can  smell  you. I know  who  you  are. You are  the  one  we  cannot  see. You are  Forest. And you  are  here  within  this  room.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Cabinet  doors  opened  and  closed. Heat from  probing  flame  reached  Forest  even  in  his  closet. “Do you  think  dragons  are  blind,  girlie-boy? Do you  think  we  are  as  helpless  as  you,  and  that  maybe  you  can  bolt  beneath  my  nose  and  break  out  your  friends?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  door  of the  closet  next  to  him  was  opening. “Ronmond is  wounded. Brooke is  prisoner  by  magic. You came  on  a  bike;  there  are  two  outside. We are  everywhere,  child  of  the  trees. We see  everything. We are  the  law.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  opened  the  door  of  Forest’s  closet,  sudden  and  violent,  and  Forest,  unprepared,  found  himself  staring  right  into  his  eyes. His head  was  not  human. Long, reptilian,  with  yellow,  wise,  sardonic  eyes…

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Look  into  my  eyes,  little  Forest. As Brooke  did,  thinking  she  could kill  me  just  by  yelling. Look into  my  eyes,  and  fall  under  my  spell.”

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Heat. Dull slow  throbbing  heat,  prickling  every  inch  of  his  skin;  flushed  heat,  like  when  he  got  sunburn  but  worse,  aching,  stinging,  burning. Eyes floating  around  him,  gross  and  frightening  and  hollow  with  heat  and  sly  triumph. Lances of  cold  piercing  through  it,  silvery  and  whirling  with  the  singing  of  the  stars;  and  then  suddenly  all  around  him  it  was  cold  and  keen,  and  the  lake  was  like  glass  and  the  trees  framed  his  vision  as  he  stood  upon  the  island. Upon the  water  the  wheeling  figures  danced  and  flickered;  but  there  was  a  queerness  in  their  dances  and  an  evil  in  their  motions,  though  they  were  still  beautiful  it  was  a  corrupted  beauty,  and  a  sickening  gracefulness,  and  a  mockery  of  everything  that  it  should  ought  to  be.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           But  as  Forest  stared  harder,  he  began  to  see  them  change;  the  stars  flickered,  the  trees  wavered  as  if  something  was  trying  to  break  through;  and  then  a  figure  of  blue  fire  pushed  the  swirling  forms  aside  like  grass,  and  the  eyes  of  that  figure  were  the  eyes  of  Arheled,  and  he  said,

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Then  Forest  was  caught  up  in  the  whirling,  whirling  of  stars  and  of  figures,  a  universe  churning  around  him  like  a  waterfall,  and  through  the  midst  of  it  he  heard the  dragon  mocking  him,  taunting  him. “Everything is  relative,  and  no  point  is  fixed.”  the  fiery  voice  laughed. “Time can  be  calculated,  and  time  can  misapply;  time  can  be  twisted,  for  time  is  relative. You cannot  know reality,  for  your  senses  are  all  you  have  to  go  by! Smite the  wall,  little  Ronmond,  and  think  that  your  hand  bleeds;  your  senses  tell  you  this  is  real,  and  real  it  is  forsooth!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Even  as  the  burning  voice  mocked,  Forest  saw  faint  outlines  forming  behind  the  madness,  solid  lines:  the  lines  of  the  room  in  which  he  stood,  while  the  phantoms  roared  and  whirled  ever  more  desperately;  and  then  there  was  a  tremendous  thump  like  a  huge  joint  clicking  into  place  and  he  was  standing  in  the  upstairs  room. Brooke hung  limply  from  the  unseen  chains. Ronnie Wendy  nearby  groaned  and  sat  up  with  a  tremendous  effort. Pain flamed  in  his  eyes.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Neither  of  us  can  be  dragon-spelled,  thought  Forest.  He  reveals  and  uncovers,  and  I  see  truly.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt"> He collapsed  to  a  squat. He felt  completely  drained  and  weak.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Forest?”  Brooke’s  voice  was  a  whisper. “No. Not all  of  us. Please tell  me not  all  of  us.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Kevin  walked  in.”  she  whispered. “I was  furious  at  him  for  standing  me  up. I screamed  and  ranted. He looked  at  me…”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “He  won’t  answer.”  Brooke’s  voice  trailed  off  into  incoherent  murmers,  and  then  she  went  limp.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Without  a  sound  the  Wild  Man  of  Winsted  was  standing  in  the  room.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Wild!” Brooke  croaked;  a  sudden  blaze  of  love  burned  in  her  eyes. “You came  to  get  us  out!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Not  exactly.”  the  Wild  Man  said  in  his  rough  growl. “You called  to  me,  little  Brookling. When I  am  called  upon,  I  come. What would  you  have  me  do?”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">            “What  would  you  give  me,  if  I  did  this  for  you?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Anything.”  Brooke  moaned. “Just do  it.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Be  still,  little  Hill.”  sneered  Wild. “The bargain  is  made. The pact  is  formed. I will  rid  your  house  of  this  infestation  of  baby  pests.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Earth  flowed  over  them,  cold  and  wet  and  healing. It was  bliss  after  the  burns. The mud  withdrew  to  reveal  all  injuries  gone. Stretching out  his  hand  the  Wild  Man of  Winsted  seized  an  invisible  object  and  twisted. With a  clatter  like  breaking  metal  Brooke  fell  into  his  arms. He set  her  down  as  feet pounded  up  the  stairs. “Let me  take  you  boys  home,  and  then  I will  evict  this  firebaby.”  he  said. Suddenly the  two  boys  felt  stone  around  them,  they  were  moving  through  unsolid  stone,  and  then  each  one  found  himself,  bike  and  all,  outside  his  own  house.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Kevin  crashed  up  the  stairs. The bearded  young  man  was  on  his  heels. Julian and  Delilah  followed,  the  drunkenness  gone  as  by  magic. The four  of  them  tumbled  to  a  stop  as  they  saw  the  one  who  opposed  them.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  rough  bearded  lips  curled  back  in  contempt. “So this  is  all  that  the  Lord  of  Chaos  sends  against  me? A baby  dragon  who  thinks  he  is  God,  a  doper  who  sold  his  soul  and  got  cheated  out  of  brains,  and  two  little  witches? Both of  which  are  under  my power?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           As  he  spoke  Delilah  and  Julian  collapsed  limply on  the  floor,  tearing  off  their  clothes,  moaning  like  bitches  in  heat. Kevin threw  them  an  alarmed  glance  before  putting  his  hands  on  his  hips. “I’ve heard  of  you.”  he  said. “You’re just  an  Elemental  who’s  forgotten  his  own  place. All you  are  is  earth  and  stone,  ice  and  rain. But I—I  am  fire!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  shifted  shape  in  a  flash,  until  where  he  had  been  a  small  dragon  stood,  belching  out  a  jet  of  flame  so  hot  the room  began  to  spontaneously  combust. From the  bearded  magician  curses  flew,  visible  as  if  they  were  darts  of  shadow.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  Wild  Man  spread  his  cloak. A hideous  smile  split  his  face. “Oh, I  am  so  much  more  than  that.”  he  said  softly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Earth  quenched  the  flames. A case  of  stone  wrapped  around  dragon  and  magician,  and  vanished  as  Wild  sent  them  away.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  call  down  the  Road  upon  this  house.”  he  said. A quiver  went  through  the  old  building  and  all  signs  of  the  firefight  and  home  invasion  were  erased.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “There. All done,  Brookling.”  he  said,  almost  jovially. At a  flap  of  his  hand  Julian  and  Delilah  put  on  their  clothes  and  headed  sulkily  outside. “Now let  me  pronounce  my  price.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  agreed  to  pay  whatever  I  would  name. Life and  luck,  laughter  or  love;  dreams  or  memories,  goods  or  thoughts,  health  or  sight  or  limbs  are  mine. I will  not  take  them. I will  take  from  you  this  night  your  virginity  alone.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “But…I  don’t  want…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           His  hands  were  upon  her  now,  and  she  gasped  with  sudden  passion. “I will  make  it  the  most  wonderful  night  of  your  entire  life.”  he  murmered. She could  not  answer. She was  encased  in  a  rapture  that  took  away  all  will.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Suddenly  a  blue  flash  of  fire  washed  through  her,  and  the  passion  vanished  like  a  switch,  even as  her  body  met  the  wall  with  a  violent  impact  and  crunch  of  plaster. She sat  down,  dazed  and  a  little  sore,  but  sane.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Arheled  stood  between  her  and  the  Wild  Man  of  Winsted. He too  was  getting  out  of  a  dent  in  the  wall,  and  he  did  not  look  very  pleased.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Arheled,  she  is  mine! She is  under  my  power  by  her  own  bargain! You cannot  intervene  in  her  free  will!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Her  free  will?”  mocked  the  Man  in  Brown. “Insane with  torture  and  captivity  and  dragon-spell? You call  that  free? I’m surprised  at  you,  Wild. You ought  to  know  the  rules  by  now!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  cannot  deny  that  she  made  a  bargain!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  do  not  deny  it.”  replied  Arheled. “But she  is  one  that  I  have  called,  and  so  I  claim  the  right  of  a  relative,  to  take  what  action  a  father  or  brother  may  take  upon  a  seducer:  a  physical  beating.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  slow  savage  smile  grew  upon  the  wild  countenance  of the  other. “So, you  would  face  me,  my  lord?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “In  the  shapes  in  which  we  stand  and  what  strength  is  in  those  shapes,  with  physical  prowess  alone  and  unenhanced  nor  aided  by  our  tremendous  powers,  we  will  settle  the  issue  of  the  nullness  of  your  claim. If I  am  bested,  you  may  have  your  way  with  her;  yet  she  shall  no  further  enter  under  your  power.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “To  these  terms  do  I  agree!”  laughed  the  Wild  Man  of  Winsted.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  house  of  Brooke  vanished  around  them. An open  field  rolled  away  beneath  them  for  half  a  mile  in  any  direction. The air  was  cool  and  dewy,  and  overhead  the  stars  lay  dim  and  faint  in  the  hazy  mauve  sky.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Arheled  and  Wild  lunged  abruptly  at  each  other. Brooke found  herself  chewing  her  nails. She knew  nothing  about  boxing  or  wrestling,  but  given  the  nature  of  the  two  entities  engaging  in  combat  she  expected  a  Jet-Li-style  display  of  fantastic  martial  arts. Instead the  two  men  whirled,  ducked  and  swung  in  straight,  simple  boxing  moves. Both were  amazingly  fast  on  their  feet,  despite  the  Wild  Man’s  great  cloak,  and  as  they  swung  and  grappled  back  and  forth  neither  seemed  to  be  landing  a  telling  blow;  the  other  always  dodged  or  parried  it,  using  forearms  like  swords. Once Wild  did  land  a  blow  on  Arheled’s  side,  and  another  time  Arheled  got  in  a  direct  hit  to  the  jaw. Wild reeled  back,  for  he  was  earth formed  into  a  body  of  flesh  and  could  be  hurt,  and  Arheled  followed  up,  landing  three  more  blows  before  Wild  was  recovered  enough  to  dodge.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Suddenly   Wild  stooped  almost  to  the  ground. Like a  flash  his  arm  snaked  around  the  ankles  of  Arheled,  pinning  them  against  his  side. In the  same  motion  he  straightened,  using  the  leverage  to  catapult  Arheled  head-foremost  over  his  shoulder. With incredible  reflexes  Arheled  twisted  in  the  air  so  he  landed  upright,  dodging  Wild’s  vicious  kick. While Wild  was  still  in  motion  from  this,  leaping  straight  from  the  ground  Arheled  cannoned  into  his  belly. The Wild  Man  bent  double  with  an  agonized  grunt  as  Arheled  bore  him  to  the  ground. The fists  of  the  Warden  rose  and  fell  like  sledgehammers. A sharp  sickly  thin  tang  crossed  Brooke’s  nostrils—blood!—and  then  Wild  gave  a  kind  of  choked  cry,  and  Arheled  fell  still,  gasping  for  breath.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  may  heal.”  he  said,  recovering  his  wind  all  of  a  sudden.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  Wild  Man  rose  from  the  trampled  hay-grass. His head  had  been  smashed  right  in,  leaving  his  skull  a  horrid  dark  mess  on  one  side,  but  it  regrew  so  swiftly  Brooke  could  hardly  believe  she  had  even  seen  the  injury.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Now  answer,  Wild  Man,  and  answer  me  true:  is  your  claim  valid?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  Wild  Man  did  not  seem  too  much  displeased,  in  fact  satisfied. “My claim  was  voided  in  fair  combat,  body  against  body  in  strength  of  body  alone. I renounce  all  right  to  woo  the  Child  of  the  Streams.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Then,  Brooke,  in  the  name  of  the  Road  do  I  clean  you  of  the  power  Wild  held  over  you. You shall  remember,  and  you  shall  smile,  but  you  shall  not  yearn.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  wonderful  calm  tranquility  fell  over  her. She felt  warm,  filled  with  light,  and  delightfully  content.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Thank  you,  Wild,  for  saving  me.”  she  smiled. Going over  she  gave  him  a  quick  kiss  on  his  rough  lips. “I owe  you  that  much,  at  least.”  she  said  with  a  little  laugh.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  Wild  Man  of  Winsted  gave  her  a  smile  that  was  almost  tender. “I accept  your  gift  and  cherish  it,  Streamgirl.”  he  said. “Well, I’d  better  be  going. There are  two  plump  little  witches  with  nice  tender  breasts  waiting  for  me  near  your  house. Tonight’s wooing  will  be  pleasureable  indeed.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Oh,  and  by  the  way,”  said  Arheled,  “…neat  move  back  there. Where’d you  learn  it?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Wild  chortled. “Made it  up  myself!”  he  laughed. “Pretty good  dodge  you  took  me  out  with,  though. Well, good  night  all!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Bye!”  Brooke  waved,  as  Wild  sank  into  the  earth.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  could  have  stopped  Kevin  from  even  entering  your  house.”  Arheled  said  abruptly  to  her. “Why did  you  do  nothing?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Brooke,  taken  off  guard,  stared  appealingly  at  him. “He…looked at  me…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Your  temper  tantrum  betrayed  you  to  him. If your  anger  had  followed  its’  impulse,  you  would  have  had  the  power  to  oppose  any  number  of  fire-dragons.”  His  face  grew  grim. “As it  is,  the  Road  may  exact  a  greater  price  for  the  bestowal  of  your  power,  for  the  dragon  weakened  your  bond  to  it;  I  will  try  to  lessen  the  price,  but  I  may  not  succeed. Where there  is  desert,  the  Road  is  not  easy  to  gainsay.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Arheled,  they  know.”  said  Brooke. “They know  who  we  are. They have  found  the  Six.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It  would  have  been  foolish  to  expect the  Children  of  the  Road  to  walk  their  normal  lives  and  not  be  found.”  responded  Arheled. “But your  house  is  under  the  Road,  and  neither  dragons  nor  their  servants  can  cross  its’  doors  unless  invited  in.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Couldn’t  you,  like,  do  that  to  the  whole  state?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Arheled  gave  her  a  look  as  if  she  was  nuts. “To sheathe  each  and  every  one  of  the  thousand  tiny  realms  and  countless lands that  intergrid  the  hills  of  this  state;  to  cloak  an  entire  town,  let  alone  a  county,  so  that  the  servants  of  dragons  cannot  enter? What do  you  think  I  am,  a  magician?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  were  Ronnie  and  Forest  doing  up  here?”  Brooke  said,  eager  to  change  the  subject.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  sent  them.”  answered  Arheled. “They were  searching  out  the  Haunted  Valley,  the  queer  peat  swamps  of  Rugg  Brook.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  mean  the  reservoir  under  Temple  Fell? That is  an  odd sort  of  place,  with  the  tall  pines  and  all  the  laurel-moss  jungles  and  that  funny,  reddish  water. There’s an  atmosphere  about  it.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “And  well  there  should  be,”  said  Arheled,  “for  that  is  the  Red  Valley  and  the  Crimson  Brook,  Grûg  Dílick  in  the  tongue  of  old. Rugg Brook  is  the  name  among  men.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It  is,  but  not  in  the  way  that  men  think. Not in  the  manner  of  the  ghost  stories,  but  in  a  way  far  stranger  than  any  can  understand,  save  those  few  who  still  see  truly. For that  vale  remembers  from  whence  it  once  had  come,  and  the  strangeness  of  that  land  yet  lingers  in  its’  transplanted  condition,  though  none  can  see  it  save  those  who  see. I did  not  call  all  of  them. I called  you  from  out  of  them.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Arheled  looked  out  into  the  distance. Brooke was  aware,  dimly,  that  the  field  without moving  had  somehow  become  at  a  great  height,  like  a  long  sloping  mountain. She saw  the  lands  spread  dimly  around  them,  faint  orange  stars  winking up  from  the  dwellings  of  Men. “There are  so  few,  so  few  who  share  the  sight,  the  sense  and  the  knowledge  of  the  nature  of  Creation. Some of  them  are  Catholics. Some of  them  know  nothing  of  Catholics. One or two  are  even  witches! Fools who  hunt  for  the  reality  they  sense,  in  all  the  wrong  places,  unknowing  what  they  do. But all  the  rest,  they  are  lost,  they  are  sunk  in  the  earth,  their  minds  and  eyes  are  stopped  with  muck. You’ve been  in  their  schools,  Brooke,  and  breathed  the  strange  thick  languidness  of  immorality  that  lies  like  a  fog  behind  their  minds;  the  casual  careless  lightness  with  which  they  drift  into  sex,  tossing  around  their  breasts  as  if  they  were  basketballs. '' They don’t  care. They don’t  care.''  They  drift  loose  without  an  anchor,  and  the dull  blankness  of  despair  lies  behind  everything  they  do.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  mean  that  girl  in  biology  last  year  who  went  all  emo  and  got  put  on  suicide  watch?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “They  hate  Winsted. They don’t  care,  because  they  have  nothing  to  stand  under  them. They hold  no  truck  with  religion—or  as  one  said  to  me,  they  don’t  f—  with  religion—but  have  a  superstitious  fascination  with  the  occult. They try  to  exist  in  the  moment,  not  thinking,  not  looking;  drugging  their  minds  with  pot  and  beer  and  sex,  lest  they  think  too  deep  and  uncover  buried  worms. It is  all  the  same  to  them  and  the  emptiness  within  them  whether  they  get  high  or  get  hung. They laugh,  emptily,  and  joke  of  butts  and  bosoms,  their  minds  crass  and  frank  but  unable  to  rise  higher  than  their  own  toilet  seats. It is  frightening  to  look  upon.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  know  what  you  mean.”  ruminated  Brooke. “It’s like  their  brains  are  permanently located  in  their  bottoms. Some of  them  are  clever,  intelligent  kids,  and  yet  when  I  listen  to  them,  it’s  like  they  let  their  minds  go  plop.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Many  fingers  have  been  pointed  as  to  why,  but  a  finger  can  only  point  to one  thing.”  said  Arheled. “And we  are  facing  many  things  all  melded  into  an  atmosphere,  a  haze  as  it  were,  that  lies  over  the  world  and  can  scarce  be  seen  or  felt. But those  who  see,  they  guess  it  is  there,  and  those  who  were  raised  apart  from  it,  the  homeschoolers  and  the  outlanders,  they  can  see  it  clearest  of  all.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That  was  an  epic  fight.”  said  Brooke. “But I  wanted  to  know:  why  didn’t  either  of  you  use  martial  arts?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Oh,  like  in  the  movies?”  mocked  Arheled. “You thought  maybe  we  would  use  kara-te,  or  hang  each  other  up  with  the  Wushi  Finger  Hold? We do  not  like  the  East,  Brooke,  nor  do  we  use  their  disciplines. Their fighting  motions,  like  their  mystic  gestures,  are  steeped in  and  developed  by  the  empty  faiths  of  denial. To find  your  peace. To be  at  one  with  the  All. To achieve  harmony  in  your  chi.”  He  shook  himself  as  if  shaking  off  fleas. “Those lands  deny  reality. I and  Wild  both  assert  it. We use  nothing  from  a  place  that  honors  dragons  as  benign.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  lifted  his  hand  out  over  the  dark  world. For a  moment  Brooke  thought  she  saw  a  mighty  causeway  stepping  on  immense  but  thin  and  graceful  arches  out  over  the  hills,  but  then  it  was  gone  as  if  faded  out  of  sight. Above her  head  the  stars  shone  strange  and  clustered,  and  it  made  her  dizzy  to  look  too  long  at  them.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  Fish  is  the  sign  of  the  Milky  Way.”  he  answered. “In the  ancient  heavens  there  was  no  Milky  Way,  because  there  was  no  galaxy. But the  path  the  Way  was  set  to  mark,  that  was  there,  though  a  memory  even  then;  and  still  is  there,  despite  the  slow-swinging  galaxies  that  cross  over  its’  path. And as  they  cross  they  turn  aside,  swinging  along  the  plane  of  the  way.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “There  are  roads  in  the  heavens,  and  roads  on  the  earth. Does a  road  cease  when  its;  imprint  on  the  earth  disappears? Most mortal  roads  do. But if  a  road  is  laid  out  on  a  bedrock  of  diverse  natures,  its’  imprint  may  last an  unguessable  time—as  long  as  the  earth  itself,  perhaps.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  looked  down  at  Brooke  with  a  smile. “But come. You are  yourself  mortal,  and  mortals  need  slumber,  and  you  have  endured  much. Lie down  now  and  take  your  rest,  child  of  the  streams.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Brooke  felt  an  intense  drowsiness  overcoming  her. She had  just  enough  time  to  stumble  over  to  her  bed  and  flop  down  on  it before  sleep  took  her.

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