Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
Gravelight (13 page)
This
was what he wanted.
was what he wanted.
It was all rightâhe'd still quitâbut tomorrow, when things weren't so bad ⦠.
Wycherly stared at the sealed bottle, hearing his own thoughts with brutal clarity. Things would always be worse tomorrow. That was just the way it was.
There was no good time to stop.
He rolled on his side and shied the bottle out through the open bedroom window. He heard it clink as it hit the ground, but he didn't know if it broke. He didn't care, Wycherly told himself angrily. Everything stopped here: no
Scotch, no shine, no vodka. Beer only until he finished what was in the cabin.
Scotch, no shine, no vodka. Beer only until he finished what was in the cabin.
Then, nothing. Nothing, nothing,
nothing
.
nothing
.
He reached into his bag again and found the bottle of Seconal, but the pills were too big to swallow dry. That meant he had to retrieve his unfinished beer from the washstand, and as soon as Wycherly touched his bad foot to the ground it sent a lightning flash of pain up his leg. Maybe he should have left the bandage alone. He gritted his teeth. Sweat beaded his forehead and ran down his face. The foot throbbed like a beating heart.
But finally he grabbed the half-empty can and settled back on the bed. He opened the bottle and gazed at the capsules hungrily, but only removed one. If one of these and codeine and beer wouldn't put him to sleep, he'd lie awake and comfort himself with the knowledge that his family probably thought he was dead.
Wycherly tossed the pill to the back of his throat and drained the beer can, flinging the empty out the window to join the bottle. He'd have to start being more careful after this; he had no intention of ending his life with a bottle of pillsâor surviving an overdose as a drooling, brain-damaged vegetable warehoused in the critical care wing of some nursing home. No, Wycherly intended to annoy as many people as possible for as long as he couldâand then go out in a brief, bright, flare of glory.
The thought was oddly alien in a number of ways, as if it was something he'd never thought before. Somehow the image made his thoughts turn toward the overgrown grounds of Wildwood Sanatorium again.
He finally remembered what the place had reminded him of: Sleeping Beauty's castle, silent and deserted. Where everyone inside was enchanted and lay sleeping, dreaming ⦠.
Or dead.
GRAVEN IMAGES
Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace;
Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gape
For thee thrice wider than for other men.
Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gape
For thee thrice wider than for other men.
âWILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
“I THINK WE'RE HERE,” DYLAN ANNOUNCED.
The twists in the road had made it difficult to spot, but a while ago the travelers from Taghkanic had reached the crest of the peak and begun working their way down into the hollow. Dylan's announcement had been a trifle premature, but the four of them were seeing signs that they were nearing civilizationâif civilization could be defined as discarded Coke cans and rotting automobile tires.
A rusted road sign Truth had spotted along the way was bent so far out of true that it could not be read from the Winnebago, but Rowan had disembarked with a flashlight and brought back the information that this was Watchman's Gap Trace, sometimes known as State Road 113.
“And wasn't that the one that was supposed to branch off 28 and lead right down into Morton's Fork?” Rowan asked.
“We must have taken the last turn without realizing it,” Truth said, relieved.
“Now all we have to do is get there,” Dylan said.
There was a noncommittal grunt from Ninian.
After all the dead ends and wrong turns, arrival in Morton's Fork itself was almost anticlimactic. The road gradually leveled offâthough becoming, if possible, narrowerâand, as the dusk deepened, it brought them to the town itselfâand the end of the paving.
“This is it?” Ninian said blankly.
“This,” Dylan confirmed, “is Morton's Forkâthe center of paranormal activity for the entire fifty-mile area surrounding it.”
He turned off the engine; in the sudden silence they could hear the twilight calls of crickets and frogs, and, somewhere nearby, the sound of running water.
The town of Morton's Fork did not look as if it were the center of any activity whatever. The windows were dark, but a lone light bulb burned outside the general store, and in the illumination from it the travelers could see signs which offered fax service, cold beer, and pelt-purchase, a weird commingling of centuries that made Truth smile. Across the street from the store was a gas station, and that seemed to be it for the Morton's Fork commercial strip.
Lights came on inside the general store again, and by the illumination the party could see a man moving from the back of the store to the front. Dylan climbed out of the driver's seat. Truth felt the camper rock as Rowan went out the back door.
“Are you all right, Ms. Jourdemayne?” Ninian asked.
His face was grave as he studied her, and Truth wondered what he saw. She wondered what anyone saw who really had the eyes to see beyond the accepted and conventional limits of twentieth-century Man's devising.
“I'm just tired, Ninian. It's been a long day. And I hope nothing else goes wrongâDylan wasn't completely sure of our reception here, despite all his groundwork he'd laid.”
Voices outside the camper pulled her attention back to the present.
“We're not lost,” Dylan was saying. “We're researchers from the Margaret Beresford Bidney Institute.”
“Oh, you'
re
them,” the local said, in a voice of discovery. “I'm Evan Starkingâyou wrote to my pa; he sort of runs things around here.” The tall redhead with the pockmarked skin held out his hand. “You're lucky you come in when you did. It's almost dark; I was just about to shut up for the night and then you'd of been out of luck until morning. But welcome to Morton's Fork anyway.”
re
them,” the local said, in a voice of discovery. “I'm Evan Starkingâyou wrote to my pa; he sort of runs things around here.” The tall redhead with the pockmarked skin held out his hand. “You're lucky you come in when you did. It's almost dark; I was just about to shut up for the night and then you'd of been out of luck until morning. But welcome to Morton's Fork anyway.”
“Thanks.” Truth saw Dylan shake the proffered hand. He gestured back at the camper. “Is there some place here we can park and set up our campsite? We might want to move later, depending on what we find, but right now we'd just like to settle in.”
“Sure,” Evan said.
As the two men were speaking, Truth and Ninian climbed out of the camper as well. It was good, Truth reflected, to have solid nonmoving ground under her feet after the day's long drive, and Evan Starking didn't seem to share any of the region's inhabitants' legendary suspicion of strangersâor if he did, he had excellent manners.
“Will you be needing anything from the store? Milk, eggs, that sort of thing? I could stay open for a few minutes,” he suggested.
“That'd be great,” Dylan said, and Truth, thinking of the chance of a cold drink, heartily agreed.
The general store was almost a cliché. Shelves extended all the way to the high, pressed-tin ceiling, filled with the daily needs of a lifestyle that Truth found unimaginably remote. What on earth was Fels-Naptha, and why did they sell it in bricks?
“This isn't whole grain,” Rowan said, looking at a loaf of Whole Wheat Wonder Bread. She shrugged, and added it to the pile of purchases on the counter.
“No, ma'am,” Evan said. “Folks up here mostly bakes their ownâand if they don't, they aren't wanting bread that fights back. But we get another delivery on Thursday, and I could have Harry put a couple of loaves on the truck for you.”
“Can he get twelve-grain? Or sprouted wheat?” Rowan asked, moving back toward the counter. Truth smiled to herself, continuing toward the back of the store. Evan's willingness to accommodate the visitors wasn't hard to ascribe a reason to. Rowan was pretty, friendly, and outgoingâand how many strangers did someone like Evan Starking see from one year to the next?
Unless he's leading a secret life,
Truth thought. It wasn't out of the question. With an automobile, the twentieth century was only an hour's drive from here.
Truth thought. It wasn't out of the question. With an automobile, the twentieth century was only an hour's drive from here.
She perused the shelves. Mason jars and shotgun shells. Flypaper and mosquito netting. Citronella, pectin, wooden clothespins, coarse salt, cola syrupâand beside them, boxes of Twinkies and Hefty bags, like emissaries from the mainstream consumer culture. Absently Truth picked up a jar of peanut butter and a box of Twinkies. She knew that Dylan was taking care of important matters like milk and eggs. They hadn't brought many supplies with them because they'd expected to be able to buy their groceries hereâor, at most, drive out to Pharaoh for them. But having driven the Watchman's Gap Road once in the Winnebago, Truth wasn't sure she ever cared to do it again.
Well, they'd think of something.
Arms full, she carried her purchases up to the counter, and piled them beside the others'. As Evan toted everything up on an old-fashioned mechanical adding machine, Truth browsed through a revolving book rack standing in front of the counter. The rack's contents said a good deal about the clientele the Morton's Fork general store entertained. There were road maps, guides to fishing and hunting, foil-embossed romance novels, first-aid manuals, and medal-bedecked military adventure books. Among the other books, the white cover of what was obviously a small-press volume stood out.
A History of Lyonesse County, West Virginia by E. A. Ringrose.
The cover was printed with what looked to be an early map of the area.
The cover was printed with what looked to be an early map of the area.
Worth a look,
Truth thought. The books she'd brought
with her as leisure-time reading suddenly didn't look appetizing, and neither did any of the other offerings here in the book rack. Unless she wanted to read the latest issue of
The Pharaoh Call and Record, Published Weekly for Lyonesse County, including the townships of Pharaoh, Morton's Fork, La Gouloue, Bishopville, and Maskelyne,
a newspaper fully eight pages thick. On impulse, she picked up a copy of that, tooâit was only a quarterâand when Dylan had finished paying for the other purchases and Evan had packed them into several cardboard boxes, Truth stepped forward with her acquisitions.
Truth thought. The books she'd brought
with her as leisure-time reading suddenly didn't look appetizing, and neither did any of the other offerings here in the book rack. Unless she wanted to read the latest issue of
The Pharaoh Call and Record, Published Weekly for Lyonesse County, including the townships of Pharaoh, Morton's Fork, La Gouloue, Bishopville, and Maskelyne,
a newspaper fully eight pages thick. On impulse, she picked up a copy of that, tooâit was only a quarterâand when Dylan had finished paying for the other purchases and Evan had packed them into several cardboard boxes, Truth stepped forward with her acquisitions.
“Looks like you're interested in local history,” Evan said, as he carefully added up her total.
Truth smiled distantly. Local history was really the only kind there was, and most people were blind and deaf to the wonders and terrors that happened in their own backyards.
“I guess so,” she admitted. “Maybe this book will give me some idea of what to see around here.” The other three might be on a field trip, but this was her vacationâunless they had some statistics for her to collate.
“Maybe,” Evan said doubtfully, “but there's a lot of stuff you'd better stay away from. Dangerous things.”
The jail cell smelled of fear, urine, and rats. The cold sea air of the Bristol coast wafted in through the open window, and the woman sitting at the table beneath it shivered.
Her name was Marie Athanais Jocasta de Courcy de Lyon, Lady Belchamber, and she was to have been a queen. Forget Jamie's whey-faced Scottish countessâshe could have been set aside easily enough once Jamie had taken the throne from his canting Catholic uncle.
Set asideâor killed.
Only the usurper had not cooperated by losing to her lover's troops. Jamie had raised his standardâthe standard of the true king, rightful son of Charles Stuart and Lucy Watersâbut the English, the war-tom forties still clear in their minds, had not followed him.
Now her Jamie was dead, and the false king's revenge
began. Those of Monmouth's supporters who were not transported to the King's New World Maryland colony were to be hanged.
began. Those of Monmouth's supporters who were not transported to the King's New World Maryland colony were to be hanged.
SHE was to be hanged.
They were building the gallows already, but her rank ensured she would spend her last days with more comforts than those wretches in the general population beyond her door. They were to be transported on the morning tide, to a world populated by savages and monsters.
And cities of gold.
Athanais opened the casket that lay on the table before her. A costly French toy of silver and enamel work, it bespoke her status, that of a great lady with royal blood in her veinsâthough now they called her traitor, murderess, whore, and worse.
Witch.
The accusationâflung at her in hissed whispers, and not in open courtâmade Athanais smile as she lingered among the small glass vials of the casket like a woman choosing among sweetmeats. If it was witchcraft to damn God and set Man on the highest throne of the heavens, so be it. And she cared not what compact she had to make with any being, celestial or infernal, to ensure she got her own way.
But her servants had failed her one by one, and now she was reduced to this last mad gamble. They had been weak, but she would not be.
Athanais poured the contents of the vial into one of the costly glass goblets upon the table, closed the casket, then topped up both cups from the pitcher of wine upon the table. She pulled the untainted cup safely to her and left the other beside the decanter. Everything was ready.
“I need a woman to help me undress: you.” Athanais stood in the doorway of her room and pointed at the young woman sitting huddled in the corner of the prison's great room, one of those who were to be transported on the morrow. The woman looked up, meeting Athanais' steely grey gaze, and slowly got to her feet.
“What's your name, girl?” Athanais asked, turning her back so that the other could attend her. She and Athanais were much of a size, which was why Athanais had chosen her from among the transportees.
“Jane
,
ma'am. Jane Darrow.” Jane followed Athanais docilely back into her private quarters and closed the door to the outer room before hurrying over to unlace Athanais' elaborate dress.
,
ma'am. Jane Darrow.” Jane followed Athanais docilely back into her private quarters and closed the door to the outer room before hurrying over to unlace Athanais' elaborate dress.
“And shall you like living in the New World
,
among heathens and slaves?” Athanais asked. Silence greeted her, and the stifled sound of tears held back. She smiled as she heard it. She'd made the right choice, then.
,
among heathens and slaves?” Athanais asked. Silence greeted her, and the stifled sound of tears held back. She smiled as she heard it. She'd made the right choice, then.
“Peace, child. Dry your tears. Even Hanging Jeffries is not immune to briberyâand I promise you for this night's work enough gold to soften even a Puritan heart.”
“Truly, ma'am? My Charlie and meâ”
Athanais closed her ears to the girl's grateful babble, and concentrated on instructing her on just how to undress her and take down her hair. When her hairâhow Jamie had praised it, calling it perfumed honeyâhung loose and she stood dressed only in her shift, Athanais reached for a shawl to wrap herself in and turned to her conscript maid.
“'Swounds, it is cold in here.” She forced a shiver she did not feel. “Let us take wine to warm us.” Athanais picked up her goblet, and handed the tainted one to her companion.
The girl was flattered by the illusion of equality. She drank off the contents of the cup as if it were cider, and, at Athanais' urging, quickly followed it with another. She was probably more used to the taste of small beer than that of vintage wine, and after a few minutes her eyelids began to droop.
“Lord,” Jane said. “I feel so sleepy ⦠.”
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