Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (79 page)

 
          
Not,
at least, of her own free will . . . But whose will was it that had engineered
the death of Sally's parents?

 
          
Nathaniel
had been right to send him here. Petty and local though they were, there were
dark forces at work here in the
New England
countryside, and destroying those forces without
destroying Sally Latimer as well would require the most careful calculation.

 
          
"Do
you want me to go sniff around, Colin?" Claire asked, rousing him from his
reverie.

 
          
"I'd
appreciate it. Last night at dinner, Sally sounded as if she could use a few
friendly faces around, and I'd like to know just what it is that we're up
against. If that old house is psychically active, for example . . ."

 
          
"If
it is, she can't possibly stay there," Claire agreed. "I wonder if
Uncle Clarence would welcome another houseguest?" She hesitated. "But
I think we may have another problem as well: Rowan."

 
          
Colin
cocked his head, listening for the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. The girl
was thoroughly occupied and unlikely to overhear. "Tell me," he said
quietly.

 
          
"You
said things seemed a little strained tonight
—
well, it wasn't all about
Rowan's choice of college. About a month ago
—
around the last full moon
—
she started
sleepwalking."

 
          
Colin
sat forward, suddenly alert.

 
          
"Justin
was working late and saw her go out. He took her back to the house and tucked
her in
—
she
didn't even wake up
—
and after that we started locking the house at night. But
she didn't stop sleepwalking."

 
          
"Did
Rowan remember anything about the episodes?" Colin asked.

 
          
Claire
shrugged. "She wasn't even aware of them at first. And for a while the
locked doors seemed to stop her, at least from getting out of the house. She'd
rattle the knob for a while, wake up, and go back to bed. Of course most people
sleepwalk at some point in their lives, and most of the time it's harmless, but
lately she's been unlocking the door and . . . well, going out," Claire
said feebly.

 
          
"After
the first time we found her gone and the back door wide open, Justin set up an
infrared alarm to wake him, and he goes and gets her, but this has him worried
sick. It's pretty clear this has something to do with the fact that Rowan's a
Sensitive, but Justin doesn't really want to acknowledge something that seems
so irrational to him."

 
          
Claire
sighed, and shook her head wearily. "He may not want to admit it, but he
knows, believe me. And that's the real problem."

 
          
"Problem?"
Colin asked.

 
          
"Oh,
you know, Colin
—
people can't really tell the difference between 'psychic'
and 'Satanic,' and Justin spent enough summers here as a boy to pick up the
local superstitions about the Antique Rite, even if he won't admit
that
either.
He doesn't know whether to call an exorcist or a doctor
—
not that either one would
do him any good. And lately I think the, well, I'd have to call it the
weirdness factor is getting to Rowan, too. I think she's keeping herself awake
all night so she won't sleepwalk, and that can't last."

 
          
"Any
notion where she's going?" Colin asked. "That might give us a clue as
to the cause."

 
          
Claire's
face was grim. "Oh, we all know where she's going. That's the problem.
Every time she gets out, she makes a beeline due east
—
right for the old
burying-ground . . . and the Church of the Antique Rite."

 
          
It
wasn't until Friday that Claire was able to make her promised visit to Sally
Latimer.

 
          
Up
until Colin's visit she'd been sleeping in one of the spare bedrooms
—
the house had been built
for a large farm family, and there was no shortage of guest rooms
—
but after what Colin had
told her about Sally, Claire realized that she couldn't just wait around and
hope things would get better. She told Rowan that she was going to move in with
her, and was not surprised when Rowan accepted gratefully.

 
          
Most
of Thursday was taken up with moving furniture to make room for a second twin
bed in Rowan's room and then moving Claire's things in. Fortunately, Rowan was
already packing her things away in anticipation of going to Taghkanic that
fall; the room with the faded white rose wallpaper had even looked a little
barren until Claire moved in.

 
          
"I'm
glad you're here, Claire," Rowan said simply. She was dressed for sleep,
sitting cross-legged on her bed in a Miskatonic T-shirt and a pair of plaid
flannel boxer shorts, hugging a large stuffed dragon. Its name, so Claire was
given to understand, was Lockheed.

 
          
"So
am I," Claire said. She folded her sensible dark blue wool bathrobe
—
too warm for the California
climate at any season, but the perfect thing for spring in New England
—
at the foot of the bed and
turned back the coverlet. The bed was heaped with hand-pieced quilts that had
been handed down through the generations of Moorcock women.

 
          
"Claire
—
" Rowan said.

 
          
Here
it comes.
Of course, Rowan was worried about the sleepwalking
—
and she would have sensed
something out of the ordinary about Colin at dinner last night. Mentally,
Claire braced herself for the question she dreaded. But when it came, it wasn't
precisely what she expected.

 
          
"Do
you think it's possible to be a
hereditary
witch?" Rowan asked.

 
          
"I'm
not sure I understand," Claire temporized. "Where did you hear
that?"

 
          
"At
school." Rowan shrugged, as if dismissing the whole matter. "Laney
was talking all this nonsense about the great hereditary witch families of the
Wicca, and about how they could all trace their lineages back to Morgan LeFay
and the coven of Camelot. But Laney's such a dip . . . stick, that I didn't
think she knew what she was talking about. Only she said that everybody born
with red hair was secretly a witch," Rowan added, wrapping one of her
bright chestnut braids around and around her wrist.

 
          
"Well,
she doesn't and they aren't," Claire said flatly. "Most of the
Wiccans I know are perfectly sensible people who believe that they are
reconstructing
ancient Pagan practices, not carrying them on in an unbroken line. I
imagine that every Wiccan
—
or white witch, if you like
—
knows perfectly well that
she is one, even if she doesn't tell anybody. As for all redheads secretly
being witches, well, that's an old piece of English folklore that I'm surprised
to see still kicking around."

 
          
"I'm
not a witch," Rowan said positively, as if that settled the matter of
Laney. She gazed at Claire for a moment, her grey eyes disconcertingly direct.
"But there
are
witches, Claire, and they aren't all white
ones."

 
          
Claire
wasn't sure what to say. It almost seemed as if Rowan was warning her.

 
          
"Well,
g'night," Rowan said after a moment, yawning and clutching her dragon
tighter.

 
          
"Sleep
well, dear," Claire said. She waited until Rowan had burrowed under the
covers, then turned out the light.

 
          
But
it was a long time before she could make herself fall asleep.

 
          
Somewhere
in the deepest part of the night, Claire came abruptly awake. The full moon was
shining in through the open windows, and in its ghostly blue light, Claire
could see that Rowan's bed was empty.

 
          
"Rowan!"
Claire said in a half-whisper.

 
          
"I'm
right here." The girl's voice was curiously remote. Claire thought she
sounded tired. She moved, and now Claire could see her standing by the window,
wrapped in one of the quilts.

 
          
"Come
back to bed. You'll freeze," Claire said.

 
          
"They're
out there," Rowan said. "I can feel it
—
can't you? They're calling
us."

 
          
A
shimmering darkness; a heart-deep drumbeat calling something older, more primal,
than man. Something hideous, but somehow seductive as well, a longing bred into
humankind in the interminable night before the dawn of time. .
. .

 
          
Claire
shook her head sharply, and the
call
withdrew, though Claire knew it was
still out there.
And Sally is out there, too. Heaven help her.

 
          
"Come
back to bed, Rowan," Claire said, a bit more sharply than she'd intended.

           
"I can't sleep," Rowan
said frankly. "And ... I don't think I should, really. Do you,
Claire?"

 
          
"No,"
Claire admitted, giving up with a sigh. "You're probably right. But you
mustn't go out to them, Rowan, no matter how much you feel you ought."
Even as she spoke, Claire could hear how patronizing and foolish the words
sounded. What would she do if Rowan disobeyed?

 
          
"I
won't," Rowan said, and now Claire could hear reluctance in her voice. She
saw the shadow as Rowan put a hand on the cold glass of the uncovered
win-dowpane, as though the gesture could make what lay outside clearer. "I
didn't used to hear it. I was too young. Now I can hear it, but I'm not strong
enough yet. But I will be." Claire could hear the quiet promise in the
young girl's voice.

 
          
Rowan
decided she wanted some tea, and Claire went down to the kitchen with her.
Through the window over the sink Claire could see the light in Justin's
backyard workroom.

 
          
"Daddy's
pulling an all-nighter," Rowan said matter-of-factly, filling the kettle
at the tap and setting it on the stove. "Want some cake? There's some left
over from dinner."

 
          
"No,
thanks." Rowan's appetite was a tribute to the legendary all-consuming hunger
of the teenager. "But I will take a cup of tea," Claire said.

 
          
Rowan
went to get the canister down from the cupboard and stopped, looking wistfully
toward the workroom light. "He can't hear anything at all," Rowan
said, almost to herself. "Tonight's just another night for him."
After a moment she moved on, taking down an old brown teapot and filling it
from the loose tea in the canister.

 
          
"What
do
you
hear, Rowan?" Claire asked quietly. Though Claire had known
Rowan had the Gift the moment she'd first laid eyes on her, she hadn't been
sure whether the girl herself knew
—
or how much credence Rowan
placed in her own abilities.

 
          
"Just
. . . stuff," the girl said vaguely. Claire had the sense that Rowan's
inarticulateness was not so much due to obstinacy as simply to the inability to
describe those things that other people had no words for. "Them," she
said, gesturing vaguely eastward. "It's like . . . like a sore
tooth."

 
          
The
kettle whistled and Rowan broke off to pounce upon it and pour the boiling water
into the old Rockingham pot. While she waited for it to steep, Rowan brought
out the cake and cut herself a generous slice, adding a plate and fork out of
respect for the delicate sensibilities of her elders.