Darkthunder's Way (11 page)

“Got a 1938
Hobbit
too, with the different text in the riddle game,” David said proudly. “Library was throwing it out, so I grabbed it. That’s where I got that other book I mentioned:
Gods and Fighting Men,
Irish mythology, and all. I—” He paused in mid-sentence. He’d done it again: brought up that book he did not want to bring up. Or did he? Faerie was still a wonder and a glory, a thing he loved. And the wonder of the myths it had bred was a thing to be shared with friends. But he feared and distrusted it too; and hated what it was doing to him.

Calvin was eyeing him curiously, “Got any Scots—or Indian?”

“Don’t know of any Scots,” David replied, relieved to change the subject. “And I’m afraid I’ve never been into Indian. Familiarity breeds contempt, and all that, I guess; though now you mention it, I think the MacTyrie library’s got some stuff: Seems like there’s even one called
Sacred Spells of the Cherokee,
or something like that. I looked at it once, but couldn’t really get into it. I—”

Calvin was frowning thoughtfully. “
Sacred Formulas,
maybe?”

“That’s it!”

“You’re kiddin’! I’ve heard of that all my life but never seen it.”

David twisted around to stare at him. “So what’s the big deal?”

“You mean besides being my heritage and all? I’ll tell you what the big deal is: My grandfather knew the guy who wrote it, Mooney, I think his name was. Grandfather used to swear by that book. Every time he’d run into something he couldn’t quite remember he’d say he wished he had it.”

“Look, then; stick around through Monday and I’ll run over to the library and get it for you.”

“All right! Grandfather tried to teach me all he could,
but…
well, he was real old when I finally came along, and nobody wanted to hear that stuff ’cept me, and by then he’d forgotten most of it.”

“Didn’t you say he was a medicine man?”

“Yeah,” Calvin said, and fell silent.

David wondered if the note of interest in his voice had given too much away, then shrugged and decided it didn’t matter. He had finally excavated his sleeping bag from the dig in the closet and was beginning to re-roll it. “It’s a little smelly, I’m afraid,” he apologized, mostly to reawaken the conversation. “Never got around to washin’ it after the last time.”

Calvin slipped a battered brown book from the shelf. “What’s this?”

David looked up, scowling, wishing he’d thought to hide a few things. “Uh, well, you could call that Scots fantasy, I guess. It’s a book about the fairies. A gypsy woman gave it to me at the fair. I was telling you about. Meant to give it back this year, but couldn’t find her.”

Calvin snagged the thick blue book next to it and read the title aloud:
“The Fairy-Faith in Celtic Countries.
You must
really
be into this fairy stuff.”

David froze, suddenly aware of an intensifying of Calvin’s stare. “Somewhat,” he hedged. “Hey, you wanta give me a hand?”

Calvin joined him, and together they got the bag rolled.

They had just started out when the Indian paused yet again. “Ho! What have we here?”

David’s heart sank. Calvin had found it—the one thing he really
should
have hidden—and would have by the time the company arrived tomorrow. It sat on the small bookcase behind the door and was normally obscured when it was open. But apparently Calvin had the proverbial eagle eyes and spied out every cranny. Reluctantly David closed the door and allowed his companion a clearer view.

Calvin held his breath and bent down to state at the object that had drawn his attention. A perfect model Viking ship, it looked like: no longer than his hand and complete to the most minute detail, with rigging of gossamer fineness and an almost-invisible glitter of jewels on the bosses of each tiny, perfect shield. A miniature dragon’s head marked its prow, a curve of reptilian tail the stem. The sail of red silk was furled. Beside it lay an intricate finger ring: a silver dragon twining with a golden one, their heads side by side but facing opposite directions, the angles of their jaws locked in an eternal embrace that hinted at both love and contention.

“Oh wow!” Calvin exclaimed. “Did you
make
this?”

“Uh, no,” David managed. “It was a, uh, gift. One of my friends brought it back from the old country.”

Calvin whistled through his teeth. “Must have cost a fortune.”

“She could afford it. I kind of did her a favor.”

Calvin screwed up his eyes.
“
Damn,
this thing looks real! You can even see the pegs in the planks. I’ve never seen detail like this, ’specially not in wood.”

“Careful,” David warned. “Don’t even breathe on it; the rigging’s really fragile.”

“Yeah,” Calvin agreed, wide-eyed. “I can see that. Jeeze, it’s like—like something the fairies would make.”

“Or the Nunnehi?”

“Wha?”

“The Cherokee fairies. Them I
do
know about. Uncle Dale can tell you more, though.”

“Supper,” David’s mother called from the kitchen.

“I’d like to have another look at that model, sometime,” Calvin said, as David hustled him out the door. “Something about it bothers me. It’s kinda like that weird feeling I got from that swimmin’ buddy of yours. What ever happened to him, anyway?”

“You didn’t say anything about a weird feeling,” David replied quickly, choosing to ignore the more difficult part of the question.

“Hummph,” Calvin snorted. “Indian talk too much, should keep own counsel.”

“Calvin!” David groaned, and aimed a kick at his new friend’s Levied backside, grateful the conversation had shifted, yet wondering if, in fact, it had.

*

Alec’s stomach growled again, and he cursed it, adding a muttered
“damn”
to the unkind epithets he had already affixed to Darrell Buchanan, Volkswagen vans, Liz Hughes—and Mad Davy Sullivan and his new redskin sidekick, not to mention to his own wimpy self for being such an asswipe. Somehow he’d managed to miss supper first at home, then at the Sullivans. The fast-food joints in Enotah were jammed with tourists, even if he had felt like waiting—which he didn’t; and he just wasn’t ready to go home and face the music over the Volvo yet.

He had to get his act together, though,
had
to. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to deal with the scene when his dad caught up with him. He had not been a notably rebellious adolescent and wasn’t at all certain how his parents might regard the sudden onslaught of irresponsibility and temperament. But he was not real keen on finding out, either.

So he did the only thing he could: he sought out his own Place of Power.

He passed the turnoff for his street and took back ways through town (if a town with perhaps twenty blocks total could be said to
have
back ways) and eventually found himself turning into the old athletic field where the Irish Horse Traders had camped two weeks before. Their presence there had disturbed him by its proximity to
his
place, though he had not let on, because even David did not know of
this
place.

He hesitated for a minute, still at war with himself: knowing he should go home and face the music, but determined not to. Finally he squared his shoulders, shut off the car, and climbed out, noting as he sprinted across the open field, the scorch marks and mounds of ash and rusting metal where arcane fire had claimed the Trader’s wagons. But further on, around the west side where the honeysuckle grew thick along an outthrust knee of the small mountain that bordered the field on that side…

It was still there, behind the concrete retaining wall that backed the rotting bleachers: a nearly-overgrown trail that angled sharply back into the woods, then followed the curve of the mountain in a quick-rising arc that dead-ended halfway up a forested slope. Only a quarter mile or so that trail ran, but it was enough. To his right Alec glimpsed a glitter of lake agleam through the dark trunks of pines. Anytime
now…
Ah, yes, there it was, to the left, hidden by a mat of ferns unless you knew to look for it: the first of a long series of masonry steps that zigzagged up the mountain to his goal.

A moment later he was there: the concrete-and-brick ruins of a burned-out dwelling that had once overlooked the town, and, more recently, the field; but had eventually been forgotten when progress moved another way. A whole story’s worth of walls remained, though: and before them a broad stone terrace, half covered with vines. Trees grew thick around, hiding the ruins from below, so that Alec could see without being seen, which was precisely his intention. He could lie here and ponder and think, and that was exactly what he planned to do.

He crossed the terrace and ducked through the gaping front door. The concrete floor inside had resisted the flames that had taken the roof and ceiling, and directly opposite the entrance was a fireplace with a wide hearth. He flopped down there, set his back against the crumbling bricks, and watched the evening arrive.

Eventually he dozed, to awaken into almost full dark.

Mist was rising, drifting in from the nearby lake, giving the field below an aura of mystery that was at odds with its prosaic utility.
Crap,
he groaned, as he sat up and check his watch. He really should go home. But suddenly he heard soft footsteps and, to his horror saw a figure coming up the steps through the woods.
That
was all he needed, to have his personal place violated.

“Alec,” a soft voice whispered. “Alec, is that you?”

His heart flip-flopped. “Eva! Over here!” And then he was leaping across the terrace and running through the mist to take her hand before he even knew he had done it. An instant later he was drawing her up by the fireplace. She was dressed the same as before, he noticed: white linen blouse and long, fringed skirt.

“What are
you
doing here?” he asked. “How in the world did you find me?”

“I…
I was not doing anything, really; I was only wandering about your town, and then this fog appeared, and I became lost, and I thought I heard someone breathing…”

“You must have awfully good ears, then.”

“I do. I followed them—and saw it was you.”

“You can see that good in the dark?”

“I also have very good eyes.”

“So do I, but I
can’t…”

“The starlight revealed you.”

A shudder ran though him. Lord, what a voice. He could hardly stand it: the mystery of the accent, the undercurrent of sensuality that hid in that simple phrase. This was no ordinary girl, not by a long shot.

Eva curled up on the hearth beside h
im
and rested her head on his shoulder. Alec tensed, unable to believe this was happening, that this wonderful girl was here, that she was sitting close to
him…
so
close to him. He took a deep breath and put his arm around her.

She snuggled closer. “Do you come here often?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

“When you want to be alone?”

“How’d you guess?”

“Because there are too many people in this town for you to be alone unless you choose.”

“Yeah, I reckon. But look, I really don’t want to talk about my problems.”

She pulled away and looked up at him. “Do you not?” Alec met her gaze and swallowed. “Okay, maybe I do.”
God, what eyes: beautiful even in the dark.

“You must tell me, then. You do not know me; we may never see each other again, since I am only visiting here. You may talk freely to me.”

“You’re here for the fair?”

“You could say that. I have some business to attend to for a friend, something he wants me to find.”

“Where’re you staying?”

Eva laughed softly. “A woman must have some secrets. But come, you were about to tell me your sorrow.”

“I was?”
Those eyes again, how can I resist them?

“Were you not?”

“I…
I guess I was.”

So Alec told her the whole sorry mess, about David and Liz and Darrell. Almost he told her everything, even about the Sidhe, since that was part of it too. Certainly he would have liked to, if not for the Ban of Lugh.

“This friend of yours sounds like a fascinating person,” Eva murmured, when he had finished.

“Yeah, well, evidently a lot of people think so, all of a sudden.”

“Tell me, is he interested in sailing?”

“Not particularly. Why?”

Eva laughed. “Just a thought. I have them sometimes. Call it a premonition.”

Alec stared up at her, startled. The moon was new, and the stars were in their full glory, shedding a surprising amount of light across the fog-shrouded field and illuminating Eva’s face. She was looking at him, frankly, openly, with maybe a touch of—of what? in her expression. Was it
possible…?

“Eva,
I…”
he began.