Gravelight (8 page)

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Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley

BOOK: Gravelight
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The river pulled at him, trying to drag him under, pulling him with it in its journey to the sea. Behind him he could see the lights of the car submerged beneath the surface of the water, its weakening beams like the eyes of an angry dragon, and Wycherly knew it was too late. He started toward it, only to feel the slippery surface of the riverbed dissolve beneath his feet, carrying him under.
He tried to climb out and the water dragged at him, growing deeper and colder the more he struggled toward the shore. On the distant shore he could see the faint blue and red sparks that were the lights of rescue vehicles, but it was as though they belonged to a different world, a world that no amount of struggle would let him reach. He was going to die now.
In that irrevocable moment Wycherly realized that his death was not a private thing affecting only him. If he died here he would die with promises unkept, die without completing the task that he had been sent into the world to perform.
Suddenly the need to live was sweet and urgent, and that was the moment when Wycherly saw the white shape moving toward him beneath the water. Its teeth were white and sharp and its staring vacant eyes were dark with blood.
It was coming for him.
Wycherly struggled to awaken, groping for a light switch that wasn't there. His face was wet, and he sobbed aloud in terror until he realized that it was raining, that rain blowing in through the open window was what had triggered the dream as well as forcing him awake.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and winced at the pain of still-sore muscles as he rubbed his eyes. He wasn't quite awake, but he was far from being asleep. The dry sandy flatness of insomnia made every nerve ache, and
he knew that for the rest of the night he could only buy sleep through alcohol or drugs.
Cursing, Wycherly got up and dragged down the window, shutting out the bursts of cold wet air. The worst thing was that even over the rain he could still hear the mocking babble of the water. It was no hallucination, just the Little Heller Creek going about its mundane business. But fantasy or reality, the black beast was coming for him, no matter how he fled. There was a rendezvous he must keep—with the night, the river, a sunken car, and a murdered girl … .
Camilla!
But he should not call on her, Wycherly realized tardily. She didn't love him any more—she hated him, and when he called her, she would come. He shook his head stubbornly. Light, he needed light.
Several fumbling attempts to light the lamp at his bedside at last produced success, and he lowered the glass chimney into place with a real feeling of accomplishment.
With illumination, the room looked more normal, and the night terrors receded. Inside himself, Wycherly despaired. If it was this bad already without the blunting effect of liquor, how was he ever going to last another day—let alone a year?
Who knows? Who cares? Not me.
Turning away from the window, Wycherly went prowling through his new domain. He opened the refrigerator by automatic reflex, and inside were the plastic jug of cider and four cans of beer, as well as the remains of suppertime's soup. He hesitated, then reached for the cider.
It was pleasant; alcoholic, but not enough to have much of an intoxicating effect. He wandered around with the jug in his hand, closing the window over the sink and poking at the embers of the fire. He felt keyed-up, restless: stage one of detox right on schedule. Next would come depression, inertia, wild craving, and the black beast, after which he would be—at least technically—clean and sober.
Wycherly thought about taking a sleeping pill or two—they gave a pleasant buzz—but decided against it. Here,
tonight, even his insomnia would be his own. He sat in the rocker with his jug balanced upon his knee, and after an hour or so found himself nodding off again. Might as well try the bed one more time.
The next time Wycherly woke it was morning. He saw the sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window and smelled the linen-and-lavender scent of the sheets.
He felt as though he'd died sometime last week.
He reached for the bottle on the bedside table before he remembered that there wouldn't be one. But it was too late; he was awake. Attempts to go back to sleep were useless now; the room was too bright for that. He felt heavy and dull, and wanted nothing more than to roll over and shut the world out again, but at least he'd slept most of the night without any more dreams.
As Wycherly lay there, regretting the fact that he was conscious, he could hear movement out in the other room. Luned? He supposed he should at least get up and see if she'd done what he told her. He hoped she'd remember whatever that was, because he didn't.
Wycherly threw back the covers reluctantly and swung out of bed. He felt achy and fuddled, with the faint beginnings—once again—of a hangover. It didn't improve his mood, a familiar one that he hesitated to inflict on anyone he wasn't trying to make acutely miserable. And though that list was very short, for some reason Luned was on it.
He dressed quickly in the clothing he'd worn last night, wincing in anticipation of the rudimentary sanitary arrangements to be found in the backhouse, but there was no help for it. He grabbed his jacket and tucked the Tylenol-3 into a pocket. Better safe than sorry, he thought confusedly; he was going to need those later.
Before he went out, a native fastidiousness made Wycherly use the mirror on the wardrobe to shave. The electric razor still held a charge, and it didn't matter how much his hands shook, so long as he was persistent. Maybe he could
find someplace today to recharge the thing.
Someone
in this backward hamlet must have electricity.
Rubbing his now-bare chin, Wycherly walked out into the other room. The door and the window were open again—as he'd suspected, Luned was already there, happily discovering new things to scrub down.
And to his shameful relief, there were four six-packs of beer on the table.
“Good morning, Mister Wych. Evan says he'll be bringing the rest of your supplies up later in the cart. It's a pretty day to do washing,” she added hopefully. “And I mended your shirt.” She indicated it, crisp and ironed and folded neatly on the table.
Wycherly glanced out the door. He could not assess the “prettiness” of the day—all he knew was that the sun was out and its brightness made his eyes ache. He wondered where his sunglasses were. Probably lost in the crash. He'd have to make the best of things, then. He slung his jacket over his shoulder and walked outside without speaking, as reluctant as a cat stepping into a puddle.
When he came back, there was a smell of pancakes in the air—Luned was cooking on a soapstone griddle balanced on top of the wood stove—and Wycherly's stomach rebelled.
“No,” he said. A sudden riptide of nausea tugged at him, treacherous and unexpected. He barely reached a chair before his knees gave way. He stared at the six-packs on the table in front of him, and then reached out and pulled one of them toward him. Luned glanced over her shoulder at him to see what he was doing.
“Thank you,” Wycherly said with venomous precision, “but I find I do not care for pancakes today.” Sweat trickled down his face; his mouth filled with bile.
Luned stared at him as if he were speaking Greek.
Wycherly pulled back the tab on the can in his hand. The warm beer frothed out through the opening; he drank it off anyway, wiping the foam from his mouth when he was done.
He reached for another.
“I don't want breakfast. I don't want pancakes. I don't want—” But he wasn't sure what he
did
want—or didn't—so he stopped talking.
He stared sullenly at Luned, to see if she was going to argue, but she only shrugged, and turned away to get a plate to scrape the griddle's leavings onto.
Wycherly finished a second beer and opened a third. He was dissatisfied with his own behavior, but couldn't quite see himself behaving any other way.
“I just don't like sweet things,” he said reluctantly. He tried to remember what he usually ate for breakfast, and couldn't.
“I could heat you up a can of stew, maybe,” Luned said doubtfully. “Or some of the soup.”
His head was spinning now—not from the beer, but in a demand for stronger poison that he didn't intend to give it.
“Just—I'm going out.”
The image of the sanatorium came back to him from last night's conversation. It would make as good a destination as any, and keep him away from Luned and people. Wycherly got to his feet with difficulty, trying not to see the look of hurt disappointment on Luned's face. He set the now-empty can down on the table next to its brothers.
“I'm going for a walk. I think it would probably be better if you didn't come up here for a few days after today. Until I'm settled in.”
He'd probably be better later today. In fact, he could be quite charming at the point that just preceded his getting incapably drunk.
“I don't dislike you,” he said reluctantly—and she, poor girl, would never realize how rare even that mild compliment was—“but I think it would be better for you if you weren't here.”
“You have to eat something,” Luned said stubbornly. “If you think I haven't seen a man drink himself stone blind before, Mister Wych, you're wrong. But you've got to have
something in you for the drink to bite on. You just wait right there.”
So he didn't even have shock value going for him. Wycherly sat back down at the table and reached for another beer. Number four. He was starting to feel quite waterlogged, but far from drunk. That was the trouble with beer. It wasn't efficient.
Hadn't Luned said Mr. Tanner might come by today? He wondered if there was time to get a message to him about bringing some moonshine when he did.
No
. Wycherly concentrated on sitting in the chair, sipping restrainedly at his fourth beer. He was too stubborn to turn and watch what Luned was doing behind his back.
A few minutes later Luned set before him a cup of black coffee so strong there was an iridescent blue sheen on its surface, and a thick slab of cornbread, toasted dark and crisp.
“Where did this come from?” Wycherly asked, poking at the cornbread.
“I brought it for my lunch, but it looks like I'm going to have pancakes,” Luned said without regret. “Now drink up that coffee—it's black as a coal miner's heart.”
Wycherly, faced with the choice of either eating or driving Luned from the cabin by some means, picked up the cornbread and bit into it. It was dry, crisp, and tasted faintly of charcoal, but he couldn't have managed much else. Between swallows of scalding coffee strong enough to make his heart race, Wycherly managed to get all of it down. Once he'd finished the bread and the coffee he felt much better. Even the headache had retreated.
“I appreciate what you're doing for me,” Wycherly said unwillingly. “But you'd still better steer clear for the next few days. I mean it.”
“You need somebody to look after you!” Luned protested.
“I need to look after myself,” Wycherly said, trying to keep from snapping at her. “At least, to see if I can. If I
get into trouble, I'll come down to the store to find you, Luned. I promise.”
“I guess you're set on it,” Luned said grudgingly, and Wycherly felt a small unwilling flash of triumph. He'd managed to browbeat a sixteen-year-old girl into doing what he wanted. The petty victory made him angry, and in another moment he'd lash out at her again.
“I'm going out now,” Wycherly said hastily, standing and picking up the other two cans of beer. “I'll see you in a few days.”
Luned handed him his jacket.
“You mind you don't get into any trouble, Mister Wych,” she said seriously.
Wycherly only laughed.
The morning air was cool and green, and once Wycherly got beneath the trees the dimness of the forest canopy provided him a welcome relief from the sun's brightness. One can of beer fit snugly into each of his two jacket pockets. Wycherly promised himself that he'd just carry them, not drink them unless things got bad. A little exercise would probably help the drying-out process, as well as working out the last of the kinks from yesterday's crash. So he told himself.
While the main reason for the excursion was to get away from Luned before he added one more thing to his list of regrets, it was true that he did have a faint amount of curiosity about the sanatorium—enough to make that his destination. Luned had said it was up the hill. Wycherly took the first trail he found leading upward.
He could put names to few of the plants that surrounded him. Unfamiliar patterns of birdsong fell upon his ears, and small invisible animals scurried away through the underbrush. Once he startled a deer—nearly as much as it startled him when it exploded into motion and fled with awkward powerful leaps.

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