Wheel of Stars (4 page)

He went out and Gwennan hurried to her bedroom to dress. With Ed around she was emboldened to go to the window. Yes, the branches beneath it were crushed by something which had weighed a good deal. The terror was gone, leaving behind it a dull anger, a little for her own complete breakdown, and the rest for the thing which had caused it.

Shrugging into her coat and pulling a scarf about her head she went out. The smell! She swallowed hurriedly as she rounded the corner of the house. It was that same disgusting stench she had met once before—on the night she had first visited Lyle House. Had that thing been abroad then? If so, she had been lucky not to meet it!

Though the branches were crushed down there were no marks on the ground except one or two shapeless, scuffed places. And the odor was such she could not make herself go any closer to observe those.

A pickup truck came noisily up the road and she heard the excited barking of the hounds. As it drew to a stop beside the patrol car, Sam Grimes got out, spoke to Ed, and then dropped the back end of the truck and whistled out the three dogs who yapped and milled about, nosing into the drifts of leaves. He slipped on leashes and drew them through the gate towards the house.

He did not get far. The excited yapping changed abruptly, became a howling. While the dogs pulled back, dropped to their haunches, straining away with the same determination as Sam showed in urging them on. He shouted commands and the howling stopped—becoming a whining complaint such as Gwennan had never heard any animal voice before. The hounds dropped belly-low to the ground as Sam continued to jerk at the leashes and pull them inside the fence. Then he could not get them to move at all, and his face was red as he loosed a vocabulary which contained a number of words that were untranslatable as far as Gwennan was concerned.

“You, Pete!” He looped the ends of two of the leashes over the nearest fence pale, and concentrated on the largest and oldest of the three hounds. “Get on your feet! What in Black Hell is the matter with you, boy? Come on!”

A fierce tug brought the hound perhaps a foot
farther on. Then it flung up its head and the howl it gave was so quavering and wild that Gwennan believed some fear had driven the animal mad. Sam looked down to where it crouched belly flat once more and his expression changed from one of exasperated anger to bewilderment.

He went down on one knee and ran his hand gently along the hound’s shaking body.

“All right, boy—it’s all right! Take it easy, Pete.” He looked up from the dog to Ed.

“It sure ain’t right—
somethin
’ ain’t right. I never saw ‘em act this way before. Bear—they know bear—and no bear would make old Pete here turn a hair—he’d sniff up a bear trail as quick as he’d scratch him a flea. But—” He raised his head and turned it a little, drew a deep breath before his face screwed up in disgust. “That there stink ain’t bear. Ed, I don’t know what was around here, but I’m tellin’ you straight—that it weren’t no bear!”

“What then?” the deputy challenged him. “Just look over there at that window—the branches all smashed down that way. Something stood up there and looked in at Gwen. It was too dark for her to see much—just red eyes, she said, and something black.”

For the first time Sam turned his attention to Gwennan. He stared at her for a long moment as if in some puzzlement of his own.

“Looked at her with red eyes,” his voice was lower and had lost its earlier indignation. “That don’t sound good. It’s been a long time—”

“What has?” Ed wanted to know. Sam was old enough to be his father. Mr. Grimes was close to
Miss Nessa’s age if she had lived, as Gwennan knew.

“Since the Black Devil came around,” Sam returned. “You young folks probably never heard tell of that. Old times it was and people forget—mostly they want to when it’s something bad. Happened when my grandpa was a tad hardly big enough to tote in kindlin’ the last time there was any trouble. Two—three times this thing came—usually when there was a big storm with plenty of lightning. It scared one woman clean to death. She had a bad heart and it looked through the window at her. Least that’s what they say happened—her daughter heard her screech and came runnin’ just in time to see her ma fall and somethin’ with red eyes drop down outta sight. The menfolks went huntin’—no good tracks—nothin’ they could latch onto. But it weren’t no bear then and it ain’t no bear now. You ain’t goin’ get any help from my hounds, Ed. An’ if you have the sense the Lord gave a goose you ain’t goin’ round stirrin’ up nothin’ as is better left alone.”

Sam gathered in the leashes and returned his now subdued and silent dogs to the truck, his determination to be gone made plain in every line of his body. Without another word he jumped the dogs into his vehicle and drove away.

Ed Hawes watched him go, apparently speechless in sheer surprise.

“Now—what made him go on that way?” he demanded perhaps more of the world at large than of Gwennan. “I never heard no story of any Black Devil—an’ it ain’t like Sam to go makin’ up such foolishness. I’ve got to see the sheriff about this,
Gwen. But I’ll wait if you want to close up the house—see you wherever you want to go.”

Gwennan shook her head. “I don’t think it will be back—at least in daytime, Ed. Give me a chance to think about it—”

He looked undecided.

“Don’t like to go off an’ leave you here alone this way. I’ll stop by the Newtons’ anyway. This is a mighty lonely place when you come to think about it. Though we ain’t never had reason to worry about that before.”

“I’m not worried now,” she assured him. “I’ll be all right, Ed.” She looked at her watch. “This is an early day at the library anyway. I’ll get my breakfast and go right in there—plenty to do before I open up. But,” she hesitated a moment before she continued, “I don’t think Sam was making up any story. I’m going to look through some of the old papers and records—perhaps ask around. If the sheriff knows anything, Ed, do tell me.”

“Sure thing, Gwen. At least that stink is kinda fadin’ out. Too bad if it hangs around your place. Still I sort of hate to leave you alone—”

“Nonsense!” Her old sense of independence was reviving. “I’m fine now. Maybe it was a cougar, Ed. I’ve heard some of them are pretty large and a cat’s eyes do shine at night.”

He shook his head. “That ain’t no cat smell either. I’m gettin’ the sheriff out here as soon as I can. He had to go to Haversville last night—be back this morning, he thought.”

As she watched Ed drive away she wondered if she had been too bold for her own good. But the
rising wind was blowing away that noisome stench and the morning light was reassuring. The house looked so much as usual as she went toward the kitchen door that she could hardly understand now what had made her so abjectly afraid. Once more she stopped to look at the flattened brush. The scuff-marks she had sighted earlier were now hidden by wind-carried leaves and she doubted if the unknown could ever be trailed. Certainly not by those hounds.

Black Devil—she frowned as she made toast and brought out a jar of blackberry jam. Black Devil—Black Dog—there were myths and legends of such. She had read collections of folktales about things which appeared and disappeared—which had no earthly counterpart yet were seen by sometimes quite reputable witnesses. Just as the UFO reportings piled up to be puzzled over, so there were these other alien manifestations—strange animals—if they
were
animals—which appeared, trailed, sometimes even attacked human beings—only to vanish completely when a hunt for them was systematically organized.

There was that book suggesting such sightings had been discovered in England to occur most often along the ley lines—that mysterious net of magnetic force channels which was suspected to cover most of the world, though only in England had such been seriously charted. The map at Lyle House showed similar lines to encompass the three stones. Animals—monsters—otherworld beings—who slipped through the gateways the force of the leys might open—It was wild—and yet stranger things had been proven true.

Gwennan set down the coffee pot and started for the phone—to call Lady Lyle, eager to share this new possibility. Then, hand on the dial, she paused. It had been so plain lately that the mistress of Lyle House was not well. Her maid had called Gwennan only last night to put off a planned dinner. No, she must not trouble her friend now.

It was apparent that whatever illness had struck at the mistress of Lyle House had, in just the short time Gwennan had known her, developed swiftly and most seriously. She had dared once to ask Lady Lyle if she had seen a doctor and had been quickly assured that her hostess was under treatment—the statement uttered in such a way as to warn her that any further expression of concern was an intrusion.

Friendly as Lady Lyle had been and as pleasant their relationship, Gwennan was well aware that barriers existed—ones she did not dare to try to pass. She was always in awe of the older woman and she felt too gauche and young to presume.

So now she finished breakfast, put the house to rights, and set out for the center of town as the sun arose to full day. It was colder and she wondered how far away was the first snow of the season. Winter closed in hard at times—tightly if a blizzard came. They might not have to be as self-sufficient as the people on farms or along the coastline where the full force of storms hit, but still winter was to be taken seriously.

She had never considered before that Miss Nessa’s house was unduly isolated. In fact Gwennan had enjoyed the sense of space about it.
Now—no, she was not going to let herself be intimidated by the events of the past night. And, even if she wanted to move—there were no quarters available in town. The motel by the highway closed at the end of the tourist season and there were no places to board that she knew of. She had the phone and, if she felt in any way uneasy, she could go to the Newtons.

Moving briskly against the wind Gwennan reached the library, unlocked the door and went to shed her outer wraps. There was a measure of warmth already. James Quarles kept a good eye on the furnace. Returning to the large front room she stood looking out at the center green of the village. It was then that she saw Mr. Stevens come from the white house of the southwestern corner. It was early for him to be on his way to his office. No, he was not going in that direction at all—rather he cut across the open heading straight for the library.

Why here? He was on the board, of course, but Gwennan could not account for any emergency to bring him visiting now.

“Saw you on the way in.” He spoke without any formal greeting, quite unlike his usual way. “Knew you would want to know. She called me last night—Lady Lyle that is. Seems she has been taken worse—they want to see her down at the hospital in the city—then perhaps fly her west to some big clinic. There’s a doctor there she’s gone to before. She said to tell you goodbye. But I’m afraid,” he looked troubled, “she was very weak when I saw her yesterday—had a number of things all docketed and ready for me to take care
of. Looked really bad. But she has a lot of confidence in this man she is going to see.”

“Did—did she leave an address?” Why had the maid called Gwennan merely to cancel a visit and not Lady Lyle herself to say goodby? Maybe—maybe this was proof that their relationship had never been as she thought, wanted, that they were real friends—or beginning to be so. There was a feeling of emptiness, of loss, which hurt. “I—might write.”

“She gave me none for now, no. Said she would be in touch as soon as she could. But she certainly has taken a liking to you, Gwen—first time she ever showed any interest in any one around here. And she made me promise to tell you as soon as possible.” He eyed her now, Gwennan thought, as if he were wondering what the mistress of Lyle House could ever have seen in
her.

Then he nodded. “That’s it. I’ll let you know when I hear any more. Or she may get in touch with you when she is settled.”

“Yes—” Gwennan agreed, though inwardly she was more than a little dubious about that.

Gwennan hurriedly washed her hands. There would be a library story hour in twenty minutes, and she had spent far too much time in the storeroom shifting the contents of dusty boxes in which loose papers, magazines, notebooks and pamphlets—time-browned and fast-disintegrating material—had been mingled. What pertinent information she had managed to dig out of this remnant of the town’s past was scrawled on a single notebook page.

Sam Grimes’ “Black Devil” tale had sent her here to explore the Crowder bequest. Old Mrs. Bertha Crowder had died five years ago, and, as the last of her family, she had willed their collected papers—four boxes full to the brim—to the library. These had arrived during Miss Nessa’s last days, to be simply dumped in storage as there had been no time for sorting. Since then Gwennan had forgotten them until now.

The Crowders had, off and on, for several generations acted as town clerks, keeping meticulous records, according to Miss Nessa. Her
judgment had been correct. Here Gwennan had uncovered not only the visit of the “Black Devil” Sam had spoken of, but two hints that it had been known before that time within the valley.

Regretfully she had no more time today to burrow. Instead she hurried upstairs. The library building was really the old Pyron house, one of the first built in the town. Some partitions had been removed when it had once served first as the town meeting house, then as a church when the original had burned down in the 1880s. The rooms remaining were now oddly shaped with alcoves and unexpected corners, and in winter the light was limited. So far, in spite of Gwennan’s several petitions to the board, there had been no more lamps added.

Before those shadowed corners had only been an annoyance. Now, to her self-disgust, she found herself glancing at them only too often—listening—especially when there were few patrons and she was alone. This afternoon she was even looking forward gratefully to story hour with its inflow of noise and confusion.

Two mothers, looking harassed, brought up the rear of the children’s line today, and Miss Graham herself was frowning. She caught Gwennan at the end of the story time and spoke hesitatingly, as if she did not know quite how to express what she deemed herself duty bound to say.

“We won’t be coming on the 30th. There are going to be the new school hours starting that week—”

“New hours?”

“Yes. The parents out on Spring Road and Hardwick Trace are objecting to the early morning hours for the bus—especially now when the mornings
are
dark—also they want the children home as soon as possible in the afternoon. They had a meeting with Mr. Adams and decided best to change the schedule. That will curtail a lot of our extra activities this term.”

“Yah—we don’t want that old devil to get us—” Thaddy Parker came up behind Miss Graham. “My pop says we gotta be in ‘fore dark these days. That old devil—he sure chewed up the Haskins’s chickens!”

“That is enough!” Miss Graham possessed the now-nearly out-of-date ability to subdue with a look and tone of voice the near unsubduable. Thaddy withdrew quickly.

“It is only a panther, of course,” the teacher said. “But the story has grown so you would think that we are being stalked by a whole pack of bloodthirsty tigers. And I cannot deny that the parents have a right to be upset after what happened at the Haskins’s.”

“What did happen?” Gwennan had been so wrapped in her own research for the past day and a half that suddenly she felt as if she had been completely shut off from news. In the village rumor and news spread so quickly she could not understand how she had missed this.

“Some animal got into their big chicken house—you know they’ve gone in for egg production this past season—send most of their eggs on to that new frozen dinner place up at Fremont. It
was not pretty what happened. I gather from what I heard that most of the fowl were just wantonly torn apart in a most ghastly way. Also the eldest Haskins boy found a deer at the edge of their largest cornfield treated in the same way. I wonder if the creature responsible is not rabid.

“Oddly enough when they tried to put the hounds on the trail they utterly refused to follow it. And now there’s all kinds of stories about—concerning some old legend.”

“I know—the Black Devil.”

“What
did
you see the night of the storm?” Miss Graham eyed her narrowly. Gwennan was not surprised, undoubtedly the story of how she called Ed was now all over town, perhaps even spread throughout the county—helping to feed this uneasiness.

“Not very much—it was so dark, you know. Just something big and black at my window.” There was no use in adding her terror at the sighting.

“And with you living alone!” Miss Graham shook her head. “Don’t you question the wisdom of doing that now?”

“Not yet.” Gwennan summoned a smile. “But I must admit that my phone line is really hot these days—with all the calls I have been having. As for the Devil—I have no chickens to tempt him. I’m sure that you are right—that it is a panther—maybe a sick one. Sooner or later it will be shot and then everything will settle back to normal again.”

Only Gwennan could not banish her thoughts so easily. There was too much in this present situation
which paralleled not only material in the books she had read (black dogs, devils, fearsome creatures sighted sometimes in the midst of hard electrical storms) but also in the cryptic notes she had taken earlier this day. The memory of the evil which those red eyes had appeared to project was something she could not even try to explain to anyone else—and that vile odor—.

Could such stench accompany any known animals? Was what she had half seen the same thing which had raided the Haskins’s farm? The evidence was too like the accounts in books—though she would not have suggested that to any one in town.

As she closed and locked the library door a little later, Gwennan was startled by a figure stepping abruptly out from behind a big stand of now leafless lilac bushes to join her.

“Miss Daggert—”

Gwennan hoped he had not marked her frightened start. “Mr. Lyle. Oh, have you heard from your aunt?” That was the only reason she could guess for his seeking her out.

“Saris? No, I have not heard from her. Were you expecting a message?” His voice sharpened.

“No. But I had heard that she is ill. Naturally I am concerned—”

“Naturally,” once more mockery tinged his tone. “I am not a messenger. Rather—perhaps you might consider me a bodyguard. There is a Black Devil abroad, you know. In fact I believe you already had a personal reason to be able to authenticate its existence. And you do have a
lonely walk home. One it might not be too safe to take alone.”

“It is one I have made twice daily for most of my life,” Gwennan returned, unable to keep a tinge of tartness out of that answer. She had no wish to ever admit to Tor Lyle that she had any fears. Though during the last few moments before she left the library she had been recalling too many dark places along that road as well as the relative distances between one house and the next.

“Ah, but that was before the Devil made his entrance. Tell me, Miss Daggert, what theory do you support—that this is a rabid panther on the loose? Or something else—perhaps out of the past?”

She moved on at a faster pace than usual as he fell into step beside her. Short of manufacturing some errand in the village, she had no way of escaping company she did not want and yet could not refuse without appalling rudeness.

“I have no idea what it might be—”

“Now a panther,” he continued, “should, I am sure, have left some more identifiable tracks—at least at your house after the rains. Of course, a Devil, not being of our world could proceed without any tangible traces—should it wish to. For example, soon after the first settlers arrived in this valley there was a blacksmith named Haskins (how these family names do linger on) who lost a particularly valued ox to something which literally tore the unfortunate animal into bits. A day or so later he himself was chased in the
woodland for some distance by something he was never afterwards able to describe. Mainly because the poor fellow fell into what was described as a fit and ever after wandered in his wits.

“Again—in 1745 a party of French and Indians coming down on a raid were completely routed and one of the Frenchmen killed with the same type of wounds as the ox had shown. His comrades fled, and no one of the enemy ever ventured in this direction again. But the Devil prowled around for several weeks and killed two cows—as well as drove an old woman into nearly the same state of imbecility as Haskins had suffered. Oh, yes, apparently the Devil does make a habit of visiting this section of the country from time to time.”

“It sounds as if you have been researching the subject,” Gwennan answered. She had her bits and pieces out of the Crowder papers but it would seem that Tor Lyle also had access to information even more complete.

“Oh, we’ve kept records of the valley ourselves. I think it amused many of the Lyles to write diaries and such. There are a goodly number of them to hand if one wishes to go legend-seeking. How about you, Miss Daggert, would you like to come up to the house and help me delve into the past? I do not know whether we could uncover anything pertaining to the present case—but it might amuse you. Tomorrow is Saturday, and I believe you close the doors of your library at noon. Will you be my guest for lunch and let me show—”

“No.” Her refusal was short and pointed. It was not until she made it that she realized how rude that short answer was. Though inwardly she did not want to qualify it, she made herself add:

“Tomorrow is the monthly meeting of the library board. I have a report to present.”

“Then on Sunday—” he began in the same lazy, half teasing voice.

“On Sunday there is church, then I am to have dinner with Miss Graham and her mother.”

“Which brings us—”

“Mr. Lyle, I am going to be frank. I have no intention of again visiting Lyle House until I am asked by your aunt.”

She seemed to have silenced him. Though there was still a shadow of smile about his lips. Then, after a moment which Gwennan was sure he deliberately prolonged to make her feel more uncomfortable, he said:

“You are running, you know, and you have not a single chance of winning. I can show you things which would surprise you—things to change completely this narrow, tight, dull little world of yours. You will begin to learn them sooner or later anyway but it would be better if you accepted me as a guide—decidedly better—and perhaps—safer—”

That uneasiness she always felt when he was near was fast becoming irritation. “I am not interested. I wish you would understand that—I am just—not interested!” She did not have the courage to blurt out that she did not like him, that he made her uncomfortable, and that the less she saw of him the happier she would be.

“But you will be. Thus when the time comes that you understand just what this is all about—well, just let me know.”

Gwennan shook her head stubbornly. Since he made no move to leave her in spite of her open antagonism, she strove to find another topic of conversation—one which would not lead back to devils, history, or anything of the sort. There was an air of self-satisfaction in his manner which jarred, made her feel that perhaps she was handling this situation poorly.

“Where did Lady Lyle go—is she in a hospital? I would like to write to her—”

“You will discover, if you do not already suspect, that Saris is a woman of whims. She has a number of places where she has established retreats in the past, when she felt that the world became too dull. Now she is doubtless basking comfortably in one of them.”

“But she is ill!” Gwennan protested. Certainly he was not acting as might any concerned relative.

“Saris is well, or ill, or whatever she pleases, when she pleases. My young friend, you must not ever count on Saris’ interest lasting. She has always been one to take a sudden liking to a person, play at being friends, and then drop that acquaintance when she becomes bored. And Saris is, I can testify, most easily bored. A plea of illness is always the perfect unanswerable excuse—do you not agree?”

“I saw her—she looked ill,” Gwennan repeated, curbing her irritation—and under that the birth of suspicion—could he possibly be right? She had
wondered more than once concerning the reason for her acceptance at Lyle House. Had that really been part of a game? No, she refused to believe him.

“Naturally. Saris is also an actress of skill—”

Gwennan stopped short, half swung around to face him. “I do not know what you want—why you are telling me all this. If you believe that I am no longer welcome at Lyle House as far as your aunt is concerned, then why do you urge me to still come? What is behind this—?”

Though that shadowy smile never left his lips she was certain that there was a glint of what might be annoyance, even anger deep in those gem hard eyes. At their first meeting she had seen them appear unnaturally bright, flashing—but this late afternoon they had dulled close to the shadow of winter ice, and, in their own way, they were as cold.

“You wish a moment of truth. Very well—I have been attempting to spare you distress because I—well, I find you interesting. In this dull town very little is. You have another life—a hidden one, I believe—under that prickly coat you cling to. My dear aunt is a person, as I have stated, of sudden enthusiasms especially concerning people. She becomes quickly bored—especially when she has to camp out in this back-of-beyond family tomb. That’s what Lyle House really is, you know, a mausoleum of the Lyles, simply a piece of turgid history in which no one can be remotely interested any more. She found you of aid in reducing her boredom. But you are nothing more than that to her—a matter of passing
amusement.

“On the other hand, I—”

Gwennan continued to stare at him. “I am not interested. I have said that before, I say it again and maybe this time you will believe it. You have made
your
offer—do you also need a panacea for boredom at present, Mr. Lyle? I have refused it. Now I think that we have nothing more to say to each other. If you will excuse me—”