Raymond E. Feist - Faerie Tale

Faerie Tale

by Raymond E. Feist

PROLOGUE

MAY

Barney Doyle sat at his cluttered workbench, attempting

to fix Olaf Andersen's ancient power mower for the

fourth time in seven years. He had the cylinder head off

and was judging the propriety of pronouncing last rites

on the machine—he expected the good fathers over at St.

Catherine's wouldn't approve. The head was cracked—

which was why Olaf couldn't get it started—and the cyl-

inder walls were almost paper-thin from wear and a pre-

vious rebore. The best thing Andersen could do would be

to invest in one of those new Toro grass cutters, with all

the fancy bells and whistles, and put this old machine out

to rust. Barney knew Olaf would raise Cain about having

to buy a new one, but that was Olaf's lookout. Barney

also knew getting a dime out of Andersen for making

such a judgment would be close to a miracle. It would be

to the benefit of all parties concerned if Barney could

coax one last summer's labor from the nearly terminal

machine. Barney absently took a sharpener to the blades

while he pondered. He could take one more crack at it.

An oversized cylinder ring might do the trick—and he

could weld the small crack; he'd get back most of the

compression. But if he didn't pull it off, he'd lose both the

time and the money spent on parts. No, he decided at

last, better tell Andersen to make plans for a funeral.

A hot, damp gust of wind rattled the half-open win-

dow. Barney absently pulled the sticky shirt away from

his chest. Meggie McCorly, he thought absently, a smile

coming to his lined face. She had been a vision of beauty

in simple cotton, the taut fabric stretched across ripe,

swaying hips and ample breasts as she walked home from

school each day. For a moment he was struck by a rush

of memories so vivid he felt an echo of lust rising in his

old loins. Barney took out a handkerchief and wiped his

brow. He savored the spring scents, the hot muggy night

smells, so much like those that blew through the

orchards and across the fields of County Wexford. Barney

thought of the night he and Meggie had fled from the

dance, from the crowded, stuffy hall, slipping away unno-

ticed as the town celebrated Paddy O'Shea and Mary

McMannah's wedding. The sultry memories caused Bar-

ney to dab again at his forehead as a stirring visited his

groin. Chuckling to himself, Barney thought, There's

some life yet in this old boyo.

Barney stayed lost in memories of half-forgotten pas-

sions for long minutes, then discovered he was still run-

ning the sharpener over a blade on Andersen's mower

and had brought the edge to a silvery gleam. He set the

sharpener down, wondering what had come over him. He

hadn't thought of Meggie McCorly since he'd immi-

grated to America, back in '38. Last he'd heard, she'd

married one of the Cammack lads over in Enniscorthy.

He couldn't remember which one, and that made him

feel sad.

Barney caught a flicker of movement through the

small window of his work shed. He put down the sharp-

ener and went to peer out into the evening's fading light.

Not making out what it was that had caught his atten-

tion, Barney moved back toward his workbench. Just as

his field of vision left the window, he again glimpsed

something from the corner of his eye. Barney opened the

door to his work shed and took a single step outside.

Then he stopped.

Old images, half-remembered tales, and songs from his

boyhood rushed forward to overwhelm him as he slowly

stepped backward into his shed. Feelings of joy and terror

so beautiful they brought tears to his eyes flowed through

Barney, breaking past every rational barrier. The imple-

ments of society left for his ministrations, broken toast-

ers, the mower, the blender with the burned-out motor,

his little television for the baseball games, all were van-

quished in an instant as a heritage so ancient it predated

man's society appeared just outside Barney's shed. Not

taking his eyes from what he beheld beyond the door, he

retreated slowly, half stumbling, until his back was

against the workbench. Reaching up and back, Barney

pulled a dusty bottle off the shelf. Twenty-two years be-

fore, when he had taken the pledge, Barney had placed

the bottle of Jameson's whiskey atop the shelf as a re-

minder and a challenge. In twenty-two years he had

come to ignore the presence of the bottle, had come to

shut out its siren call, until it had become simply another

feature of the little shed where he worked.

Slowly he pulled the cork, breaking the brittle paper of

the old federal tax stamp. Without moving his head,

without taking his gaze from the door, Barney lifted the

bottle to the side of his mouth and began to drink.

ERL KING

HILL

JUNE

1

"Stop it, you two!"

Gloria Hastings stood with hands on hips, delivering

the Look. Sean and Patrick stopped their bickering over

who was entitled to the baseball bat. Their large blue eyes

regarded their mother for a moment before, as one, they

judged it close to the point of no return where her pa-

tience was concerned. They reached an accord with their

peculiar, silent communication. Sean conceded custody

of the bat to Patrick and led the escape outside.

"Don't wander too far off!" Gloria shouted after them.

She listened to the sounds of eight-year-olds dashing

down the ancient front steps and for a moment consid-

ered the almost preternatural bond between her boys.

The old stories of twins and their empathic link had

seemed folktales to her before giving birth, but now she

conceded that there was something there out of the ordi-

nary, a closeness beyond what was expected of siblings.

Putting aside her musing, she looked at the mess the

movers had left and considered, not for the first time, the

wisdom of all this. She wandered aimlessly among the

opened crates of personal belongings and felt nearly over-

whelmed by the simple demands of sorting out the hun-

dreds of small things they had brought with them from

California. Just deciding where each item should go

seemed a Sisyphean task.

She glanced around the room, as if expecting it to have

somehow changed since her last inspection. Deep-grained

hardwood floors, freshly polished—which would need

polishing again as soon as the crates and boxes were

hauled outside—hinted at a style of living alien to Gloria.

She regarded the huge fireplace with its ancient hand-

carved facade as something from another planet, a stark

contrast to the rough brick and stone ranch-house-style

hearths of her California childhood. The stairs in the

hallway, with their polished maple banisters, and the slid-

ing doors to the den and dining room were relics of an-

other era, conjuring up images of William Powell as Clar-

ence Day or Clifton Webb in Cheaper by the Dozen. This

house called for—no, demanded, she amended—high

starched collars in an age of designer jeans. Gloria ab-

sently brushed back an errant strand of blond hair at-

tempting an escape from under the red kerchief tied

about her head, and fought back a nearly overwhelming

homesickness. Casting about for a place to start in the

seemingly endless mess, she threw her hands up in resig-

nation. "This is not what Oscar winners are supposed to

be doing! Phil!"

When no answer was forthcoming, she left the large

living room and shouted her husband's name up the

stairs. Again no reply. She walked back along the narrow

hallway to the kitchen and pushed open the swinging

door. The old house presented its kitchen to the east,

with hinged windows over the sink and drainboard ad-

mitting the morning light. It would be hot in the morn-

ings, come July, but it would be a pleasant place to sit in

the evenings, with the windows and large door to the

screened-in back porch left open, admitting the evening

breeze. At least, she hoped so. Southern California days

might be blast-furnace-hot at times, but it was dry heat

and the evenings were impossibly beautiful. God, she

wished to herself, what I'd give for an honest patio, and

about half this humidity. Fighting off a sudden bout of

regret over the move, she pulled her sticky blouse away

from herself and let some air cool her while she hollered

for her husband again.

An answering scrabbling sound under the table made

her jump, and she turned and uttered her favorite oath,

"Goddamnitall!" Beneath the kitchen table crouched Bad

Luck, the family's black Labrador retriever, a guilty ex-

pression on his visage as he hunkered down before a ten-

pound bag of Ken-L-Ration he had plundered. Crunchy

kernels rolled around the floor. "You!" she commanded.

"Out!"

Bad Luck knew the rules of the game as well as the

boys and at once bolted from under the table. He skidded

about the floor looking for a way out, suddenly con-

founded by discovering himself in new territory. Having

arrived only the day before, he hadn't yet learned the

local escape routes. He turned first one way, then an-

other, his tail half wagging, half lowered between his legs,

until Gloria held open the swinging door to the hallway.

Bad Luck bolted down the hall toward the front door.

She followed and opened it for him, and as he dashed

outside, she shouted, "Go find the boys!"

Turning, she spied the family's large, smoky tomcat

preening himself on the stairs. Philip had named the cat

Hemingway, but everyone else called him Ernie. Feeling

set upon, Gloria reached over, picked him up, and depos-

ited him outside. "You too!" she snapped, slamming the

door behind him.

Ernie was a scarred veteran of such family eruptions

and took it all with an unassailable dignity attained only

by British ambassadors, Episcopal bishops, and tomcats.

He glanced about the porch, decided upon a sunny patch,

turned about twice, and settled down for a nap.

Gloria returned to the kitchen, calling for her hus-

band. Ignoring Bad Luck's mess for the moment, she left

the kitchen and walked past the service porch. She cast a

suspicious sidelong glance at the ancient washer and

dryer. She had already decided a visit to the mall was in

order, for she knew with dread certainty those machines

were just waiting to devour any clothing she might be

foolish enough to place inside. New machines would take

only a few days to deliver, she hoped. She paused a mo-

ment as she regarded the faded, torn sofa that occupied

the large back porch, and silently added some appropri-

ate porch furniture to her Sears list.

Opening the screen door, she left the porch and

walked down the steps to the "backyard," a large bare

patch of earth defined by the house, a stand of old apple

trees off to the left, the dilapidated garage to the right,

and the equally run-down barn a good fifty yards away.

Over near the barn she caught sight of her husband,

speaking to his daughter. He still looked like an Ivy

League professor, she thought, with his greying hair re-

ceding upward slowly, his brown eyes intense. But he had

a smile to melt your heart, one that made him look like a

little boy. Then Gloria noticed that her stepdaughter,

Gabrielle, was in the midst of a rare but intense pout, and

debated turning around and leaving them alone. She

knew that Phil had just informed Gabbie she couldn't

have her horse for the summer.

Gabbie stood with arms crossed tight against her

chest, weight shifted to her left leg, a pose typical of teen-

age girls that Gloria and other actresses over twenty-five

had to dislocate joints to imitate. For a moment Gloria

was caught in open admiration of her stepdaughter.

When Gloria and Phil had married, his career was in

high gear, and Gabbie had been with her maternal grand-

mother, attending a private school in Arizona, seeing her

father and his new wife only at Christmas, at Easter, and

for two weeks in the summer. Since her grandmother had

died, Gabbie had come to live with them. Gloria liked

Gabbie, but they had never been able to communicate

easily, and these days Gloria saw a beautiful young

woman taking the place of a moody young girl. Gloria

felt an unexpected stab of guilt and worry that she and

Gabbie might never get closer. She put aside her momen-

tary uneasiness and approached them.

Phil said, "Look, honey, it will only take a week or

two more, then the barn will be fixed and we can see

about leasing some horses. Then you and the boys can go

riding whenever you want."

Gabbie tossed her long dark hair, and her brown eyes

narrowed. Gloria was struck by Gabbie's resemblance to

her mother, Corinne. "I still don't see why we can't ship

Bumper out from home, Father." She said "Father" in

that polysyllabic way young girls have of communicating

hopelessness over ever being understood. "You let the

boys bring that retarded dog and you brought Ernie.

Look, if it's the money, I'll pay for it. Why do we have to

rent some stupid farmer's horses when Bumper's back in

California with no one to ride him?"

Gloria decided to take a hand and entered the conver-

sation as she closed on them. "You know it's not money.

Ned Barlow called and said he had a jumper panic

aboard a flight last week, and they had to put him down

before he could endanger the crew and riders, and he

almost lost a second horse as well. The insurance com-

pany's shut him down until he resolves that mess. And

it's a week into June and Ned also said it would be four

or five weeks before he could get a reliable driver and

good trailer to bring Bumper here, then nearly a week to

move him, with all the stops he'd have to make. By the

time he got here, it would be almost time for you to head

back to UCLA. You'd have to ship him right back so

he'd be there to ride when you're at school. Want me to

go on? Look, Gabbie, Ned'll see Bump's worked and

cared for. He'll be fine and ready for you when you get

back."

"Oooh," answered Gabbie, a raw sound of pure aggra-

vation, "I don't know why you had to drag me out here

to this farm! I could have spent the summer with Ducky

Summers. Her parents said it was all right."

"Stop whining," Phil snapped, his expression showing

at once he regretted his tone. Like her mother, Gabbie

instinctively knew how to nettle him with hardly an ef-

fort. The difference was that Gabbie rarely did, while

Corinne had with regularity. "Look, honey, I'm sorry.

But I don't like Ducky and her fancy friends. They're

kids with too much money and time on their hands, and

not an ounce of common sense in the whole lot. And

Ducky's mom and dad are off somewhere in Europe." He

cast a knowing glance at his wife. "I doubt they have a

hint who's sleeping at their house these days."

"Look, I know Ducky's an airhead and has a new

boyfriend every twenty minutes, but I can take care of

myself."

"I know you can, hon," answered Phil, "but until

you've graduated, you'll have to put up with a father's

prerogatives." He reached out and touched her cheek.

"All too soon some young guy's going to steal you away,

Gabbie. We've never had a lot of time together. I thought

we could make it a family summer."

Gabbie sighed in resignation and allowed her father a

slight hug, but it was clear she wasn't pleased. Gloria

decided to change the subject. "I could use a hand, you

guys. The moving elves are out on strike and those boxes

aren't going to unload themselves."

Phil smiled at his wife and nodded as Gabbie gave out

a beleaguered sound and plodded toward the house.

When she was up the steps to the porch, Phil said, "I'm

probably selling her short, but I had visions of having to

fly back to bail her out of jail on a drug bust."

"Or to arrange for her first abortion?" queried Gloria.

"That too, I suppose. I mean, she's old enough."

Gloria shrugged. "For several years, sport. I hadn't

when I was her age, but I was raised with the fear of God

put in me by the nuns at St. Genevieve's."

"Well, I just hope she has some sense about it. I expect

it's too late for a father-daughter talk."

"From the way she fills her jeans, I'd say it was about

six or seven years too late. Besides, it's none of our busi-

ness, unless she asks for advice."

Phil laughed, a not altogether comfortable sound.

"Yes, I'd guess so."

"Sympathies, old son. Instant parent of teenager was

tough. But you've done a good job the last two years."

"It's no easier for you," he countered.

She grinned up at him. "Bets? I'm not her mother, and

I remember what it was to be a teenage girl. Look, Gab-

bie's not going to be the only one around here throwing

temper tantrums if I don't get some help with those

boxes. After combative twins, that clown in a dog suit,

and a smug alley cat, it comes down to you, me, and Miss

Equestrian of Encino."

Phil's face clouded over a little. His dark brown eyes

showed a flicker of concern as he said, "Having second

thoughts about the move?"

Gloria hesitated, wondering if she should share her

doubts with Phil. She decided the homesickness would

pass once they settled in and made new friends, so she

said, "No, not really. Just about unpacking." She

changed the subject. "I had a call from Tommy about an

hour ago."

"And what does Superagent allow? Another movie of-

fer?" he asked jokingly.

"No." She poked him in the ribs. Tommy Raymond

had been her agent when Gloria worked off-Broadway

and in Hollywood. She had quit acting when she and Phil

married, but over the years Tommy had stayed in touch,

and she counted him among her few close friends in the

business. "He called to say Janet White is opening a play

on Broadway in the fall. They're reviving Long Day's

Journey."

"Getting the itch again?"

She smiled. "Not since the last play I was in bombed

in Hartford." Phil laughed. She had never caught on in

New York or Hollywood, where she and Phil had met.

Phil had taken to calling her "the Oscar winner," and it

had become a family joke. She didn't regret her choice, as

she had little desire for fame, but she did occasionally

miss the theater, the challenge of the work and the cama-

raderie of other actors. "Anyway, we're invited to the

opening."

"Rented tux and all, I suppose."

She laughed. "I suppose. Assuming Janet can survive

the out-of-town run." Tugging on her husband's arm, she

said, "Come along, handsome. Give me a hand, and once

we get things under control, you can run out to McDon-

ald's or the Colonel's for dinner, and when the kids are in

bed, I'll scrub your back, then show you a few things I

didn't learn from the good sisters of St. Genevieve's."

Kissing her cheek, Phil said, "Just as I suspected.

Scratch a good Irish-Catholic schoolgirl and underneath

you'll find a dirty old woman."

"Complaints?"

"Never," he said as he kissed her on the neck. Giving

him a hug, Gloria put her arm through his and they

walked toward the old house that was their new home.

2

Sean and Patrick marched along the little stream, wend-

ing their way among the rocks as they followed the tiny

rivulets of water. The gully deepened and Sean, the more

cautious of the two, said, "We'd better go up there." He

pointed to where the bank began to rise on the right.

Just then Bad Luck came galloping down the creek

bed, red tongue lolling and tail wagging a furious greet-

ing. He circled around the boys, then began sniffing at the

ground.

"Why?" asked Patrick, contemptuous of anything re-

sembling caution.

" 'Cause we could get caught down there," Sean an-

swered, pointing to where the gully dropped rapidly into

a dell, his voice sounding thin and frail over the water's

merry gurgle. "Besides, Mom said not to go too far."

"That's dumb; she always says stuff like that," was

Patrick's answer as he tugged on Bad Luck's ear and set

off to follow the water. His catcher's mitt hung by a

thong from his belt and his Angels cap sat upon his head

at an aggressive angle. He carried his Louisville Slugger

over his shoulder as a soldier carries his rifle. Sean hesi-

tated a moment, then set out after his brother, struggling

to keep his beat-up old Padres cap on his head. Twins

they might be, but Sean just didn't seem to have Patrick's

natural confidence, and his timidity seemed to rob him of

grace, causing him to slip often on the loose gravel and

rocks.

Sean stumbled and landed hard on his rear. He pulled

himself upright, all his anger at the tumble directed at his

brother. He dusted himself off and began to negotiate the

steep drop of the gully. He half scrambled, half slid down

the incline, his baseball glove and ball held tightly in his

left hand. Reaching the bottom, he could see no sign of

Patrick. The gully made a sharp bend, vanishing off to

the right. "Patrick?" Sean yelled.

"Over here," came the reply. Sean hurried along,

rounding the bend to halt next to his brother.

In one of those moments the boys shared, they com-

municated without words. Silently they voiced agree-

ment, This is a scary place.

Before them squatted an ancient grey stone bridge,

spanning the gully so a trail barely more than a path

could continue uninterrupted as it rambled through the

woods. The very stones seemed beaten and battered as if

they had resisted being placed in this arrangement and

had yielded only to brutish force. Each stone was covered

in some sort of black-green moss, evidence of the pres-

ence of some evil so pernicious it infected the very rocks

around it with foul ooze. Overgrown with brush on both

sides above the high-water line on the banks, the opening

under the bridge yawned at the boys like a deep, black

maw. Nothing could be seen in the darkness under the

span except the smaller circle of light on the other side. It

was as if illumination stopped on one side of the bridge

and began again only after having passed beyond its

boundaries.

The boys knew the darkness was a lair. Something

waited in the gloom under the bridge. Something evil.

Bad Luck tensed and began to growl, his hackles com-

ing up. Patrick reached down and grabbed his collar as

he was about to charge under the bridge. "No!" he

shouted as the dog pulled him along, and Bad Luck

stopped, though he whined to be let loose.

"We better get back," said Sean. "It'll be dinner soon."

"Yeah, dinner," agreed Patrick, finding it difficult to

drag his eyes from the blackness under the bridge. Step

by step they backed away, Bad Luck reluctantly obeying

Patrick's command to come with them, whining with his

tail between his legs, then barking.

"Hey!" came a shout from behind, and both boys

jumped at the sound, their chests constricting with fright.

Patrick hung on to Bad Luck's collar and the Labrador

snarled and spun around to protect the boys, pulling Pat-

rick off balance.

Patrick stumbled forward and Sean fell upon the dog's

neck, helping to hold him back from attacking the man

who had come up behind them.

The man held out his hands to show he meant no

harm. Bad Luck struggled to be free. "Stop it," shouted

Sean and the dog backed away, growling at the stranger.

Both boys looked the man over. He was young,

though not recognized as such by the boys, for anyone

over the age of eighteen was a grown-up.

The stranger examined the two boys. Both had curly

brown hair protruding from under baseball caps, deep-set

large blue eyes, and round faces. Had they been girls,

they would have been considered pretty. When older,

they would likely be counted handsome. The stranger

smiled, and said, "Sorry to have scared you boys and

your dog. It's my own damn fault. I shouldn't have

shouted. I should've known the dog'd be jumpy." He

spoke with a soft, musical voice, different from what the

boys were used to hearing.

Seeing no immediate threat to the boys, Bad Luck

stopped his growling and reserved judgment on this

stranger. The boys exchanged glances.

"Look, I'm sorry I startled you guys, okay?"

The boys nodded as one. Patrick said, "What did you

mean about Bad Luck being jumpy, mister?"

The man laughed, and the boys relaxed. "Bad Luck,

huh?"

Hearing his name, the dog gave a tentative wag of his

tail. The man slowly reached out and let the Labrador

sniff his hand, then patted him on the head. After a mo-

Raymond E. Feist - Faerie Tale

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