One minute hell had been stamping hobnails and boulders all over his back, and the next it was as peaceful as it ever gets at night. Unsteadily, licking at his lips and being careful of his legs, he rose to his feet and stared at Haven's End. The wind was gone, and the only thing that let him know he hadn't dreamt it was the blood he wiped from the backs of his hands, the only way he knew he wasn't part of the Screamer was the direction.
And if it wasn't the Screamer…
The ferry rocked, slower, slower.
The whitecaps vanished.
Behind him, the forest was as quiet as dawn.
Jesus damn, he thought, and raced for the pistol he'd put under the cot's mattress. Jesus God damn! He'd better get himself a gull soon, because this place wasn't healthy.
By the time the wind reached the ocean it was spent, and the debris it had carried had been dropped in the bay; the few outside to hear it thought it was thunder over the horizon. When it rushed past them, they ducked away and yanked up their collars, thinking for sure they'd be drenched in a moment and goddamn the weatherman who can't read his own charts. And when it was quiet, no rain or lightning, they shrugged and headed home, and wondered about their neighbors. Blaming it on the Screamer was for some too easy; that wasn't due until late the next day, plenty of time to board the windows, fetch the cat, and take the ferry out. No, there was something more, they thought. Folks were unaccountably nervous, but the leaving seemed over and the night was fairly calm despite the clouds overhead. Supper, then, and the news, and a quick change of clothes. After all, it was Friday, with, half-priced beer at the Anchor Inn and quiet music at the Run, a new double feature at the theater and some TV before bed.
And only a few stopped to listen, with a nervous snap of their fingers.
The wind dropped to a breeze, and Lilla didn't know the difference.
She sat alone, cross-legged on the ground in front of the shack, and didn't bother to count the minutes until the sea turned black. The waves flared white, between the clouds there were stars, and once in a while at the horizon she could see the multi-colored eyes of a slow-passing liner. She was still in her black dress, and loose around her shoulders was a faded blue woolen shawl; she drew it snugly over her chest and nuzzled her chin into the worn tufts that had never been trimmed. She thought of nothing.
She rocked on her buttocks and didn't feel the sand. Her tangled hair stirred and she didn't feel the cool. She rocked, and she hummed, and when the night had gone full dark she wiped a bubble of saliva from the corner of her mouth.
She thought nothing, and that was fine.
The fog was with her, comforting and warm and sparkling like diamonds snared in a spider's web especially for her. It dazzled and it lulled, and though she could not reach out to touch it, it felt very strong. It protected her. It hid her. It trembled when there was danger and it floated when Gran was back.
As it floated now when she heard the shack's door rasping open behind her. It closed, and the web shuddered. Her nostrils flared at the acrid scent of spilled blood.
Blood; the web vibrated. Blood; the web parted. Blood and Warren Harcourt, and suddenly the fog was gone, the web torn, and she was running. Down to the beach where she stood at the brink of the climbing tide's foam and dared herself to walk in, walk in and keep on walking until she would either force herself to swim or choose to join her parents.
You told me they'd come back, Gran. You told me. You did.
A wave fanned in, pulled back, covering her feet with dark sand.
But Gran was angry now and wouldn't talk to her, not even in the fog. Not since that first time, after the funeral, after she'd found him and brought him back and sung him the words that had brought her the blood.
He was supposed to have been grateful, and he was supposed to have been smiling. But she knew now he had lied to her, lied to his Lilla. He had lied, he was angry, and he wouldn't let her go.
She was frightened. She had spent the remainder of the night hiding in a cave just below the top of the cliffs, a cave not even Gran knew was her place to escape all the demons and ghosts. All day she had stayed there, until she thought she was safe. Then she had run to find someone to tell them Gran had come back.
She really hadn't wanted to scare the little boy but she knew him (forgot his name), and she knew he was Gran's favorite because he could do things with his hands, and she knew he was close to Colin, and she needed to talk to Colin now more than anything in the world. And when he hadn't come, the fog had come instead, and Colin (and the little boy with no name) was forgotten because the fog and the web and the diamonds were so pretty, and so warm, and the way it used to be when Gran loved her and held her and wouldn't let anyone do her harm.
She glanced furtively at the shack as if he'd somehow overheard her, and she was running again, veering sharply off the beach and scrambling over the dunes toward the houses. The big houses. The rich houses. Past their warm yellow lights and their warming shining cars and their warm pretty gardens bedded down for the winter. Past them and soon onto Neptune, past the darkened boarding house where her nostrils flared and she thought she smelled the blood.
It was easy, she told herself. If Colin wouldn't come to her, she would find him at home.
Because of all the people on the island, only he would understand when she told him about Gran.
Only he would understand why Gran had her singing.
She was halfway to the cottage when she felt Gran slipping back to spin the web, ride the fog. Tugging, coaxing, urging her back. No, she thought, no, I won't let you! And she was startled when the tugging stopped and she was left alone to keep running. She knew then his strength wasn't as great as she'd believed. Despite the sacrifice of Warren Harcourt's blood-the only time Gran walked, so he could drink the blood himself-it would take him a long time to be what he wanted. Meanwhile she had a chance. She had a chance to warn Colin, who would warn Garve and the others.
Warn them. Warn them. Like someone she knew from history who warned all the people that the enemy was coming.
Warn them, she had to warn them-and she stumbled. About what?
A frown loosened sand caked to her forehead and her lips tasted salt when her tongue flicked out.
I have to warn…
About what, Lil? About what?
Concentration quivered her lips. Warn them about Gran, about the singing, about the… rest.
She slowed and shook her head to rid it of the fog. She slowed and looked up, and saw the stars between the clouds. They were pretty. They always used to be pretty, but now they were prettier than she'd ever seen them before. Winking at her like lovers she had stored in her dreams, not cold as in all the poems, but whitely warm and… pretty.
She slowed to a walk.
Pretty stars, lovers' stars, and her eyes darted from side to side because she knew she was going to the cottage where Colin lived and did his work, and if she took her time and thought hard she might remember why.
The reception room at Doc Montgomery's used to be the garage. Now it was paneled in pine, carpeted in soft gold, furnished with Audubon prints and up-to-date-magazines, two beaten leather sofas and a handful of upholstered chairs. It smelled of lemon polish and recent cleaning. The five narrow windows had just that morning been washed.
Colin stood by the entrance, one hand on the door frame. He was frowning. The odd wind had battered through only five minutes before, and already he was wondering if it had been his imagination. A howling, and a whistling, and leaves slapped against the panes, and Peg, sitting on a sofa beside Garve, had nearly jumped into his arms. Now it was quiet. Dark, quiet, the radio on the end table switched off when they arrived.