Beyond the Pale: A fantasy anthology (31 page)

I headed east along the coastal path, my
guide the stone head of the windmill with its narrow, ruined vanes lording it
over the flat land. Perhaps sentiment was leading me there, the memory of that
adolescent kiss that Alec had given me, so wonderfully innocent and full of
desire at the same time. Perhaps I just wanted a short, pleasant walk to the
old salt pans. I don’t know why I went that way. It was almost as if I were
being called there.

For a moment I turned back and looked at
the town behind me which showed, from this side, how precariously the houses
perch on the rocks, like gannets nesting on the Bass.

Then I turned again and took the walk
slowly; it was still only ten or fifteen minutes to the windmill from the town.
No boats sailed on the Firth today. I could not spot the large yacht so it must
have been in its berth. And the air was so clear, I could see the Bass and the
May with equal distinction. How often I’d come to this place as a child. I
probably could still walk to it barefooted and without stumbling, even in the
blackest night. The body has a memory of its own.

Halfway there, a solitary curlew flew up
before me and as I watched it flap away, I thought how the townsfolk would have
cringed at the sight, for the bird was thought to bring bad luck, carrying away
the spirits of the wicked at nightfall.

“But I’ve not been wicked,” I cried after
it, and laughed.
Or at least not wicked for a year, more’s the pity
.

At last I came to the windmill with its
rough stones rising high above the land. Once it had been used for pumping
seawater to extract the salt. Not a particularly easy operation, it took
something like thirty-two tons of water to produce one ton of salt. We’d
learned all about it in primary school, of course. But the days of the salt
pans were a hundred years in the past, and the poor windmill had seen better
times.

Even run down, though, it was still a
lovely place, with its own memories. Settling back against the mill’s stone
wall, I nestled down and drew out the last journal from my coat pocket. Then I
began to read it from the beginning as the light slowly faded around me.

Now, I am a focused reader, which is to
say that once caught up in a book, I can barely swim back up to the surface of
any other consciousness. The world dims around me. Time and space compress.
Like a Wellsian hero, I am drawn into an elsewhere that becomes absolute and
real. So as I read my Father’s final journal, I was in his head and his madness
so completely, I heard nothing around me, not the raucous cry of gulls nor the
wash of water onto the stones far below.

So it was, with a start that I came to the
final page, with its mention of the goggle-eyed toad. Looking up, I found
myself in the gray gloaming surrounded by nearly a hundred such toads, all
staring at me with their horrid wide eyes, a hideous echo of my father’s
written words.

I stood up quickly, trying desperately not
to squash any of the poor puddocks. They leaned forward like children trying to
catch the warmth of a fire. Then their shadows lengthened and grew.

Please understand, there was no longer any
sun and very little light. There was no moon overhead for the clouds crowded
one on to the other, and the sky was completely curtained. So there should not
have been any shadows at all. Yet, I state again—their shadows lengthened
and grew. Shadows like and unlike the ones I had seen against my father’s study
walls. They grew into dark-caped creatures, almost as tall as humans yet with
those goggly eyes.

I still held my father’s journal in my
left hand, but my right covered my mouth to keep myself from screaming. My sane
mind knew it to be only a trick of the light, of the dark. It was the result of
bad dreams and just having put my only living relative into the ground. But the
primitive brain urged me to cry out with all my ancestors, “Cauld iron!” and
run away in terror.

And still the horrid creatures grew until
now they towered over me, pushing me back against the windmill, their shadowy
fingers grabbing at both ends of my scarf.

“Who are you? What are you?” I mouthed, as
the breath was forced from me. Then they pulled and pulled the scarf until
they’d choked me into unconsciousness.

~

When I awoke, I was tied to a windmill
vane, my hands bound high above me, the ropes too tight and well-knotted for
any escape.

“Who are you?” I whispered aloud this
time, my voice sounding froglike, raspy, hoarse. “What are you?” Though I
feared I knew. “What do you want of me? Why are you here?”

In concert, their voices wailed back. “A
wind! A wind!”

And then in horror all that Father had
written—about the hands and feet and sex organs of the corpse being cut
off and attached to the dead cat—bore down upon me. Were they about to
dig poor father’s corpse up? Was I to be the offering? Were we to be combined
in some sort of desecration too disgusting to be named? I began to shudder
within my bonds, both hot and cold. For a moment I couldn’t breathe again, as
if they were tugging on the scarf once more.

Then suddenly, finding some latent
courage, I stood tall and screamed at them, “I’m not dead yet!” Not like my
father whom they’d frightened into his grave.

They crowded around me, shadow folk with
wide white eyes, laughing. “A wind! A wind!”

I kicked out at the closest one, caught my
foot in its black cape, but connected with nothing more solid than air. Still,
that kick forced them back for a moment.

“Get away from me!” I screamed. But
screaming only made my throat ache, for I’d been badly choked just moments
earlier. I began to cough and it was as if a nail were being driven through my
temples with each spasm.

The shadows crowded forward again, their
fingers little breezes running over my face and hair, down my neck, touching my
breasts.

I took a deep breath for another scream,
another kick. But before I could deliver either, I heard a cry.

“Aroint, witches!”

Suddenly I distinguished the sound of
running feet. Straining to see down the dark corridor that was the path to
Pittenweem, I leaned against the cords that bound me. It was a voice I did and
did not recognize.

The shadow folk turned as one and flowed
along the path, hands before them as if they were blindly seeking the
interrupter.

“Aroint, I say!”

Now I knew the voice. It was Mrs. Marr, in
full cry. But her curse seemed little help and I feared that she, too, would
soon be trussed up by my side.

But then, from the east, along the path
nearer town, there came another call.

“Janet! Janet!” That voice I recognized at
once.

“Alec…” I said between coughs.

The shadows turned from Mrs. Marr and
flowed back, surrounding Alec, but he held something up in his hand. A bit of a
gleam from a crossbar. His fisherman’s knife.

The shadows fell away from him in
confusion.

“Cauld iron!” he cried at them. “Cauld
iron!”

So they turned to go back again towards
Mrs. Marr, but she reached into her large handbag and pulled out her knitting
needles. Holding them before her in the sign of a cross, she echoed Alec’s cry.
“Cauld iron.” And then she added, her voice rising as she spoke, “Oh let the
wickedness of the wicked come to an end; but establish the just: for the
righteous God trieth the hearts and reigns.”

I recognized it as part of a psalm, one of
the many she’d presumably memorized as a child, but I could not have said
which.

Then the two of them advanced on the
witches, coming from east and west, forcing the awful crew to shrink down, as
if melting, into dark puddocks once again.

Step by careful step, Alec and Mrs. Marr
herded the knot of toads off the path and over the cliff’s edge.

Suddenly the clouds parted and a brilliant
half moon shone down on us, its glare as strong as the lighthouse on Anster’s
pier. I watched as the entire knot of toads slid down the embankment, some
falling onto the rocks and some into the water below.

Only when the last puddock was gone, did
Alec turn to me. Holding the knife in his teeth, he reached above my head to my
bound hands and began to untie the first knot.

A wind started to shake the vanes and for
a second I was lifted off my feet as the mill tried to grind, though it had not
done so for a century.

“Stop!” Mrs. Marr’s voice held a note of
desperation.

Alec turned. “Would ye leave her tied,
woman? What if those shades come back again. I told ye what the witches had
done before. It was all in the his journals.”

“No, Alec,” I cried, hating myself for
trusting the old ways, but changed beyond caring. “They’re elfknots. Don’t
untie them. Don’t!” I shrank away from his touch.

“Aye,” Mrs. Marr said, coming over and
laying light fingers on Alec’s arm. “The lass is still of St Monans though she
talks like a Sassanach.” She laughed. “It’s no the drink and the carousing that
brings the wind. That’s just for fun. Nor the corpse and the cat. That’s just
for show. My man told me. It’s the knots, he says.”

“The knot of toads?” Alec asked hoarsely.

The wind was still blowing and it took
Alec’s hard arms around me to anchor me fast or I would have gone right around,
spinning with the vanes.

Mrs. Marr came close till they were eye to
eye. “The knots in the rope, lad,” she said. “One brings a wind, two bring a
gale, and the third…” She shook her head. “Ye dinna want to know about the
third.”

“But—” Alec began.

“Och, but me know buts, my lad. Cut
between,” Mrs. Marr said. “Just dinna untie them or King George’s yacht at
South Queensferry will go down in a squall, with the king and queen aboard, and
we’ll all be to blame.”

He nodded and slashed the ropes with his
knife, between the knots, freeing my hands. Then he lifted me down. I tried to
take it all in: his arms, his breath on my cheek, the smell of him so close. I
tried to understand what had happened here in the gloaming. I tried until I
started to sob and he began stroking my hair, whispering, “There, lass, it’s
over. It’s over.”

“Not until we’ve had some tea and burned
those journals,” Mrs. Marr said. “I told ye we should have done it before.”

“And I told ye,” he retorted, “that they
are invaluable to historians.”

“Burn them,” I croaked, knowing at last
that the invitation in Latin they contained was what had called the witches
back. Knowing that my speaking the words aloud had brought them to our house
again. Knowing that the witches were Father’s “visitants” who had, in the end,
frightened him to death. “Burn them. No historian worth his salt would touch
them.”

Alec laughed bitterly. “I would.” He set
me on my feet and walked away down the path toward town.

“Now ye’ve done it,” Mrs. Marr told me.
“Ye never were a lass to watch what ye say. Ye’ve injured his pride and broken
his heart.”

“But…” We were walking back along the
path, her hand on my arm, leading me on. The wind had died and the sky was
alert with stars. “But he’s not an historian.”

“Ye foolish lass, yon lad’s nae fisherman,
for all he dresses like one. He’s a lecturer in history at the University, in
St Andrews,” she said. “And the two of ye the glory of this village. Yer father
and his father always talking about the pair of ye. Hoping to see ye married
one day, when pride didna keep the two of ye apart. Scheming they were.”

I could hardly take this in. Drawing my
arm from her, I looked to see if she was making a joke. Though in all the years
I’d known her, I’d never heard her laugh.

She glared ahead at the darkened path.
“Yer father kept yer room the way it was when ye were a child, though I tried
to make him see the foolishness of it. He said that someday yer own child would
be glad of it.”

“My father—”

“But then he went all queer in the head
after Alec’s father died. I think he believed that by uncovering all he could
about the old witches, he might help Alec in his research. To bring ye
together. though what he really fetched was too terrible to contemplate.”

“Which do you think came first?” I asked
slowly. “Father’s summoning the witches, or the shadows sensing an
opportunity?”

She gave a bob of her head to show she was
thinking, then said at last, “Dinna mess with witches and weather, my man says…”

“Your man?” She’d said it before, but I
thought she’d meant her dead husband. “Weren’t you… I mean, I thought you were
in love with my father.”

She stopped dead in her tracks and turned
to me. The half moon lit her face. “Yer father?” She stopped, considered, then
began again. “Yer father had a heart only for two women in his life, yer mother
and ye, Janet, though he had a hard time showing it.

And…” she laughed, “he was no a bonnie
man.”

I thought of him lying in his bed, his
great prow of a nose dominating his face. No, he was not a bonnie man.

“Och, lass, I had promised yer mother on
her deathbed to take care of him, and how could I go back on such a promise? I
didna feel free to marry as long as he remained alive. Now my Pittenweem man
and I have set a date, and it will be soon. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

I had been wrong, so wrong, and in so many
ways I could hardly comprehend them all. And didn’t I understand about wasted
time. But at least I could make one thing right again.

“I’ll go after Alec, I’ll…”

Mrs. Marr clapped her hands. “Then run,
lass, run like the wind.”

And untying the knot around my own pride,
I ran.

THE ADVENTURES OF LIGHTNING MERRIEMOUSE-JONES

~

by Nancy & Belle Holder

Editor’s
Note: Just as a sumptuous banquet is topped off with a light dessert, we finish
this literary feast with a whimsical tale that is a cross between Bram Stoker’s
Dracula
and Richard Peck’s
Secrets at Sea
.

To begin at the
beginning:

That would be
instructive, but rather dull; and so we will tell you, Gentle Reader, that the
intrepid Miss Merriemouse-Jones was born in 1880, a wee pup to parents who had
no idea that she was destined for greatness. Protective and loving, they
encouraged her to find her happiness in the environs of home—running the
squeaky wheel in the nursery cage, gnawing upon whatever might sharpen her
pearlescent teeth, and wrinkling her tiny pink nose most adorably when vexed.

During her girlhood,
Lightning was seldom vexed. She lived agreeably in her parents’ well-appointed
and fashionable abode, a hole in the wall located in the chamber of the human
daughter of the house, one Maria Louisa Summerfield, whose mother was a
tempestuous Spanish painter of some repute, and whose father owned a bank.

However, our story
has little to do with the Summerfields, save that they shared living
accommodations with the mice, and that it was Maria Louisa who named our
heroine. Maria Louisa insisted that the tiny creature should be called
Lightning because she was born during a terrible thunderstorm, although Mr.
Summerfield argued for Snow. But Maria Louisa declared that she had already
named the new kitten Snow, which she had most certainly not done, but such was
the nature of the little girl. For since she had not thought to name the infant
mouseling Snow, no one else should be able to do so, either.

However, such were
the Summerfields that they were content to allow mice to live in their home
untrapped and untroubled, and for the parents of Snow to blithely ignore them,
as the cats were so coddled and cosseted they would never dream of chasing
after anything, much less their fur-clad neighbors.

Lightning she was,
then, and Lightning was indeed as white as snow and together with her comely
nose and delicate whiskers, she grew to become such a lovely young mousie
maiden that suitors scrabbled from thicket and village to the Merriemouse-Jones
residence in hopes of winning her hand.

Upon learning that
she was expected to accept one of these suitors in marriage, Lightning became
quite vexed indeed. But no amount of adorable nose-wrinkling could deter her
parents’ insistence that she choose the best of the lot, marry him, and bear
his pups.

“It is the way of
things, darling,” Lightning’s mother explained. “Your father and I long to see
you settled, so that we will know you’re taken care of in our dotage.”

Settled
was
not a word Lightning appreciated.
Taken care of
were three more. The
suitors who came to call upon her, bearing bits of cheese, corn, and pastry,
were none to her liking. One was a mousy gray, one allowed as how he lived
among the tracings of a coal mine, and one was actually a bow-legged rat.

However, we have
promised not to dwell upon the circumstances of Lightning’s life prior to the
adventure we wish to recount; let us move forward, then, with the comment that
it is well-documented that when Maria Louisa eloped with her second cousin,
Juan Eldorado Adelante-Paz, Lightning hopped into the pocket of Miss
Summerfield’s traveling coat, and so was present during the untimely sinking of
their frigate,
El Queso.

It is also known that
the errant lovers, Juan and Maria Louisa, were rescued by some Basques, and
decamped to Catalonia. But the fate of Lightning was unknown for nearly a year,
and her parents sorely grieved the loss of their enchanting and much-beloved
daughter.

That is, until she
managed to smuggle out the following communiqué:

Eeeek! Eeek! Eeekeekeek!

Which, for those not
schooled in Received Standard Mouselish, translates:

31
October

Castle
Dracurat, Transylvania

Au
secours!

I
am in great danger. Through circuitous means too complex to describe, I am
imprisoned within the walls of the gloomy and foreboding castle of that dread
rodent, Count Vlad Dracurat. I fear his plans for me will prove my undoing! I
have pressed silver into the hairless palm of a young Gypsy named Marco, who
promises to carry this letter to the priest of the nearby village. Alas, Mama! Oh,
my poor, darling Papa! I fear you shall not see your Lightning in this life or
the next!

At first determined
to travel to Castle Dracurat himself, Mr. Merriemouse-Jones was forced by poor
health to remain in London. His wife desired to go also, but at length acceded
to her husband’s entreaties not to undertake the journey: he could not bear
losing both feminine rodentia he loved. Thereupon he hired a private detective
who came highly recommended by highly placed persons who banked with him.

The detective’s name
was Quincey Dormouse. He was an American from Texas, quite courageous and
resourceful; and Mr. Merriemouse-Jones directed that he travel posthaste to
Castle Dracurat in the Catpathian Mountains. If their young miss was indeed
there, he was to rescue her by any means possible from the paws of the fiendish
nobleman.

However, upon
arriving in the region, Mr. Dormouse reported back that the castle had been
quitted, and locked up. There was no one there, and no evidence left behind to
affirm that Lightning had ever been there, either.

However, shortly
thereafter, the following page of a waterlogged ship’s long was published in
The
London Whisker:

3
November

They
are coffins. Would that the demon had brought extras for my crew, my poor men
who have been nightly drained of their vigor, and have all died! I and I alone
remain; I write this with some haste as I hear him coming for me now, he and
his unholy mate, she who is a ghastly white possessed of such teeth as would
tear this ship apart, had she but the opportunity and leisure to do so. Thus
far I have thwarted them both, but now I fear they shall prove my undoing.

Hark!
They come, swift and silent as cats!

Onze
Vader in de hemel, uw naam worde geheiligd…

As is well known,
Capt. Van Rattraap was discovered alive and unhurt in the wreckage of the
Fontina,
on the beachhead in the village of Hedgehogs-upon-Trivets, home of the Experimental
Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Upon examination, he was determined by the
excellent physicians at the asylum to be hopelessly devoid of his
wits—that is to say, quite squirrelly. He was admitted into the asylum,
and there remains to this day. The bodies of his crew were never found,
although their widows and orphans pressed unceasingly for another inquiry to be
opened.

However, though not
widely known, there was one other survivor, whose presence was not reported by
the excellent journalists of the day, in order that her delicate sensibilities
might be protected from the glare of public scrutiny. She was discovered in a
state of strange delirium, and was transported as well to the Asylum, not as an
inmate, but as the private guest of the head of the institution, Sir Frederick
Sewerat. Her parents were sent for immediately, and the Merriemouse-Joneses
were soon stationed at her bedside. Her mother particularly remarked upon her
pallor, for although the fur of the young lady was a snowy white, now her tiny
nose, delicate tail, and lacy paws were ivory-complected as well.

Imagine the pitiable
condition of Madame Merriemouse-Jones, to have pined so long for the return of
her child, only to be confronted with the converse! She demanded vengeance upon
the head of the person whom she heaped full blame: Count Dracurat himself!

Though there was no
proof that it was of the Count whom Captain van Rattraap spoke, Lightning’s
mother produced the letter they had received from her, which, taken together
with the captain’s log, had convinced her that her daughter was grievously
misused by Count Dracurat—who she claimed had escaped the wreck of the
Fontina
and was now at large on the village of Hedgehogs-upon-Trivets.

“A monster walks
among us!” she concluded.

There were several
asides made amongst the constabulary about the hysterical nature of
females—none within the earshot of Madame—but she was as
intelligent as she was worried, and so quickly deduced that her anxiety was not
shared by those who were in a position to do anything about it.

Thereupon Mrs.
Merriemouse-Jones told her husband that if the authorities would not take the
matter into their own paws, then Lightning’s devoted parents should do so, by
re-engaging the services of Quincey Dormouse. Quite happily, the Texan had
entertained hopes of being sent for, and so had traveled from Catpathia to
London on another ship. From there, it was but a train ride to the village
where Lightning lay in her swoon.

Mrs.
Merriemouse-Jones found Mr. Dormouse very strapping and youthful, cutting quite
a figure in a suit tailored in the “Western” style. Upon being introduced, he
doffed an enormous hat such as Texan cattle ranchers wore and swept a courtly
bow.

Hardly had he stepped
from the train platform at Hedgehogs-upon-Trivets than he studied the letter
and the captain’s log. He did not stop even for tea, and, upon conclusion,
declared in his affable American way: “Something here sure stinks, and it ain’t
the Longhorn Cheddar.”

He applied next for
permission to observe Miss Merriemouse-Jones in her sickroom. There was some
further discussion between Lightning’s parents about the propriety of allowing
Mr. Dormouse to visit their daughter; but her mother insisted that they had no
one else to turn to.

And so, with
Lightning’s mother and a nurse present, Mr. Dormouse entered the chamber of
Miss Merriemouse-Jones for the first time.

How can one describe
the effect her ethereal loveliness had upon the youthful gentleman? Hovering at
her bedside, he was struck dumb, then was heard to utter softly, “‘Ah! She doth
teach the torches to burn bright!’”

Mindful of her
modesty, he nevertheless resolutely proceeded to examine her neck, and there
discovered two tiny puncture marks. His mouth set in a grim line, he entreated
first the nurse and then Mrs. Merriemouse-Jones to look as well.

Madame
Merriemouse-Jones gasped in horror, inquiring what on earth they might be,
while the nurse examined them with obvious confusion.

“How long have these
been here?” he inquired of them both.

“Truthfully, sir,
I’ve never seen them before,” the nurse replied.

Mrs.
Merriemouse-Jones was equally at a loss. Thereupon Mr. Dormouse entreated Dr.
Sewerat to examine them as well. The good doctor was astounded by their
presence, and assured Mr. Dormouse that they had not been there previously.
Challenged by Mr. Dormouse to account for the last time he had examined Miss
Merriemouse-Jones, he allowed as how he had not thought to do so since the day
she was brought to the asylum, now some nine days previous.

It was apparent that
his reply overset Mr. Dormouse, who blurted, “Y’all haven’t been checking in on
her?”

Dr. Sewerat reminded
Mr. Dormouse that the oath of his profession required that he do no harm, and
since he had had no inkling of the nature of Lightning’s affliction, he had
nursed no wish to compromise her privacy until he had some reason to do so.

Mr. Dormouse seemed
displeased by this explanation. He took Mrs. Merriemouse-Jones aside. He said
to her, “Madame, I don’t know how else to explain this to y’all, but it is my
belief that your precious daughter has, been, ah,
visited upon
by a
vampire. And from what I saw on my previous assignment for you and Mr.
Merriemouse-Jones, and what I have seen here, I can reach no other conclusion
that that you were quite correct. I believe that Count Dracurat is that
vampire! And I also believe that he has taken up residence in
Hedgehogs-upon-Trivets, here to commit his nefarious deeds!”

Rather than succumb
to the strong emotions one may expect from a mother under these circumstances,
Madame revealed that she was made of sterner stuff. Her eyes glittered like
Spanish steel as she held out her paw to Quincey Dormouse and said, “Then clap
hands and a bargain, sir! You are my deputy in this wild work
.
I beg of
you to locate and dispatch this monster to that unholy realm where his soul
belongs!”

She spoke further of
payment, at which point Mr. Dormouse put hand to heart and said, “Mrs.
Merriemouse-Jones, pray, I entreat y’all, do not speak of money at a time like
this. To see your beautiful li’l gal up and around will be recompense enough. I
would gladly die in the performance of this duty, should it come to that.”

The violence of this
speech privately decided Madame Merriemouse-Jones then and there, that if her
darling daughter should be restored to her, she would encourage a match between
Lightning and Mr. Quincey Dormouse. He was a mouse’s mouse, and surely her
young lady would consent to such a dashing stalwart as a mate.

Whatever the outcome
of that, Mr. Dormouse directed that garlic be hung about her chamber. Dr.
Sewerat was rather uncertain about the efficacy of such a precaution, but
consented, as he felt most culpable that the young lady had been ah… punctured…
while in his care. It seemed to have no effect on Lightning, although her
mother claimed that she became whiter still, taking on the pallor of death
itself.