Dark Rain (10 page)

You had to sympathize with him, on one level. But his manner was exasperating, all the same.

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” I tried to explain to him.

But he was having none of it.

“Oh really? And what are you going to tell me next? Ghosts are going to come along and rob our banks?”

If he could get annoyed and shout, then I could do the same.

“You’ll have to come to terms with this sooner or later, Edgar! Saruak
was
responsible for what happened yesterday evening!”

And that slowed him down a little, although the red glow in his cheeks remained.

“He
could
be some new adept that we didn’t know about,” he finally conceded.

“That’s what we first thought. But there’s one problem with that theory. He came from
outside
town. Surely that has to tell you something?”

He had been immune to Regan’s Curse, in other words. He had not shied back, or turned away. Which made him rather special, rather different from normal humans.

Aldernay’s gaze met mine sharply. “Even that’s not totally unprecedented. Look at your friend Willets.”

Now, I wouldn’t call Willets a friend exactly. I don’t thin
k he has any of those. But the mayor did have a point. Could Saruak just be someone who’d gained power, and then adopted this whole ‘spirit’ persona? Not the first time something of that kind had happened. We’d had a self-taught adept, once, who’d thought that he was actually Merlin.

Things round here were often not quite what they seemed to be at first. It was possible that all of us, even the Little Girl, were being suckered by some lunatic or fraudster.

Except I couldn’t get that moment out of my mind when he had revealed himself. My head might try to deny what I had seen, but my instincts couldn’t. I was certain it was real.

S
o I went on to explain to the mayor what the Little Girl had said, about the way that Saruak drew his power. Aldernay looked more and more confused, his gaze becoming darker.

“First he’s a spirit. Now he’s a nightmare. Lord, can’t you make your mind up?”

“We need to find some way to stop it happening,” I persisted. “Maybe your friends on the Hill …?”

“Goddamn it, Devries, you still haven’t convinced me. And I’m quite busy enough as it is.”

“With?”

The man went noticeably sweaty at that point. He picked up a pen, for want of anything better to do.

“Reunion Eve, of course!”

Was he kidding? I asked my next question as politely as I could, which wasn’t very.

“You seriously think that’s more important?”

“I’d thank you to keep that tone out of your voice.”

“This guy is planning to take over the whole Landing. He’s doubtless going to harm more people, plenty more. You
seriously
think your magic show is a priority, compared with that?”

The m
ayor stared at me, frozen with embarrassment.

“Well,” he grumbled finally. “If what you say is true, it might be our best bet. Since – if it works – then we can all get out of here.”

Cassie’s eyes rolled, at that point. I took a slow step forward. Aldernay was almost in denial by this stage, trying to pretend that there was really nothing to get too concerned about. So I explained the facts to him as firmly as I could.

“Reunion Evening hasn’t achieved anything – the last time I counted – on two hundred and eighty-four separate occasions. And you’re putting all your faith in that? What in God’s name are you thinking of?”

The mayor, though, had another odd trait, apart from his volatility. When shouting at people didn’t do the trick, he simply ignored them and switched off.

He stared down at his desk again. Scribbled something on a pad. And refused to even look at me.

“Well, it might work this time,” he murmured, talking to thin air.

We were obviously dismissed. Frustration boiled through me. But we’d had this kind of attitude from Aldernay before, and had gotten along perfectly well without his help.

We were about to turn away when the phone on the man’s desk rang. He glanced at it surprisedly, then snatched it up.

All the color on his face drained away within the next half minute. He was silent, merely nodding, listening carefully to whatever he was being told. Cassie and I exchanged glances. You didn’t need to be a psychic to figure who was on the other end.

As I’ve already mentioned, there were shadows massed behind that chair of his. Bright eyes back there, which watched intently. I could spell out some of the names, but you will hear them later anyway. Not Woodard Raine, in case you’re wondering. Woody – it’s been pointed out before – is too far gone, aloof.

But there were others, peers of his, who took a far more active interest in the business of the Landing.

By the time he set the handset down a second time – far more gently this time – Aldernay’s face looked like a balloon with a puncture in it. All I did was stare at him. He cleared his windpipe, then leaned forward in his chair.

“I’ve been asked to tell you –”

His voice was hushed, almost croaky. He swilled the next words around in his mouth before finally spitting them out.

“— that your observations have been duly noted, and are receiving proper and intent deliberation.”

Which was all I’d really come here for. The powers-that-be knew everything that I’d discovered now.

I thanked him. And he nodded briefly, his dull eyes going rather glazed.

And then, without another word, me and Cass were out of there.

TWELVE

It was all there in his mind’s eye, as clearly as if it had only happened yesterday. Nearly four hundred years had passed since the event. But it had altered Saruak’s existence so completely he could still smell every odor and hear every tiny sound. Some finches had been chirping in the trees. A gentle wind blew through the branches.

He – as usual – had been perched up on a high one, gazing down.

The bearded missionary stepped up through the tree line, entering the vast New England forest with a taut expression on his face. You would have thought that he was stepping off the very edge of the world. He had on a black hat, a coat of the same color, britches. A large wooden crucifix was clutched between his fingers. The dense carpet of leaves beneath him crunched with every step he took. In comparison with the local tribesmen, this was an extremely clumsy individual. And he was mumbling to himself as he progressed. Saruak listened closer. He was mumbling a prayer.

This man’s name was an extremely plain one – John Jones. John, son of John, in other words. And was that all? When you compared it with the poetry of some Iroquois names … how odd.

He was unmarried and twenty six. Had come here from a place named Cardiff, in a far-off country simply known as Wales. The religion that he practiced was a version of this one-god nonsense that the newcomers had brought with them. But a newly founded version, known as ‘Baptist.’ They believed
– the more Saruak read this human’s mind, the harder he found it not to laugh – in throwing people in a river, cleansing them of sin that way. Was John Son of John really planning to do that to any of the Iroquois? They’d take his ears to remember him by, then feed him to the dogs.

He was brave, admittedly. He carried no weapon, and did not believe in them. All he had were the clothes on his back, a small bundle of supplies, his bible tucked in among them. And his crucifix, his prayers, his faith. However frightened he might be, he just pressed on in a determined fashion. He was going to find some ‘savages’ – that was the word he used – and convert them, to save their souls.

He began to sing, as Saruak listened. It was all in rhyme, all ‘see’ and ‘be’ and ‘thee’ and ‘me.’ What simpletons these newcomers were. They knew practically nothing about the way the cosmos really worked.

He didn’t even know where he was going. There was an encampment twenty minutes north of here. From the treetops, you could even see the smoke. But the missionary was heading due west. Why hadn’t he even hired a guide?

But then Saruak read his mind again, and caught hold of another thought.
‘The Good Lord shall steer me true.’

It was all too much. And this time, he did laugh.

The noise rang out among the tree trunks. The Welshman stopped dead in his tracks. Saruak already knew that his laugh did not sound like a normal one, to human ears. It sounded far more like the noise an animal might make, in pain. It chilled them. As he watched, the missionary’s fingers stiffened on the cross. His gaze went darting round. Saruak guessed, at first, the man might change his mind about this whole excursion, turn around, head back the way he’d come.

But, despite the fact that he was shaking, John Son of John merely stopped a short while, then pressed on.

His song got louder – ‘be,’ ‘he,’ ‘we,’ ‘sea.’

He was moving further away, now. Saruak followed him quietly through the higher branches.

It wasn’t just an idle fascination guiding him by this time. An idea had begun occurring to him.

Ever since humans had first started living in these forests, he’d considered them fair game. The finest sport he’d ever had, in fact. They were intelligent enough that he could twist it round and fool them. Stubborn enough that they’d not run away. Courageous enough that they would try to fight him even when their cause was lost. And stupid enough that they could never grasp the truth … he’d always win.

But after several hundred years of this, the Iroquois had become used to his trickery. They had no defense against him, of course. There was none. But when he greeted them with an illusion these days, they saw through it more often than not. When he planted crazy ideas in their minds, they tried to force them out again, ignore them. ‘Dancer in Dreams,’ they would mutter. ‘Take no notice of the evil one.’

They’d grown wise to him, in other words.

These interlopers? They had no such wisdom. In truth, with their one-god and their church, they were considerably dumber than the tribesfolk. With them around, he could start to play his deadly games all over again. But a far grander plan was taking shape in Saruak’s ancient mind.

Stupid though these pale folk might be, there were more of them arriving all the time. They were driven, industrious, and had one quality the Iroquois did not, ambition. He could almost see the way the future, from this point, was going to unfold.

They would not stop here. They would not be happy with a mere few coastal settlements. They’d press inland and spread out like termites. Go to places on this continent he’d never seen.

And that was his only limitation. The one thing Saruak had ever been bound by. He resented it. Manitou he was, born out of these woodlands when they had been saplings. And he could not leave them, ever. He was physically tied to this place.

To see deserts just for once, or mountains. He could smell them sometimes, very far away. To watch the sun set on a different lake, or walk the banks of those enormous rivers that he knew were out there. These newcomers, down the next few hundred years, would do all that. But he?

They had an advantage, then. It struck him as unfair. It angered him. Unless …

He toyed gently with the notion.

Unless he went with them.

Stop singing a moment, John Son of John.

The lyrics froze in the Welshman’s throat.

I’ve become a missionary too, you see. I want to convert you to my own religion. Like yours, there is just one god. That deity is me.

By this time, he had gotten ahead of the human’s line of progress and was shimmying down a tall pine trunk to intercept him. He had kept himself invisible so far. But not for too much longer.

John Son of John had stopped moving again, and was clutching the crucifix to his chest, gazing slightly up. Maybe he had heard something, a rustling from the pine needles? Or perhaps he simply sensed that there was trouble on the way? Whatever, his face had gone extremely pale, the lips pressed together and the pallid eyes wide.

Saruak reached the ground some thirty yards ahead of him, and then began moving toward him swiftly.

“Who’s there?” the man suddenly called out.

He seemed to believe he’d found some natives. Because the next moment, he reached into his bundle, pulled the bible out from there. Lofted it above his head, then started to cry out.

“I bring thee salvation! Yea, I bring thee the good word!”

“And which good word is that?” Saruak shouted. “Be? Thee? We?”

He was just ten yards away, by now. The man could still not see him. But the sound of the voice brought his head swinging round. He went entirely rigid, almost lifting himself out of his hard shoes. His features were completely white. His eyes gleamed like a madman’s.

Saruak’s pace did not slow, not even a little bit.

“I’ll give you a good word!” he hollered at his victim. “Me!”

And in that moment, he revealed himself.

This was not like the other times when he’d possessed a human. Those had been temporary events. Whereas this was going to be permanent, a taking over rather than a borrowing.

The man’s screams echoed through the forest for a good while after that.

When they finally quieted down again, he was still standing there. But not the real John Jones any longer. His eyes were far more colorless than they’d originally been, and one pupil was larger. His teeth had changed as well, becoming far more like a predator’s. But all his consciousness was gone. There was only his body left, a shell for Saruak to occupy. They were fused, the man’s flesh and his own dark spirit.

He tried turning back to his original shape, and managed it easily. All he had to do was rearrange the substance of the body that he was in and the clothing round it. But a human appearance suited his needs far better, from this point on. And so he stuck to that.

He was still holding the bible. Saruak turned it over, gazed at it, then tossed it into the undergrowth. The crucifix went the same way, as did the bundle. Such supplies were no longer required. The suffering of all those he tormented would sustain him well enough.

West, he had been going. Yes, that seemed a good direction to head. Laughing quietly to himself, Saruak continued on his way.

The scene hung in his head a moment longer. Then his left eye gave a flicker, and his surroundings returned.

Poor John. He had perished with the knowledge that his one-god could not save him. His soul had blinked out of existence like a tiny flame. Only his frame was left, only his bones and skin. They had aged very slowly down the centuries, but were still good enough. Occupying this body had set him free, taking him out of the forests at last, moving toward limitless horizons.

He had traveled with wagon trains, then ridden on steam ones. Sailed on rafts, and then on riverboats. Gone from coast to coast of this vast continent and brought down suffering on humans, everywhere he visited. Fires and floods. Murders and mass-suicides. He had been in San Francisco in 1906. He hadn’t caused the largest quake, but he had been there for the aftershocks. In New Orleans a few years back – the same. And in southern California, several recent summers.

He had been there, in fact, when a vagrant breeze with the scent of woodlands on it, blowing in from the north east, had begun drawing him back finally to New England.

And now, he was sitting on the high roof of a church on Greenwood Terrace, with his back against the steeple. Dralleg nestled in his lap. There were no tall buildings to overlook him, and the humans passing by below couldn’t see him all the way up here. This was the way he preferred to be – very much present, but completely unobserved.

His inner vision scoured the entire town. Ross Devries was making himself busy. He’d expected that. The boys in the police department were trying to stretch their limited intellects, and failing dismally.

As for the rest, the only being that he couldn’t really fathom was this creature with no name, simply called the Little Girl. Every time he looked in her direction, all that he could make out was a brilliant pale blue sphere of light. What genuinely lay within it, there seemed to be no way of telling.

She’d been passive up until this point, but he would have to keep an eye on her.

Otherwise, there were powerful magicians here, oh surely. Sorcerers nearly as strong, in their own way, as the shamans of the olden days. But they’d never met his kind before. Had no clue how to deal with him.

And his strength was already growing. Being fed by all the panicked speculation he’d set flowing through these people’s minds. He couldn’t meet these ‘adepts’ – as they called themselves – head-on as yet.

But soon he would be able to. He smiled. Very soon. Come evening, he would make his next move, strengthening his grip.

He reached into his ragged coat, pulled out a silver pocket watch. He’d got it off a merchant he had waylaid by the roadside in the Eighteen Hundreds. It was such a pretty thing. And he watched the second hand revolve, his smile widening into a massive grin.

For this whole curious township, time was running out.