Sherwood’s parents were in a niche somewhere up above, but I couldn’t remember exactly where. From on high, hidden speakers poured out an old Jeff Buckley song, echoing eerily throughout the space. Someone had set the player on repeat so the song played over and over, but it wasn’t annoying. After a while it was like Buddhist chanting, an integral part of the space, eternal and unchanging.
I had thought this time the place might feel odd, a bit creepy even, considering why I was there, but no. With the sun shining in and the music playing, it was light and pleasant. Peaceful, but not the quiet and weighty peacefulness of the graveyard—more like the quiet of a screened porch on a fine and lazy summer’s day in the country, where the owners of the house had unexpectedly stepped out for a moment.
It was all quite lovely, but it wasn’t getting me any closer to my goal. I found the stairs that led to the next level. More niches, some with personal items that clearly had meant something—a harmonica, a pair of reading glasses, ballet shoes, an antique dentist drill. It was surprisingly affecting—not sad, just touching.
Photographs were everywhere. Many showed young men, arms linked around friends, smiling at the camera. Others watched as dogs frolicked happily on the grass. Faces were licked; wagging tails were stopped midmo tion, frozen in time forever. The men had all died young, disproportionally so for a place of the dead. I wondered about it until I noticed the ending dates, almost all in the early eighties. That was when the AIDS epidemic had raged through San Francisco, cutting short thousands of young lives. I gazed at these shrines, filled with memen toes. And thought of all the wasted potential, all the pain, all the sorrow of those left behind. I found myself in the odd position of missing people I had never known.
Up I went, circling around until I reached the top level, where a side room caught my attention. A small window of stained glass was set in the ceiling, no more than two feet from the top of my head. Sunlight streamed in, casting a cheery glow over the room. Glass cases had replaced the usual niches, filled to overflowing with keepsakes. It was more reminiscent of an ancient curio shop than it was a final resting place.
Lou wandered around the room, respectfully subdued, sniffing at the glass cases. This wouldn’t be a bad room for a final resting place, I thought. Light. Airy. Downright . . . pleasant. Although if things continued on as they had the last couple of years, it seemed unlikely I was going to be blessed with a peaceful end.
I watched Lou carefully for any signs he’d noticed ghostly activity, but he was relaxed and content to wander aimlessly. I took out the wire figure of the guitar player I’d brought and tried to concentrate on Sherwood, remembering when she’d given it to me, how she’d looked, how I’d felt when we were still close in that special way. Nothing.
The room was so peaceful I was loath to leave, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. I beckoned to Lou and returned to the ground floor. The music was still echoing through the air, and through sheer repetition it had finally lost its nostalgic charm and taken on a melancholy aspect. I stood in the center of the main floor for one last look, then headed toward the door to the outside.
I’d almost made it to the door when I noticed Lou wasn’t following. He had stayed at the center of the room and was staring at the back stained-glass window with an air of puzzlement. I walked back to see what he was looking at.
“What is it?” I asked.
Lou glanced over his shoulder briefly before turning his attention back to the window. The form of an angel, wings outstretched, filled almost the entirety of the stained glass. As random clouds outside passed over the sun, the angel alternately glowed and dimmed, pulsing with an internal life. The slight smile on the angel’s face changed subtly each time the light varied, first soft and compassionate, then gently mocking, then sad, then almost cruel. The figure grew brighter as I watched, and at the same time the temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees.
Uh-oh. I’d wanted some indication of paranormal activity, but now that it was here it was making me nervous. I’d been hoping for a warm presence, or maybe a set of instructions appearing in bright glowing letters on a dusty wall. The angel in front of me was taking on a sinister aspect, awesome in the old sense of the word, not cool, but worthy of fear and dread.
The figure of the angel grew until it filled the room, so bright I could barely look at it. Its face began to seem familiar, idealized yet more personal than before. I could almost put a name to it, like a well-known but seldom-seen acquaintance. I closed my eyes for a second to get some relief from the blinding light, and when I opened them again I was staring into the eyes of Sherwood.
Her face grew brighter still, until all I could see was radiant light. I was adrift in a formless void, an impossibly bright fog without shape or form. The only sound was a faint susurration like wind or surf. I stood there for a while, at a loss. Then I heard the softest whisper of a tune, barely audible above the background noise. It was hard to locate—the sound came from all directions at once. I stood quietly, hoping it would increase in volume enough to provide a direction, but no luck. I could hardly start walking off into the featureless void; God only knew if I’d be able to find my way back. Where the hell was Lou, now that I really needed him?
A sharp nose poking into the back of my knee answered that question. I should have known. Another poke, more insistent. I bent down and grabbed hold of his collar, and the second I did, he started moving off in what I assumed was a direction. This wasn’t going to work, though. Since he’s only a foot tall, the only way I could keep hold of the collar and walk was to bend over almost double and shuffle along like a very old man.
“Lou!” I said, letting go of the collar. “Go ahead. Bark, so I can follow.”
I had expected my voice to sound muffled, like it would have been in thick fog, but it was surprisingly clear. Lou gave a short bark and moved off. A few seconds later I heard a strong bark up ahead, and as I moved in that direction another bark, farther on.
We did this bark-and-follow routine for a while, until the formless light began to ease, and I could see dim outlines of a landscape. At the same time, the song I’d been hearing grew louder until I could make out the words and tune.
It was an old Irish ballad Sherwood had dug up from somewhere, one of her favorite tunes. I’d even worked out a simple guitar arrangement for her so she could accompany herself when she sang. And it was her voice singing; I’d heard her sing it often enough so there was no doubt. The haunting tune echoed over the emerging landscape, or maybe it was echoing in my head.
Won’t you come from out that shadow,
Will you turn your back on grief?
You can lie down here beside me
If that brings some small relief.
I could hear it clearly enough now to follow the sound. As I walked, the landscape solidified, slipping into focus. I was on a high moor, with rocky crags and gorse and heather stretching out to a distant horizon in every direction. A chill wind was gusting, whipping around my ears and blowing through my hair, which had grown longer than usual of late. Wisps of fog drifted over the ground, blotting out some features and suddenly revealing others. I could smell the odor of plant and peat, smoky and clean at the same time.
Lou trotted along beside me, unflappable as ever. To him, this sort of experience wasn’t that different from a trip to the burrito store. But this wasn’t a real place. There were a lot of reasons it couldn’t be, but I didn’t need to be clever about it. There was one obvious clue, large enough even for me to get it. Everything was in black and white.
It wasn’t a problem with my vision. Lou still had his tan chest patch and tan paws and those tan marks over his eyes. But everything else was like a black-and-white movie,
The Hound of the Baskervilles
, maybe. Or even better,
Wuthering Heights
. The minute I thought of that I knew it made sense. Why, I had no idea, but it was no coincidence.
Wuthering Heights
had been Sherwood’s favorite movie, the one with Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon. A strange, romantic choice for someone otherwise so practical, but there it was.
She’d made me watch it once, bringing over a DVD, and surprisingly, I liked it. But when I made a comment about what an asshole Heathcliff basically was, she looked at me sadly and said, “Yes, but it doesn’t matter. It’s about passion, you see.”
Lou gave another short bark and pointed his nose toward the top of a nearby crag. A figure stood there, motionless, back toward me, long hair blowing in the wind. It stared out over the moor as I climbed toward it, oblivious to my approach. The slope was steep enough to get me out of breath, whether it was real or not. As I got close, I heard the last refrain of the ballad:
May your heart be freed from sorrow.
May the heartbreak finally cease.
May you wake in joy tomorrow.
May you sleep tonight in peace.
By now I was close enough to recognize Sherwood, even with her back toward me. She stared out over the film-set moor, hair swirling in the breeze. She was Cathy, waiting for Heathcliff to return. The only anachronistic detail was the familiar purple highlights in her dark hair. She, like Lou, was not part of this black-and-white world.
“Sherwood,” I said quietly.
She broke off her song but didn’t answer. For a long moment she was silent, then slowly turned her head in my direction. Her face was calm, but her affect was flat, as if she weren’t fully engaged with the world. Her light gray eyes, usually gleaming with animation, were now cool and reflective. I had to look twice before I could convince myself it was really her.
“Mason?” she said.
I moved closer.
“It’s me.”
She stared right through me as if I weren’t there.
“Mason?” she asked again.
I reached out to touch her arm but stopped at the last moment as Lou gave a soft warning growl. There was something uncanny about her, a noli-me-tangere quality. I withdrew my hand, took a step back, and spoke again.
“Sherwood. Where are we?” Again, the long pause.
“Come get me,” she said, ignoring my question.
“How?”
“You can’t.” She turned her head away from me and I could barely make out her words. “When I go. He must call me. When I go. You can’t.” This was making no sense at all.
“Who must call you?” I asked. “Eli? Victor?” She mumbled something I couldn’t catch, except for “when I go” once again.
I reached out for her again, ignoring Lou’s warning. I couldn’t just stand there trading cryptic remarks. But when I grabbed hold of her arm it was as if I’d seized an ungrounded power line. A bolt of energy shot through me. I was knocked to the ground, blinded, and it felt like every nerve was exploding out of my body. I lay there stunned for a second, until I heard the strains of familiar music echoing through the air. When I cautiously opened my eyes I was back in the Columbarium, lying on the floor. An elderly black man leaning on a cane was standing over me, face filled with concern.
“Are you okay?” he asked. I got shakily to my feet.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I told him. “Just a dizzy spell. I get them sometimes.”
“You sure?”
“I’m okay,” I said.
“Well, good.” He nodded gravely. “I’m the caretaker here.” Lou was standing quietly next to me, and he gestured at him with the cane. “Sorry, but you can’t have that dog in here. It’s not allowed.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.” He looked at me like he knew I was lying and he knew I knew he knew.
“I was just leaving,” I assured him. “Come on, Lou.”
I walked out the door to the outside, a bit shakily. The world outside was bright with color, blues skies and green trees, a far cry from the black-and-white moor I’d been on only minutes before. I hadn’t a clue of what it had meant, but at least I’d have some time to mull it over, with Eli and Victor to help.
As we got up to the van, Lou stopped stock-still and began to growl. Not his warning growl; this was a snarl of pure hatred. Before I could even think, forty pounds of teeth and claws and strength streaked out from behind the van and launched itself at us.
FOUR
ANYONE WALKING BY WOULD HAVE SEEN ONLY a crazed pit bull launching an attack on an unsuspecting victim. But I knew better. It seemed to have gained some size or weight, probably from picking off unwary pets. It had learned to disguise itself; that was why we hadn’t heard any reports of strange creatures prowling the city streets. But it hadn’t done a very good job. Its ears still had little tufts of fur on them; the claws on its feet scraped the pavement as it came bounding toward us; its movements were quick and jerky, nothing like the smooth and fluid motion of a real dog’s gait.
Naturally I didn’t have a spell ready to deal with it—my magic doesn’t usually work that way. I adapt, taking what I need from the environment around me, using sun and wind and bits of string and the sound of tinkling bells. It works for me; I’m flexible if nothing else, but right now I could have used some of Victor’s raw power and clever presets.