And so she had escaped, she and that other she both, to go up to Marianne’s room and sit crouched over the windowsill, leaning out into the quiet airs of early fall. The voice spoke to her. ‘It’s all right. Listen, Marianne. It will all be taken care of.’
‘What am I to do?’ she asked that other person, that grown-up voice. ‘Tell me, what am I to do?’
‘Go riding with Harvey,’ the voice said. ‘Go past the church, the house, the tree, the wall, the shelter, then on up Bitter River Road, into the forest. That’s all. I summoned the momentary gods to help you, and they will take care of it.’
Was this real? She couldn’t tell. ‘That’s all I have to do. Nothing other than that?’
‘Everything else has been arranged.’
Marianne began to cry.
‘Shhh, shhh,’ the voice comforted her. ‘Shhh. I’m sorry, dear one. I’m sorry little Marianne. Sorry to treat you so, use you so. But Cloud-haired mama will die, otherwise. Papa will die. Madame and Harvey will choke the life out of them in just the way she was testing on you when she first came in, to see if you were vulnerable. Then, when Mama and Papa are dead, they’ll take years to do the same to me, you, us.’
‘Why? Why?’ She knew why. It was a plea for sympathy rather than for information, but the voice replied as though she had not really known.
‘Why? For money, little girl. For all these lands and the money in the bank, Papa’s, Mama’s. There is more of it than you can imagine, and most of it will go to Harvey when they die. But a lot of it comes to you, Marianne, to you, me, us, and if we die, it goes to charity. Good works. Feed the hungry, rock the baby, build the hospital. You know, Marianne. Not to Harvey. But he is a trustee! So, he won’t do us in, not just yet. Later. When he’s had a chance to use it all up.’
‘And she … that aunt of his, she’s in on it?’
‘Why, Marianne, she’s it. She’s taught him everything he knows.’
‘What does she want?’
‘The money, Marianne. Money is power. Lubovosk is a poor little country, and she needs money. Papa is very, very wealthy. Once Harvey has it, she has him. She will siphon it off, through him. He thinks he can do what he pleases. She knows he will do only what she allows.’
Marianne didn’t understand it. She knew about greed and desire for money. For power. But she couldn’t believe anyone would kill Mama for it. Or Papa. And yet, she had looked deep into Madame’s eyes. After that, anyone would believe.
‘All I have to do is go riding?’
‘That’s all you have to do.’
She could not really know whether any part of this was real, and the unreality persisted through the night and into the morning as she put on her riding clothes and boots, as she greeted her horse at the stable where Harvey awaited her. ‘Well, where do you want to ride, little sister?’ He had a narrow, superior grin on his face, like a fox’s face, gleeful and anticipatory. ‘I thought we’d go along the forest path if it’s all right with you.’
‘No,’ the voice said.
‘No,’ said Marianne. ‘I want to ride by the edge of town and out the Bitter River Road.’
He stared at her, one nostril lifted in scorn, somewhat angrily, as though wondering how important it was to do what she wanted. Abruptly, he decided it didn’t matter. He mounted, not waiting for her, and trotted down the driveway to the road. Reluctantly, Marianne mounted Rustam and followed him, Rustam hopping and curveting to attract her attention. She patted him absently, adrift half in fatalistic resolve, half in terror.
The road into town was only half a mile from their gates, and Marianne saw the blue Dragon Dog waiting at the intersection, the stone steeple of the church spiking the sky behind him like a raised cudgel. ‘Shh,’ said the voice. ‘Ride on.’
It was a dream, she told herself. A waking dream.
The maple tree was on the way, and the yellow Dingo Dog came out of it as she passed, nose first, then ears and neck, finally the upcurving tail, out through the bark as though it had been a curtain of gauze, trotting along behind as though she had followed Marianne every day when she rode. The wall was next, and Black Dog rose from the Virginia creeper at its base to pace along beside them. ‘Good morning,’ he said to her silently. ‘I’m glad you’ve finally gotten around to it.’
‘Shhh,’ said the voice again.
‘I think I see Bitter River Road from here,’ Harvey said. ‘There’s a shortcut across the meadow.’
‘No,’ said Marianne. ‘I need to see something at the end of this block.’ She must dream this thing as she had been told, even though it wasn’t real.
‘You’re becoming very unaccommodating, I must say,’ Harvey sneered. ‘Though you’ve grown up amazingly while I’ve been gone. Almost as pretty as your Mama. Might be worth kissing, Marianne, pet. Think I’ll test that when we get home.’
Marianne stared at him, cold in her belly. ‘No,’ she said. ’You won’t.’ Dream or not, she didn’t want him to touch her.
He laughed, reaching out to stroke her chest where her breasts were just beginning to swell. ‘Oh, won’t we?’
She shuddered away from him as they passed the house of the old Chinese woman, and the Foo Dog came from under the porch, high as her armpit and red as a flower pot. ’One more,’ the red dog said conversationally. ‘Only one more.’
‘I know,’ said Marianne, aloud.
‘Did you say something, little sister?’ Harvey asked.
‘Not to you,’ said Marianne. They went on down the road. The shelter lay on the left, a vast rockpile built during WPA days, with a fanciful roof and a great chimney up the middle. At one time it had been used as a site for picnics, but no one used it any more. Ferns grew in crevices among the stones. The entrance was blocked by a forest of burdock, and the Wolf Dog came through the leaves as though they were smoke. She was silver in the sunlight, glittering. Her plumy tail waved a greeting and she looked at Marianne out of eyes like great amber lamps.
‘All here,’ said Black Dog.
‘All here,’ agreed the Dragon Dog and the Foo Dog.
‘Hmmm,’ growled the wolf, deep in her throat.
The Dingo was silent, sneaking looks at the others out of the sides of her eyes.
Marianne touched Rustam with her heels and he sprang obediently into a canter along the dirt road. She did not know where they were going, but someone did. She did not need to look at them to know the five momentary gods were keeping easy pace. In the shapes that other Marianne had assigned to them? Or in their own shapes? Which?
‘Come back here, you little witch,’ Harvey shouted, irritated. He wasn’t as good a rider as Marianne. Horses didn’t like him, and in any case, his horse was no match for Rustam. Both these things annoyed him, and he clattered after her, furious at being outrun. She fled on, the dogs tight at her heels, around the curve of the River Road and under a huge oak that stood in a clutter of boulders at the forest’s edge.
‘Stop here,’ the voice said.
‘Here,’ said several of the momentary gods, all at once.
She stopped, turned, waited to see what would happen.
Harvey rode toward her, his face crimson with anger, his whip hand raised. He got angry easily. Perhaps he would whip his horse. Perhaps he would whip her. He had not decided when the dogs erupted from the underbrush and were suddenly all around him. A pack of curs, he thought, mongrel whelps appearing out of the underbrush all in a moment. One of them, a large, gray one, leaped for the throat of his horse. Another caught at his ankle, tearing him from his seat. It was the huge, black one that caught his hand, the one holding the whip, and jerked him off of the horse, down. He put out his other hand to protect himself from the rock he saw beneath him. Too late.
He felt the rock hit the back of his head, crushingly.
He was not unconscious.
He could still see. She was sitting on her horse, staring at him. At him. Not at the dogs. The dogs. Sitting around her, looking at him also. Licking their mouths. A
yellow one burrowing into its shoulder as though for a flea.
‘They’re yours,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Yours.’
‘Not mine,’ she shook her head. ‘Not mine, Harvey.’ It was all a dream. Her pulse was not fast. There was no feeling about it. He lay there and she was not even glad, not even sorry. She dreamed she said, ‘You and your aunt shouldn’t have planned to kill Mama and Papa. You really shouldn’t have.’
‘How did you find out? Bitch,’ he snarled. It was the last word he ever said. Something beneath him broke. He felt an abrupt, almost painless cracking in his neck, and then all feeling ceased.
‘What now?’ she whispered. Perhaps she would wake up now.
‘Ride home, very fast, and tell them what happened,’ said her voice.
She rode. She told them. Dogs, she said, for that is what she had seen. She said they had come out of the forest, jumped at Harvey, pulled him from his horse. All of that was true, and the horror in her voice needed no pretense. She was horrified at Harvey and at herself and even at the sorcerous voice that spoke from deep inside herself. The real anger at that voice was yet to come.
CHAPTER THREE
There were phone calls, ambulances, men with a stretcher. There were low-voiced conversations with doctors. Later, there was a hunt for the dogs by an armed posse, but the animals had vanished as though they had never existed.
‘Can you describe them?’ the animal control officer asked Marianne. ‘How many were there?’
‘Five. I counted five,’ she said.
‘You said one big black one.’
‘Very big. And one that looked like a wolf. And a red one. And a smaller yellow one. And one that was kind of bluish.’
‘Bluish?’ Papa asked, unbelieving.
The animal control officer did not disbelieve. ‘Well, yes sir, it could be. A blue tick hound, maybe. They’re really sort of dark gray with white mixed in. It does look bluish, particularly in the sun.’
‘Does her description mean anything to you?’
‘I’m afraid not. Dogs will pack, of course. It’s as natural to them as—well, as going to football games is to us. Usually when we hear about a pack, it’s made up of dogs from adjacent properties. They get acquainted along their borders, so to speak, and then they run together when they get the chance. It doesn’t take much to make a friendly pack into a hunting pack, either. That’s natural to dogs, too, but I’ve never heard of a pack attacking a mounted man.’ He fell silent, musing for a time before he went on. ‘I know of one big black dog, but he’s old as the hills and almost toothless. As for the rest of them, well, it’s an odd assortment, you’ll admit. You sure about the colors and sizes, Marianne?’
‘Yes sir.’ She was. She could even have told the officer where to find the dogs, but he hadn’t asked her that. When she thought it over, she realized he could not have found them there, even if she had told him.
‘How about breeds. Do you know anything about different breeds of dog?’
‘The red one was like the dog in Papa’s office.’
They went into the office to look at the pair of Foo Dogs on Papa’s desk: the male, on the right, with his foot upon the glove; the female, on the left, with her foot upon her pup.
‘What are they, sir? Some kind of idol?’
‘Temple guardians,’ Papa had replied. ‘If they look like any living breed at all, I’d say it would be the chow. That would go with the red coloring Marianne mentioned. Chows have black mouths and tongues, too.’
‘His mouth was black,’ said Marianne, verifying the identification. This, too, was perfectly true.
Papa raged and the animal control man sympathized, but they didn’t find the pack of dogs.
‘What now?’ she asked her internal voice, still dreaming. None of it was real. Not any of it.
‘Now?’ The voice was remote, as though it reached her from some incredible distance. ‘Marianne; nothing now. You’ve saved them. You’ve saved yourself. Now you must get on with your life and they must go on with theirs.’
‘That’s all!’ She was incredulous.
‘That’s all.’ The sadness in that voice! Marianne was too young to recognize the components of that emotion—aching love and a piercingly sweet renunciation—but she could not miss the sadness. ‘Oh,’ the voice went on, with tears in it, ‘except one thing. When you are about twenty-one or -two, maybe a little older than that, you may meet a man. His name is Makr Avehl. He comes from Alphenlicht, like I—like we do. He may know all about this. About Harvey, everything. He’s—he’s a very – well, he’s a very good friend of ours.’
‘Do you—do you love him?’ In the vision, it seemed appropriate that she should love him.
‘He saved my life. He loves me,’ the voice said sadly. ‘I do love him. I don’t know if you will or not.’ It went away then. Purposefully and absolutely, as though some tenuous line that had tied it to this Marianne had been deliberately severed and the connection between them had been broken. Young Marianne knew that grown-up Marianne was gone. Not merely elsewhere, but gone. There were no longer two, but only one. If the other Marianne had been correct about Madame and about Harvey, no one knew it now except young Marianne herself. And perhaps the man. Makr Avehl. If he were real and not merely part of the dream.
‘Mack Ravel,’ she said to herself, already forgetting the name. ‘From Alphenlicht.’
Time went on. The motionless body that was Harvey came home from the hospital with two attendants and a wheeled litter. His attendants said he could see well enough. He could even signal yes and no by blinking his eyes, though he seemed to do so only in response to questions concerning food or temperature. Would he like more ice cream? Was it too warm? The eyes would blink – once for yes, twice for no. If one asked anything unrelated to food or temperature, ‘Would you like to go out on the lawn, Harvey?’ there was no response at all.
Sometimes she would come into a room and find him parked there, just lying, looking at her. Sometimes she saw something in his silent stare that could not really be there, something smoldering, like flame beneath a pile of ashes. She told herself it was only because she needed to see something rather than this vacancy. In reality, everyone said there was nothing there. The doctors agreed. The body lived, but whatever had been Harvey within it did not.
Seeing him thus helpless, unmanned, dehumanized, converted into something that was kept alive only out of a conventional sense of the appropriate, made her former belief in the immediacy of danger seem remote and unlikely. The precarious world of her dream-threat faded; her conviction went with it. She did not really believe in it. Belief in the momentary gods departed. She did not think they had really existed, either. By the time she was fourteen, fifteen, she knew that none of it had been real. The accident had been only an accident. There had been dogs. Only dogs. The rest was woven out of fairy tales and too much imagination and an overbred sense of guilt. Her childhood had not really been as she remembered it, all known ahead of time. There had not really been a grown-up Marianne in her head. All those double visions of things had not actually happened. They had resulted from some kind of juvenile nervous disorder, now outgrown. She did not tell herself it would never happen again. She merely thought of it as an aberration, one she could handle.
All her memories shifted, changed, underwent a softening as she told herself what she had thought was real had been only a childish imagination.
Until at last there was nothing left at all. Except, from time to time, a feeling of formless guilt. Try though she might to tell herself that it had only been an accident, something inside accused her of being responsible for Harvey’s condition. His silent body became ubiquitous, a constant accusation. He seemed to inhabit every room of the house simultaneously. He and the litter were inseparable, half living, half mechanical, not a life but an accusatory device. She twisted beneath the pressure of guilt, feeling it a burden that she longed to shift away from herself.
Who had done it really?
&nb
sp; That other Marianne who was only a fiction? Fictions cannot be responsible for anything.
Was there a real person involved in all this? She would wait and see. If there was, that person was surely responsible for whatever had happened. If anything had happened.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ some childish part of her continued to insist. ‘I didn’t do anything. If anybody did anything at all, they did it.’
Time went. School went. Out of her love for her horse and her interest in animals of all kinds, out of her devotion to the vast acres that Papa Zahmani had said one day would be hers, she had studied agriculture and livestock and business management, knowing she would have to prove herself to Papa before he would let her, a woman, manage the estate with its huge stables of thoroughbreds and its herds of pure-bred cattle. Papa would never have considered her if Harvey had been well and able, but Harvey wasn’t. Guilt bit at her again, but she shrugged it off and went on with her studies.
The University went. There was a love affair, sweet and intense and sudden as a summer shower, over as soon, leaving Marianne wondering what she had seen in a particular egotistic, not very interesting, and totally predictable young man. With encouragement from Mama, she decided to forget him by visiting the land of her forebears. She spent several happy weeks among the small villages of Alphenlicht, picking up a little of its language and learning of its customs, no stranger to her than others she had seen in places far closer. When she read of the Prime Minister of the country, Makr Avehl, it was with a sense that she might have read or heard the name before, but it made no particular impression. The papers said he was on his way to the United Nations in New York. There was another dispute between Alphenlicht and neighboring Lubovosk. Madame Delubovoska had asserted a right for Lubovosk to govern the lands of Alphenlicht. The Prime Minister ridiculed these specious claims. The matter would be heard before the General Assembly. Reading of this, Marianne experienced a tremor of recollection, as though, after a long detour, she had come once again upon an old, well-traveled road. The sensation lasted only for a moment. Real memories did not form; no voice spoke.