Too many things to consider, too many things that could go wrong.
If he thought about them too much, he wouldn't be able to move at all.
The lights in the workshop were extinguished, just as Hugh realized he could probably have done worse than to tap quietly but firmly at the bootery door and hope that Wakley would be the one who came to investigate.
After a few minutes a light appeared, briefly, in a second-floor window, then it, too, was blown out, leaving only the kitchen light on. Nathan Wakley, or Tessa? Or one of the apprentices? Or the hired girl Mother had said the Wakleys had taken on?
Hugh was very aware of the passing minutes. Mother's spell made him keenly attuned to exactly how much time he had left.
The light in the kitchen stayed on and stayed on.
Hugh blew on his fingers to warm them, shifted position to keep his legs from cramping. He tried not to picture Tessa coming awake at the sound of Father's Pennsylvania rifle discharging. Tessa running into the room. Tessa seeing her father dead.
Seeing him standing over her father's body. Come morning, if he succeeded, there could be no doubt in anybody's mind, so it seemed more honorable to stay rather than run, to try to explain ... Would that make things better or worse for Tessa? He tried to put himself in her position and could not.
And still the light stayed on.
Hugh stood. In his spell-enhanced awareness of time, he knew that there were ten more minutes left till midnight. The time had run out for hoping to do this in the dark. He took several deep breaths, flexed his fingers. Realized he was just taking up time, still hoping.
He bit the end off one of the paper cartridges, poured the charge down the rifle barrel, and rammed ball and paper down on top. Then, without pause, he stepped up to the door and knocked, not loud enough to rouse the house, but to clearly identify himself as a visitor rather than a sneak thief. Hugh lifted the Pennsylvania rifle to his shoulder.
Nothing.
Hugh lowered the rifle long enough to knock a second time, more forcefully, then hastily raised it again.
"Door's open," Wakley's voice called out.
Any more noise and they were sure to have Tessa—if not the apprentices and maid, if not the neighbors—down here too soon.
Hugh weighed opening the door then hastily raising the rifle and aiming and firing from the doorway, against actually entering. Certainly, the closer he was to his target, the less room there was for error: missing, or having a second person in the kitchen get between Hugh and Wakley.
At best, the rifle took a full minute to reload. Realistically, he would have only one shot.
Realistically, his hands were already shaking.
He swung the rifle around so that he was holding it—muzzle up, stock toward the ground—in his right hand. He hoped this would look less immediately threatening. He hoped he would still be able to move quickly when he judged the time right.
Hugh opened the door and walked into the kitchen.
Nathan Wakley was sitting at the table, an ale tankard in front of him. No weapon, Hugh noted. Nobody else in the room.
Hugh swung the Pennsylvania rifle up to his shoulder.
Against all expectation, against all reason, Wakley said, calmly, softly, "Hello, Hugh."
Hugh froze.
Wakley said: "I've been expecting you a long time."
The muzzle of the rifle wavered as Hugh's hands trembled, though Hugh told himself that Wakley must have run afoul of another Hugh, must have him confused with someone else.
It didn't make any difference. Hugh felt no inclination to take on the role of avenging angel. He didn't need for Wakley to understand what was happening or why. He didn't need, or want, Wakley's fear. He only needed to kill Wakley in order to live.
"It's all right," Wakley told him. "I understand."
But even as he spoke, there was the sound of bare feet hurrying down the stairs, and Tessa's worried voice calling, "Father?"
For the first time, Wakley looked afraid. He looked terrified. "Don't hurt her," he begged, a whisper so Tessa wouldn't hear. "She had nothing to do with it."
Hugh couldn't let the man die thinking his daughter was in danger. "I know that," he assured Wakley.
And at that moment Tessa entered the kitchen, wearing a nightdress over which she'd hastily thrown a shawl. "Is some—"
She stopped, seeing her father, seeing him standing just across the table from her father, pointing a rifle at him.
Then, proving he hadn't mistaken Hugh for someone else: 'Tessa," Wakley said, as though the three of them had met at a spinning bee, "you remember Hugh Brewster. He and I have some unsettled business. Go back upstairs."
Tessa recognized him from that evening, Hugh could tell. "Hugh Brewster?" she repeated numbly. She glanced from him to her father to the Pennsylvania rifle back to him. Suddenly her eyes widened, and Hugh knew she recognized him from much further back than this evening.
"Tessa, this doesn't concern you," Wakley said. "Go upstairs."
"No," Tessa answered.
There were only minutes left. Hugh could feel them slipping away. Still looking at Wakley over the rifle barrel, Hugh said to Wakley, "What do you mean, you've been expecting me?"
"You've haunted my dreams," Wakley said. "I thought you were a waking vision"—Wakley nodded to indicate the tankard of ale he'd been drinking—"except then Tessa wouldn't be able to see you." He considered a moment. "And I wouldn't have expected a ghost to have knocked." Another pause. "This is something of your mother's doing, I'm guessing."
Hugh took a steadying breath, knowing that not so very long ago people who had tried what Mother had done had been hung or stoned or burned at the stake. "There's no other way," he said so that Tessa wouldn't testify against her. "The only spell my mother could find to bring me back requires that I repay what was done to me." He was having trouble breathing again, which could have been fear, or the fact that his life was drawing close to an end. He only had about a minute and a half left to kill Wakley. He sighted down the rifle's barrel.
—and Wakley, nodding, said, "I'm sorry."
Hugh was able to drag in a ragged breath, then another. "Why?" he demanded shakily.
"We realized you'd learned about the weapons stored in Josiah Blodgett's barn. There was a British detachment heading toward Summerfield, and we were afraid you'd tell them about it, give them the names of the leaders of the rebellion."
"I wouldn't have done that," Hugh protested. He was shivering and spoke with his jaws clenched to keep his teeth from chattering. "I would have done nothing that would have gotten people killed."
Wakley nodded, but said, "There was no way for us to know that."
Seconds left. Hugh tightened his grip. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
"I understand," Wakley answered, the second time he'd said that.
Hugh tried to hold the rifle steady.
Wakley braced himself.
Tessa covered her mouth, but a soft cry escaped anyway.
Hugh felt the last seconds ticking away. All he had to do was tighten his finger the least bit, and he could live.
"It's all right," Wakley told him, no doubt worried that, the way Hugh was shaking, Hugh was likely to only wound him, that it would require reloading and multiple shots to kill him—the way it had taken with Hugh himself.
From the parlor Hugh could hear the first chime of the Wakleys' clock proclaiming midnight.
A sharp pain pierced his chest. Now, or die, he thought as the bell rang out a second time. If it wasn't already too late. Despite the pain he got the rifle steady.
... but couldn't inflict that pain on another.
The bell rang a third time, and Hugh let the rifle swivel to point downward. The pain was dizzying, and he dropped to his knees but managed to keep hold of the weapon, afraid that dropping it might cause it to discharge.
On the fourth ring he got the rifle safely set on the floor, wrapped his arms around himself to keep from crying out, and prepared to d
ie.
On the fifth ringing of the mantel clock, Tessa realized what was happening: that her father was to live, and that Hugh Brewster was to die.
It isn't fair! she thought. Why can't they both live?
The bell rang a sixth time. She met her father's anguished look, and he shook his head helplessly. "I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely.
A seventh ring.
Father was sorry, Hugh was sorry, everybody was sorry: Didn't that count for anything?
Eight...
Tessa rushed forward, to hastily kneel beside Hugh, to put her arms around him, to hold him close. She wasn't going to let him die alone a second time.
Nine...
There was a shadow at the open kitchen door. "No!" Abigail Brewster cried. Her shawl flapping around her so that she really did look like a witch, Mrs. Brewster ran into the kitchen and reached for Hugh's rifle on the floor.
Ten...
Hugh brought his hand down on the barrel. "Enough," he gasped. Tessa felt him shudder. "Enough."
Eleven...
Twelve.
Tessa tightened her grasp on him, not knowing what to expect.
Nothing happened.
He continued to breathe, somewhat raggedly, for another several seconds; but then he worked to bring his breathing under control. His face was drawn from the pain, but already he was beginning to get some color back.
Mrs. Brewster sank to her knees in front of Hugh. "I'm sorry," she said. She looked in turn at Tessa and Tessa's father, repeating, "I'm sorry," then faced back to Hugh. "I thought there was only one way to pay back violence."
Tessa supposed this made more sense than it sounded like. She supposed it was the answer to one of the many questions that, eventually, would need to be asked. But for the moment she didn't have the energy to ask any of them.
Somehow—she doubted she'd ever learn exactly how or why—they'd all been given a second chance: her father, with his hand over his face; Hugh's mother, holding desperately on to Hugh's hand; Hugh, with his head lowered, obviously still too shaky to speak. And she herself.
She rested her head on Hugh's shoulder. Second chances didn't come to everyone. She hoped they would all do well with theirs.
* * *
Afterword: Where Do Ideas Come From?
PERHAPS THE QUESTION authors are asked most frequently is "Where do you get your ideas?"
The most honest answer I can give is, "Beats me."
When you're in school, teachers give assignments. They say: "Write about what you did on your summer vacation." Or, "Write a paper told from the viewpoint of your favorite vegetable." Some of the assignments are fun, and some are a burden. The good news is that when you're an author, there's no teacher to tell you your assignment. But the bad news is that when you're an author, there's no teacher to tell you your assignment. With the whole world to choose from, where does one begin?
So here's the second-most-honest answer I can give: Ideas are in the air all around us, and sometimes—when we're lucky—an idea comes along and smacks a writer on the side of the head and says, "Pay attention."
CURSES, INC.
This story is the result of being nearsighted.
I was in a restaurant that has a bulletin board where people can stick their business cards. As I was walking by, I saw a card that—at first glance—I thought said CURSES, INC. I went back for a second look and saw that what it actually said was CRUISES, INC. But I thought "Curses, Inc." was an intriguing business concept, not to mention a great title. With a title like that, of course I had to write about a modern witch, and what's more modern than computers and selling spells over the World Wide Web?
SKIN DEEP
"Skin Deep" came about because of a lunchtime conversation with some friends who are also writers.
One of the women, whom I had only known for two or three years, talked about being born with a birthmark on her face. She described being tormented by children, just as Ardda is in my story. Only recently had new developments in laser surgery allowed the birthmark to be removed. My friend said that this had changed her entire self-perception and—therefore—her life.
Talk about an idea smacking a particular writer on the side of the head: In this case, there were at least eight of us writers at that table, and—as far as I know—I'm the only one who came away with more than lunch. Perhaps this idea chose me because it knew I would be sympathetic, since I'd always felt like the ugly duckling who—instead of growing into a beautiful swan—grows into just another duck. I've always had mixed feelings about "The Ugly Duckling": I'm happy he's happy at the end—but, boy, do those other ducks get on my nerves.
PAST SUNSET
This was the first of the stories I wrote for this collection.
The idea started with a Halloween decoration a friend had draped over her doorway. From the street it appeared to be a beautiful lady dressed in white, almost like an angel guarding the door. But the closer I came, the spookier the face got.
I set the story in France, which is where my mother comes from. Parts of France are as modem as anything in the United States. But every once in a while you turn a corner and find yourself in an old section that looks even today pretty much as I've described it, as though nothing has changed in hundreds of years.
"Past Sunset" was originally published in Bruce Coville's Book of Spine Tinglers.
TO CONVERSE WITH THE DUMB BEASTS
We have a cat. Many of our friends have dogs. For anyone who's ever honestly tried to guess what his or her pet is thinking, I need say no more.
BOY WITCH
After I'd written all the other stories for this collection, my editor, Jane Yolen, pointed out that I had all kinds of witches—good-hearted, evil, beautiful, ugly, from several times past, and from today—but I didn't have one who was a boy.
I had a hard time with that. Though I know that during witch trials in Europe and North America, men as well as women were accused of and executed for being witches, I had a gender bias that made me think of witches as female. For two months I mumbled and complained and tried to come up with an idea that would fit a boy witch. Nothing. Finally I mentioned the problem to a friend. She didn't even need to pause to consider. "Why don't you write about a boy who's trying to be a witch, and his spells don't work?" she suggested—proving, once again, how story ideas can hit different people at random.
I started thinking how boys and men have a reputation for jumping into projects without reading the directions first, and there was my story.
Since Jane is responsible for "Boy Witch," I considered naming the girl who comes looking for a spell "Jane." But poor Emma goes through so much, I decided not to try Jane's sense of humor. (And the friend who gave me the idea wants you to know she isn't Emma, either; her name is Mary.)
LOST SOUL
This is the only story that wasn't written with this collection in mind.
Several years ago a friend wrote a story about a kelpie—a sea sprite who lures men to their deaths and sucks their souls. His story was a haunting tale about a kelpie who fought very hard against her nature, wanting to become human and never again harm anyone. It was a beautiful story, but it got me interested in writing about a kelpie who is very pleased with what she is.
I also struggled with the concept of losing one's soul, and I decided it meant acting in a way totally alien to one's nature—the way someone wholly lost to an obsession might.
"Lost Soul" was originally published in A Wizard's Dozen.
REMEMBER ME
This was one of the later stories I wrote for this collection.
I had already written "Past Sunset" in the first person (the story told by "I" rather than "he" or "she"), and I was concerned that this made it stick out too much and not fit in with the others. I needed another first-person story. Where "Past Sunset" is told by a narrator—Marianne—remembering what happened in her past, I decided that "Remember Me" should be written in present tense because the narrator has no past. I pictured him, stand
ing confused on the road, and the whole story of why he had no past, and what would happen to him while he tried to find out who he was, and how the story would end—all this came to me in less time than it's just taken to describe it. All I had to do was type it, making this the easiest of these stories to write.
WITCH-HUNT
I wrote this for an anthology that was looking for "nightmare" stories. Editor Michael Stearns selected "Cypress Swamp Granny" instead, but I think "Witch-Hunt" is scarier. I think it's the scariest story I've ever written, because it's the most likely to come true.
I intentionally tried to mislead readers into believing that the story is set in a different place and time, to put a safe distance between you and Lyssa.
Until the end, of course. By then, you realize that—by reading this book—you're exactly the same kind of person as Lyssa. Better luck to you.
CYPRESS SWAMP GRANNY
Most of my stories start with an idea for the plot, or the characters, or some sort of central theme. This one started with the place.
About fifteen years before I wrote this, my husband and I visited New Orleans. While he was kept busy going to business meetings all day, I got to do tourist-type things: a trip down the Mississippi in a paddle-wheel boat, touring plantations, and walking in the city. Someday, I thought, I'll have to write a story set here.
As I said, that was fifteen years ago, which just goes to show that I can't be rushed.
"Cypress Swamp Granny" first appeared in A Nightmare's Dozen.
THE WITCH'S SON
This story started out with a moral dilemma, rather than with a situation or characters.
The law says a person may kill in self-defense—that is, if one's life is threatened. I started wondering about this in a fantasy context: If it's all right to kill to save a life, is it all right to kill to regain a life?
Obviously the ending of "The Witch's Son" wouldn't work in a modern setting: Today, if Hugh Brewster returned to life after an absence of fourteen years, he'd run into all sorts of complications with birth and death records, Geraldo Rivera hounding him for an interview, and enough money owed in back taxes to make him wonder if it was all worth it.