He poled their unwieldy craft at a faster swing, the red spot on his shoulder glistening in the sun.
“Head to the right, behind that point there.” Owen found himself saying those words as if repeating some suggestion from another.
Galvin’s bushy eyebrows lifted as he demanded: “How come you knew there was this here place waiting?” They had slid behind an outstretched hook of rock stretched like a beckoning finger and were certainly, for the moment, no longer clear targets.
Owen flushed. “I didn’t know,” he protested.
But Galvin had no more time to ask questions as he swung the unwieldy craft into what did seem almost like a pocket-sized harbor. They united to pull the raft halfway up the bank. Then his father insisted that Galvin have his wound, not a deep one, tended. As much as preaching, Matthew Hawkins knew something of the healing art.
However, once the task of transferring their stores ashore was accomplished, Owen had to yield to that which had pulled at him stronger and stronger from the moment he set foot on this isle. He headed inland with the skill of one who knew exactly where he was.
Rough stone walls confronted him. No redskin he had ever heard of did that kind of building. Most of it had tumbled this way and that through the years, but enough remained to mark out a square. He jumped one of the fallen walls and stood in that square. For a moment he was giddy, as if something had struck him on the head, and then he turned—someone might have caught him by the shoulder to urge him so—to the one portion of the wall that sturdily resisted the attacks of time.
When Galvin and his father caught up with him, Owen was down on his knees, running his hands back and forth to brush away moss and reveal the lines deep graven there.
It was a cross slightly different from any he had seen before. A grave? It might well be. Then his father’s shadow covered the patch he had cleared.
“What have we here?” Matthew Hawkins went on his knees beside his son. “Spanish? Never heard they came this far north—”
But that same force that had brought Owen here set him now to digging swiftly—and with all the strength he could summon—at the edges of that crossed stone.
Galvin had loaded all three rifles and had them well to hand.
“Good-enough place,” he observed.
There came the call of a jay, and he stiffened. “Seems like that there old story isn’t goin’ to help us, Reverend. You and the boy better get to the guns. We’ve got the best cover in this part anyhow.”
The stone moved at Owen’s tugging and then fell to the ground, barely missing his knees. The space within was small, but he could see the box inside, and eagerly he pulled at it.
“Well, I’ll be!” Galvin gave the find a long glance, and then his head snapped around as a birdcall came from some rocks.
The trailing party was slow to show, or perhaps some last remnants of superstition kept them from charging. Owen hefted the heavy rifle. The box was between his feet, and now in the full light it gleamed and sparks of light made patterns at the corners of the lid.
There followed no time for treasure hunting. Their trackers suddenly took heart and came leaping into view. There was one among them who wore a tattered hunting shirt, and whose greased-back hair was a dirty red. A renegade.
Perhaps they never had a chance from the very start, but they took out two of the attackers before they were pulled down in turn and looked up into wolfish faces dabbed with paint. Better dead than captive, Owen knew, and shivered.
“Wall, now.” It was the renegade who stopped and caught up the box. “Got yourself a pretty, boy. You won’t git no chance at it now. I, Hawk Haverage, gits this.”
They were already pulling that about. Galvin’s eyes were closed, and there was a thick smear of blood down the side of his face. Owen could see only his father’s feet being bound with rawhide thongs.
“Let’s see what’s in this pretty of yourn.” Haverage swung it back and forth by his ear, listening. Perhaps for a rattle of contents. Then he applied the point of his knife to the edge of the box, prying it up on all four sides.
The Indians had stopped their own looting to draw closer. Finally the lid rose, and Haverage looked confounded.
“Old sandal. Look, it’s old enough to be just dust.” He turned the box upside down and shook it. Dust did come out, but it did not fall. Rather, it spread and thickened—thickened enough to form bodies. Bodies bursting from that fog. There was a shrill screeching as the Indians took off, scrambling wildly over the broken walls.
Haverage was of stronger stuff. He flung the knife he still held at the nearest figure. It struck true enough, and Owen was sure that he heard the ring of metal against metal before it fell.
They were no longer things of shadows, those who gathered here, but rather like some of the pictures he had seen in those books his father sometimes found to borrow. Knights!
Knights from a different world and time. The leader had reached Haverage. A sword as solid as any normal steel swung up and came down. Though his body showed no visible wound, the renegade collapsed and lay still.
Then that silent company out of time gathered around the box. They knelt, holding their swords by the blade before them. Owen could see their lips move, though he caught no sound, and he believed they were praying.
Slowly they arose and then they marched into the fog that had been hanging like a curtain. There was a feeling of withdrawal, as if something utterly precious had come to an end.
The fog was gone, and with it the knights. Haverage’s body lay unmoving by the wall, but his father said sharply:
“Owen, that knife, can you get it and cut yourself free?”
It was an effort, but he achieved that at last and, making a wide circle about the box, went to free his father. Galvin groaned and struggled up on one elbow with his bound hands, which Owen quickly freed, to reach his head.
Once more Matthew tended a wound that, as the blood was washed away, proved to be less serious than they had feared. But instead of watching his father’s labors, Owen kept his eyes upon the box that lay by Haverage’s inert body.
Finally he made himself move to pick it up. Its interior was clear of dust, but there was writing engraved on the lid. He knew a little Latin, all his father could drive into his head on occasion when there was time for schooling.
His father came up behind him. “Now that has the look of a Popish thing—”
Galvin was sitting up, and now he said weakly: “What’s it for, Reverend? Looks like gold, don’t it?”
“They were used to hold holy things—bones of saints and the like.”
Owen pushed it into his father’s hands. “There’s writing on it—Latin, maybe.”
His father studied the engraving, carefully brushing away a film of dust from the lines.
“Where His Holy Feet pressed let all remember the courage of Our Lord.” Then Matthew pointed to a last symbol. “A Knights Templar seal. They were always thought to have found great treasures of the spirit in the Holy Land, and guarded such to the end. . . .”
“But Haverage said there was only an old sandal inside. . . .” Owen said slowly. That odd sense of being one with someone else grew stronger and then was gone.
“ ‘Where His Holy Feet pressed.’ Remember your scripture, boy. When Our Lord was sent to the cross, did not the soldiers on guard throw dice for His robe—and perhaps His sandals? Only our Holy Father knows the secrets of this world. Templars came here fearing the wrath of those roused against them. They were the Stonish Men in truth, keeping guard until death. But today we saw them return, that their treasure not fall into evil hands.”
His father knelt, and Owen followed quickly. With the ease of long practice his father spoke those lines intended to ease the passing of those who died in the Light—far from home—deep in time.
Owen did not even realize that he was moving until his hands closed about the Casket and he was kneeling, to set it in its old hiding place. He fumbled with the heavy stone and
urged it back into position. It was empty, but it had once held very much. It, too, must not be any longer troubled by the greed of men.
Churchyard Yew
A Dangerous Magic (1999) Edited by Denise Little, Published by DAW
“Yes, yes—well—I’ll see—”
It was very plain to Ilse Harveling that her hostess was between irritation and embarrassment, fighting to break into the flow of speech on the other end of the phone line.
“Yes.” That came with sharp firmness—Louise was losing control. “I shall let you know.” She snapped the phone back on its cradle forcibly. “People! Really—”
Ilse waited for her to return to the small table in the bay window where they had been sharing a leisurely breakfast. “People!” she exploded for the second time.
“So—we have people, my dear. And it is plain that something you dislike has been asked of you.” Ilse slid the jam spoon back into its pot. The morning sun was bright across the table, it was a good morning—yet—there was a shadowing which was not that from any cloud.
Louise plumped herself into her seat, beginning to fiddle with the dishes before her, moving a plate, a cup and saucer a fraction. So far she had not met Ilse’s level gaze. Then her lips pursed as if she tasted something sour.
“It is an imposition. I will not allow it!”
Ilse waited. Louise was more upset than she had ever seen her.
“Marj Lawrence—she wants you to come to lunch at Hex House.”
“And this is an invitation which you find so very upsetting. Why is that?”
“Because Marj—she thinks they have a ghost—or something wrong. Of all the stupid things! It’s my fault. I’ll admit that. I told Marj once about the time in Bradenton when you helped old Mrs. Templer. Jack always does say I talk too much and this time it’s caught up with me. But you are not going to be pulled into anything. Of course I feel sorry for Marj and Tom—they invested most of their savings in that place. There were some old stories—but goodness knows that James Hartle lived there all his life and there was never any trouble. It was only when they bought the place and turned it into a bed and breakfast and that lawyer died of a heart attack. Then people began talking—”
Louise planted her elbows on the table, supporting her chin in her cupped hands.
“People,” she continued, “have heart attacks all the time in all kinds of places. It was just hard luck for the Lawrences that this Mark Walden had his in one of their bedrooms. The doctor said there was no question about the cause of death. They could just have shut up that room and forgotten about it for a while. Only all the talk started. Just a lot of gossip which should be laughed at. Maybe some of it was even this Walden man’s own fault—he was poking around asking questions—seems he thought he had some roots here—of course, with that name—but it’s been over a hundred years!”
Louise paused for breath and Ilse took the opportunity to ask: “So there was indeed a story. Why was the house given such an unlucky name in the first place?”
“Well, it was called the Hartle place when the Lawrences bought it. But Marj is a local history buff, and she started to trace its history. So—there you are,” Louise said triumphantly. “It is partly her own poking around which must have started the talk. She thought what she found out was romantic! Ghosts!” Louise uttered a sound which was not quite a snort.
“And there was a recent death—it is this, then, that has started talk?” persisted Ilse.
“A man died of a heart attack. Now most of the valley is talking about it and the Lawrences are not prospering. But they are not going to drag you into this, I promise you, Ilse! You came here for a rest, and we have things to do which are cheerful and fun. Tomorrow there is that auction at the Brevar farm and the old lady is said to have just trunks and trunks of stuff which have not been opened for years. We could find some real treasures.”
Louise’s mouth turned up. She was a collector of vintage clothing and the thoughts of what might be found in those old trunks drew her attention momentarily away from the woes of Marj Lawrence.
“There ought to be some old beaded things—just what you are looking for, Ilse. Mrs. Brevar inherited from her mother and her great-aunt, and her grandmother, and none of them ever threw anything away.”
“An outing to be enjoyed, Louise. But for the moment, please, satisfy my curiosity concerning this affair at Hex House.”
Louise frowned. “It’s about the oldest house around here. The story is that it was built on a direct grant from the king in the old days. You know that the south end of the valley was settled by some odd church people from Austria. Not Amish—but something of the same order—very strict but excellent farmers.
“In that day Hex House was rather like an inn—travelers stopped there. The church crowd would have nothing to do with anyone from the inn. In fact, there was bad feeling. Honestly, Ilse, I really don’t know much of the story. It had been forgotten until Marj got her certainly unbright idea of capitalizing on its history. You would have to ask her—Only you are not going to! She is not going to bother you.”
“I do not think that the term ‘bother’ enters into this, Louise,” said the other slowly. “It might be well to lunch with your friend and hear what is troubling her so greatly.”
“No! Ilse, she has no right to ask you—”
“That is not the truth, Louise. I did not hear your friend’s side of that telephone conversation, but I think you were speaking with someone deeply distressed. I do not believe that there is any thought of publicity in Mrs. Lawrence’s desire to speak with me.”
Louise was shaking her head.
“You know, dear friend,” Ilse continued, “that I have been granted certain gifts. When one is so favored—or burdened—there is also a duty to use those for the relief of others. I think it is wise that we do accept this invitation. Perhaps it is all nothing as you believe, but on the chance that my talent is needed, I cannot say no. And—” Ilse hesitated. She was not watching Louise now but looking beyond her into the garden. There was a strangeness about her stare as if she could sight something of importance if she would try hard enough. “And, if that invitation was for today, then I think it best we accept.”
Louise’s face was flushed. “I am more embarrassed than I can tell you. I do talk too much and so I am caught—and you with me. All right.”
She got up so abruptly from the table that it rocked a fraction and a spoon fell to the floor. Paying no attention to that, Louise went to the phone, dialed with an impatient flick of the finger, and relayed their acceptance.
“At least you’ll get to see some of the southern valley,” she said when she put the receiver down, though that thought did not appear to cheer her much.
The southern end of the valley did have its appeal as Louise drove slowly along the narrow back roads, ditches on either side, the verges thick with the berry-shaped flowers of red clover and the tall lace-crowned stalks of Queen Anne’s Lace. Wild morning glories with their pallid blooms patched the strangling vines clumping on the old fences. Here and there could be sighted a red barn or a low-roofed house.
“Stuben land,” Louise waved with a gesture wide enough to include most of what they could see.
“Stuben?”
“That’s what the north valley calls it. I told you about those church people who settled here—they kept aloof from everyone, did all necessary communication through one man—Johanus Stuben. So everyone thought of them collectively as Stubens. Oh, here’s their church—looks more like a barn, doesn’t it? That was part of their beliefs: no steeples, no ornamentation.”
Louise stopped the car before a building now sagged of roof, its narrow windows shuttered by weathered boards nailed to shut out time and life. It did resemble a barn but lacked the usual quaint appeal of those structures.
“The sect has died out?” Ilse studied the sober, grayish block. Even the common field flowers appeared to shun its vicinity. Only sun-browned tangles of grass grew sparsely
about.
“Oh, a long time ago. The younger generations broke with the strict rules and most of them left. I think there are one or two of the old families that still have descendants hereabouts, but there are no more Stubens. I’ll turn back on the highway here, and Hex House is only a short distance on.”
It was exactly on the stroke of noon when they pulled into the parking lot of Hex House. Save for a dusty van and a small, aged Volvo, theirs was the only vehicle, which made the space seem almost deserted. Once outside the car Ilse stood for a long moment surveying the structure facing her.
The present parking lot was cobbled, perhaps a restoration of its former paving when this building might have served as a stage station. There were smaller outbuildings on either side, all constructed of the same gray native stone cut from a nearby quarry. The main house was two stories high with deep-set windows flanked by newly painted shutters. A door, which had a shallow overhang as a weather guard, showed the glint of gleaming, well-polished brass at both knocker and latch. There were certainly no signs of dilapidation, but rather of careful and knowledgeable restoration.
Yet it was also apparent that the house was very, very old and had settled well into the land which formed its foundation. Ilse’s head was up, and more than her eyes were questing. Time, as she well knew, could encase and even nourish that which was not of the daily world. Disturbances of the kind she had met in the past flourished in such places.
“Oh, Louise!”
That polish-enhanced door had been flung open before they had advanced under the overhang of the half porch. The woman who stood there was of middle years but as well kept up as her surroundings—in a discreet manner, so she made an appearance neither brittlely smart, nor dowdily out of fashion.
Her fine hair was a silver cap cut very short, and she wore a black-and-white-checked shirt crisp from laundering, with well-cut black slacks. Her skin, however, had a yellowish tinge and there were dark shadows beneath her rather prominent blue eyes which even the large-lensed glasses she wore did not conceal.