The deathstone, p.18
The Deathstone, page 18
Ron stared after him, preoccupied once more with the meaning of Cynthia’s words. He wandered the whole of the kitchen, peering disconsolately out of the window, seeing nothing but the huge stone atop the mountain.
“Are you all right?” The old woman’s voice drifted over the back of her chair.
“Yes. Just getting my breath back.”
“You didn’t hurt yourself then?” She gazed curiously at him. It was not so much a gaze as a blood-stopping stare that riveted him.
“No,” he murmured.
The old woman’s lips parted. She laughed. There was no reason for her to laugh, but she did; there was no reason for him to think he was being laughed at, but he did. Her twitching lips widened, revealing a deep red line at the root of her front teeth.
Suddenly it seemed urgent that he stop her laughter, that she explain herself. Suddenly it seemed urgent that he understand what it was she had done to Cynthia.
“The stone you used,” he said. “What exactly is it?” Conscious of the brief pause, he sensed the stone might be a subject to avoid. Still, he added: “It’s called a madstone, isn’t it?”
She looked up at him cautiously. “Calcium,” she said.
Ron could only stare at her mutely.
“No great magic. Just a piece of calcium from a deer’s stomach,” she said. “Used to treat rabies. If the stone sticks, then rabies are present. When it no longer adheres, the person is cured.” She paused. “Are you disappointed?”
“Cynthia will be all right then?”
She nodded. Then she turned quickly to look into the hallway. The dingy corridor was empty. No one was there. Ron looked back down at her, perplexed.
Without looking at him, she rose to her feet and moved slowly onto the back porch. “It’s cooler out here now, thank goodness.”
With her back to him, she remained motionless, staring into the yard. There, running straight to the foot of the hills, statues. A dozen or so brooding stone structures each more tortured in form than the next. Each resembling in some way a creature from another age. “Most people like the small form next to the larger form,” she said. “Like mother and child. You relate to each through form.”
“Has your husband done all of these?”
“Yes. Mainly to make me look at him more carefully,” she chuckled. “I know more about him now. Through his work. There he is kneeling, crawling, lying... He looks soulful, mournful. He looks down, up, all ways. He creates from every point of view. From every mood.” She strolled forward. “My husband, Thomas, is a fine sculptor. People refer to him as a stonecutter. But he is a sculptor.”
They continued to wander through a vast graveyard of stone images. A hushed note crept into her voice as she took great pains in explaining the precise mood of each work. She spoke briefly of the mountains from which the stones were taken. How ancient and sacred they were. But always her eyes remained averted, wistfully gazing at the huge stone above all things.
With a nice sense of dramatic value, the slanting sun shot a spotlight on the stone’s broad surface. It brought out the highlights of its brooding facade, tinting it purple. Softly the stone sent its purpleness down upon the valley.
Ron glanced at his watch. It was five minutes to five. “I’m sorry, I must be going,” he said.
She stared at him mutely, doggedly, her eyes blinking steadily. “You have a lovely wife—daughter,” she murmured.
“Thank you.”
“We spent a lovely day together. Most enjoyable.”
“They said they had a nice time.”
“Your wife is an actress?”
“Used to be.”
“Oh? I somehow was under the impression she still was.”
Ron shrugged. “Now and then.”
“I see. And your daughter. She’s six?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting child. So advanced for her age.”
“Yes. Yes, she is.” Ron’s eyes darted to the window at the far end of the house, drawn there by an unanticipated movement. For a fleeting second, he saw an aged face that was nothing more than a loosely wrapped slither of bone, with pale and watery eyes, staring at him from behind the lace curtain. The old man’s withered face loomed out at him, then vanished as long, red-veined fingers let the curtain fall back into place.
Mrs. Wheatley’s voice droned on. She was saying something about Mardi Gras tomorrow night. Despite her ceaseless chatter, Ron began to move onto the porch. “I’m sorry. I’m late.”
“I understand.”
It was at that exact moment, just after five o’clock when the telephone rang in Beatrice Wheatley’s kitchen. Quickly she held the receiver out to Ron. “It’s for you.”
“Me?” He was skeptical. “Hello?”
“Mr. Talon. Matt Todd here.”
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid I have bad news for you. My man just called. His truck has broken down. He won’t be able to get back to Brackston until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry.”
Ron shook his head in disgust. “So am I.”
Slowly he let the receiver drop into its cradle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ACRUCIAL MOMENT, RON THOUGHT. SHOULD HE TELL CHANDAL about Cynthia Harris? What would she say? How would he be able to explain his being alone with the girl in a secluded courtyard? Then again, wouldn’t someone else tell her if he didn’t? More likely than not, the whole town knew about it by this time.
He allowed his gaze to move beyond the partially opened bathroom door. Chandal sat before the dressing table and dabbed her fingertips with perfume. She had put on her best dress, a white floating chiffon with silver sandals and her glittering bracelets. With her hair casually swept to one side and her skillful makeup, she looked sensational.
Ron hesitated for a moment, then moved into the bedroom and quickly began to dress. In a state of mingled confusion, he glanced at his watch. It was twenty past eight, almost time to go down to dinner. Outside it was already dark.
“Oh, damn!”
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“A run. Third time today. I’ll have to change into another pair of hose.”
He watched as she slipped out of her pantyhose and then donned a new pair, working her fingers skillfully to avoid a snag. Her legs seemed as firm as ever, but the curves were more pronounced, more blatantly sexual. As she let the soft material of the dress fall back into place, he had the odd impression that her entire figure had grown lusher, even fuller of breast and hips.
Chandal pirouetted, making the hem of her dress flare. Facing him, she stopped the spin so suddenly that it caused him to start.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“You look great,” he said a little anxiously and kissed her cheek.
Her lips moved slightly to receive his. And they did. He made an all-out effort to make the kiss long and genuine. It fell a bit short. It was the best he could do to share her excitement and not leave her wondering what was wrong. She drew back and gazed at him.
“Ron...”
He pulled away from her, his eyes averted, burning with guilt. All at once he was crushed by a singular incident that had occurred two nights ago in that small room behind the pavilion.
“Is Kristy ready?” he asked nervously.
“She’s gone down already.”
“Oh.”
“Ron, is something the matter?”
“No. Why?”
“I don’t know. You seem different.”
“Different? How?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
There was a long silence. He had begun noting that silences between them had become necessary to give meaning to their words. Timidly, he took her into his arms. She did not withdraw but lay her head against his shoulder. Since the night of the carnival, he had not once attempted to hold her like that. Strange, he thought, that she had allowed the Cynthia Harris incident to pass. She must have known, he realized now. Yet she rested so comfortably in his arms, the distance, if only for a moment, gone. Perhaps it was in friendship she now held him, and not love. No matter. It was a warming sensation.
Downstairs the whole house looked as if it had been turned completely around; large pieces of furniture had been removed, others brought in. The living room had been transformed into a concert hall of sorts, with bunches of flower arrangements adorning every table.
At eight-thirty sharp, punctual to the minute, the distinguished gathering assembled. Isabelle and Alister Carroll, Lou Harris, minus Cynthia who, thank God, must have recovered sufficiently to allow him to come, Matthew Todd, and Todd’s wife, who turned out to be a stunning surprise. She was charming and beautiful, a tall brunette with a perfectly shaped face and green intelligent eyes. Sheriff Nash came in last with other guests whom Ron had never met.
When Nancy rang the dinner bell announcing that dinner was served, Mrs. Taylor slipped her arm into Ron’s and allowed him to escort her onto the terrace. The rest followed without ceremony.
An elegantly set dining table was arranged in L-shaped fashion under trees illuminated by fairy lamps that touched them with a light and airy magic. There was the usual sweet scent of flowers; the fountain gently spewed water from its mouth.
Ron was seated across from Chandal, between Isabelle and Alister Carroll. Kristy, oddly enough, was placed near the head of the table next to Mrs. Taylor. As Chandal smiled at Ron across the table he began to feel a bit more relaxed. The luxurious surroundings, the exhilaration provided by a fine wine, the nearness of his wife all combined into an intensely heady mixture.
After a brief lull, Mrs. Taylor, with an elegant manner, raised her glass and, nodding politely, said: “To our friends from beyond the ridges. May they find happiness.”
“Hear, hear,” murmured Alister.
All tipped their glasses toward Ron and Chandal and drank.
After an excellent dinner, more toasts were given and everyone sat back to enjoy coffee, brandy and a lavish array of desserts. Through the living room doorway, Ron could see that new guests kept arriving, and soon the living room was filled with people.
“Vous avez été splendide,” shrilled Alister Carroll, kissing Mrs. Taylor, and the woman nodded with obvious satisfaction. Todd and Harris were gossiping. Todd’s wife reached over and slapped his wrist. “Such talk. You men are awful!” Kristy stood alone by the statue tossing pebbles into the pool. She looked much older than her six years. Ron studied her for a moment. He had all but forgotten her presence this evening. Perhaps it was because she seemed so settled, hardly a bother, never complaining, never really making herself felt, as though someone had whispered in her ear, “Children should be seen but not heard,” and she had willingly complied.
Everywhere voices hummed. The conversation was brisk and good-tempered. “Our library is overflowing with writings passed down by the town Elders,” Isabelle was explaining.
“The stone is interesting,” Chandal said.
“The stone represents the Sun Father,” Isabelle beamed. “The canyon, the Goddess Mother of Creation.”
Alister grunted. “The Elders are superstitious fools.”
“I agree,” Mrs. Taylor said with a dry cough. “However, we must respect their beliefs.”
“Which are?” Chandal inquired.
“Well,” Lou Harris said, “once upon a time...”
Everyone laughed as the man took a swallow of black coffee.
What an ass this man must be, Ron told himself. No wonder Cynthia was the way she was. He looked into the man’s face and, in his mind’s eye, saw the slight resemblance to his daughter. Without warning, Cynthia’s face loomed before his eyes.
Harris cleared his throat softly when he realized that Chandal hadn’t found him the slightest bit amusing. He laughed again but then cut it short; then, with an effort, he regained his composure and said: “In the beginning, it was believed that people lived in several worlds below. Successively, they emerged from them to a new world above. In the middle of this world, they erected a great stone.”
“Utter nonsense,” Alister insisted.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Isabelle said. “I have heard of stranger things. Why, whoever would have imagined that a Jew boy hanging on a cross could have changed the world. He’s become a religious celebrity. Yet most people have never seen him. In a real sense...”
“Isabelle!” Alister barked. He stared critically, squinting at her.
All at once the terrace fell into a thoughtful silence, broken quickly when Kristy screamed: “A ghost! There’s a ghost!”
All eyes followed her pointing finger. Off in the corner of the garden Tyler Adam stood silent, staring, his lank hair dampish looking, his eyes colorless and devoid of expression. As his empty gaze swept the guests, Ron saw Mrs. Taylor start, her fingers digging into the tablecloth to stop herself from crying out. Everyone sat motionless, waiting to see what the man would do.
“He looks lost,” Chandal whispered, holding Kristy protectively.
“He was lost before he was born,” Alister muttered.
White-faced and with a deep scowl, the man suddenly cried: “I greet you, Elders! I am Tyler Adam. I come to you seeking my portion.”
A loud burst of laughter, nervous.
“Long ago we were one,” he said coldly. “What are we now?” He paused, then added, “I cannot come in, is that it?”
“Yes—yes, you can come in,” Alister said gently.
“No!” said Mrs. Taylor.
“He will behave himself. Won’t you, Tyler?”
“No,” voices repeated; others broke in, “Make him go away.”
With his face filled with hatred and despair, he clenched his fists and raised them in the air. “Remember, Elders!” he cried, “All roads that lead down lead up as well. Behold the wonders of our town. The marvels carved by hand, the work of the stonecutter.” He turned without warning to speak directly to Ron. “Beware,” he said gravely. “They seek a prize,” he whispered. “They seek a prize,” he laughed.
The atmosphere within the small gathering suddenly descended to black. By their nervous mannerisms and clipped speech, many of the women, especially Isabelle Carroll, showed themselves to be quite shaken. Others simply sat in stunned silence.
In the next instant all was confusion. Lou Harris rose to his feet, shouting and waving his hands, Alister roared with laughter, while Isabelle began to hurl obscenities at the old man.
Tyler Adam straightened, spun around and shouted, “Let all who gather here be doomed forever in your Godless paradise!” He staggered back as a sudden shock seemed to run through his body and he stumbled against the wall, his hands clutching his throat as he gasped for air. Todd and Harris were on him now.
“Don’t hurt him,” Mrs. Taylor ordered.
“Scum!” Harris shouted. They lifted him to an upright position and had begun to drag him away into the darkness. That quickly, he was gone. Behind him, the terrace was in pandemonium.
“The fellow has no manners!” screamed Isabelle.
Alister roared with laughter, highly amused.
“Perhaps he’s ill,” Mrs. Taylor suggested nervously, her eyes trained on Ron.
“Ill, hell!” Alister was even more amused. “He spent half the day fishing, then talked up a blue streak all afternoon at the tavern. Does that sound like a sick man?”
“Why he should grow so grotesquely embittered, I’ll never know!” Isabelle feverishly dabbed her cheeks with her handkerchief.
“Because he is truly endowed with an incontestable misery of circumstance, perhaps that is why,” Alister offered.
“Nonsense!” his wife shrieked with angry energy. “I’ll be glad when the old fool is gone, damn him!”
Many of the guests in the living room had gotten up from their seats and were making motions to leave while Mrs. Taylor worked to restore calm. Kristy had begun to cry. In the distance, church bells began to peal.
This man, Tyler Adam, Ron thought, this is the same man who had trouble buttoning his shirt. This is the same man who had just sent Brackston’s most respectable people scampering fearfully into the night. And the same man who, it seemed, was even now whispering a dull plaintive warning: “Remember me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THINKING CHAOS, RON DROPPED WEARILY ONTO THE BED. YET there was no chaos in the room, no disorder of any kind. Just an unearthly calm that rested on the music which filtered up from the living room. Some of the guests had stayed out of respect. Mrs. Taylor needed an audience. Once a year, Mardi Gras eve, she would play her brother’s music. It was an age-old tradition. It was a sacred happening.
For a moment, a very long moment, Ron froze there, motor immotus. The enveloping aroma of lilac was heavy, lingering, sweetening his universe. Was it the lingering aroma of Chandal’s perfume? He wasn’t sure. The room was full of thoughtful silence.
The music took away the silence now. It was a lilting up-tune with some sort of an undertone of sadness. The piano sounded off key. Or maybe it was Mrs. Taylor who was off key. Her voice, thin and breathless, had a curious monotony of tone.
Every now and then another silence. Was she turning pages looking for another selection or was she finished? Ron glanced at his hands. They were shaking. I must get hold of myself. He placed his hands on his knees and tried to fix his mind on something else. He studied the room. Clayton Byron Taylor’s room. Where was he now, Ron wondered.
He was suddenly exhausted, almost to the point of feeling drugged.
“I don’t feel well. Will you excuse me?” Ron had said.
Mrs. Taylor hadn’t seemed to mind. As long as Kristy and Chandal remained, well...
“I want to thank you for helping my daughter today,” Lou Harris had said to him privately.
“Is she all right?” Ron inquired.
“Fine.” Lou Harris had stared at him thoughtfully. “I haven’t told anyone. Mrs. Wheatley, Frank, Tim, Matt. We all agreed not to tell anyone.”
Ron had watched the man join the others in the living room. The lights had been lowered. Mrs. Taylor had remained motionless for a moment, the small yellow lamp over the piano glowing placidly on her face. Ron had ascended the stairs to a concerto, offering, he had thought, Mrs. Taylor the opportunity to display her technical skills at the keyboard as well as announcing her complete understanding of her brother’s composition. She played well. Toward the end of the first movement he had entered the bedroom and closed the door.
