Darkthunder's Way (15 page)

That was a good sign, though, David decided from where he slumped against an abandoned tractor opposite. Apparently they’d patched up whatever problem they’d had. Or at least the brief private conversation he’d snatched with Alec when he and Gary had arrived (they both had to work that evening and had ridden together) had indicated as much. At any rate, they were speaking more or less civilly, and that was enough. Now if he could only find out what was up with Alec’s grounding… It had evidently taken a special parental dispensation to get him here.

Alec caught David watching him, took a third, more decisive swig, and passed the jar on to him with a tentative smile.

It was strange, David thought as he accepted the offering, how easy it was to take people for granted, though Alec didn’t seem the worse for either of yesterday’s downers, except for a certain reserve that was probably due as much to Calvin’s presence as anything. And if he kept on hitting the sauce like he just had, he wasn’t going to be showing even that pretty soon.

“You gonna drink or grow cotton?” Darrell prompted.

“Huh?” David started and smiled sheepishly. “Here’s lookin’ at you, boys.” He raised the jar to his lips and let a trickle burn across his tongue, then swallowed more carelessly. It wasn’t as good as Uncle Dale’s stuff; not by a long shot. He wondered where G-man had got it; probably his dad had taken it in as part payment on some car repair or other. He was still gazing at it curiously when Gary cleared his throat loudly. David poked Calvin’s elbow. “Firewater, Geronimo?”

Calvin shook his head. “Nyet, don’t touch the stuff.”

David started to say something, then remembered the morning’s coffee.

“Oh come on,” Darrell blurted. “Give it a try. One won’t hurt you.”

“No,” Calvin gave him back. “But considerin’ the trouble my people have with this crap already, I’d just as soon avoid temptation.”

“It’s real preemo hooch, though,” Darrell persisted. “You won’t get better.”

In reply, Calvin reached for the canteen that hung at his side—incongruous beside the mixture of David’s and Big Billy’s Sunday clothing he was wearing—and took a long draught of Budwine, the syrupy sweet cherry drink that was bottled in Athens, Georgia. “I’m not philosophically opposed, or anything, you understand. It’s purely personal. ’Sides, if I stay out, you guys get more.”

“He’s got a point there,” Darrell noted sagely.

“We could share a pipe, though,” Calvin added. “I’ve got some rabbit tobacco.”

Darrell’s thin face puckered in disappointment. “Nothing stronger?”

“Watch it!” Gary chortled, pounding the side of the barn, “One of those bo-vines in there could be a narc.”

“
All
of ’em, even,” David amended knowledgeably, as Darrell’s eyes grew wide with the guileless incredulity of the slightly gone.

“And speaking of watchin’,” Gary continued, “what’re
you
watchin’ for, Sullivan?”

“Huh?” David asked, realizing he had been gazing toward the dusty red line of the Sullivan Cove road. “Oh, nothing.”

“He’s waitin’ for his
woman
,”
Gary confided to Calvin. “She’s really prime.”

“No shit, man; I’ve met her,” Calvin replied, nodding vigorously.

David saw Alec’s jawline tighten.

“She
is
coming, isn’t she?” Gary asked casually.

David nodded. “Oh yeah—gonna be late, though.”

“Still planning on going to school in Gainesville?”

“’Fraid so. She’s leavin’ tomorrow.”

David was awaiting Gary’s reply when he chanced to glance toward the house. “Oh, Christ, boys; varmint alert.” It was the eleven-year-old Terror Twins with a strutting Little Billy in the lead.

“Quick, hide the evidence!” Darrell cried, taking another desperate hit off the jar. Somehow they managed one more round, though David strangled on his, and it made his throat burn abominably. Already he could feel himself getting lightheaded.

“So
here
you are!” Little Billy squealed as he strode into the shadows behind the building. “Ma wants you
right now
!
Gonna make some pictures.” Beside him, the redheaded cousins sniggered behind their hands, looking wicked and surly and sly. One of them—Jackson, David thought it was—glimpsed the empty jar and narrowed his already slitted eyes even further. “I got some beer in my suitcase,” he proclaimed. “Stole it from Mama’s stash.”

“Should we be impressed?” David sniffed, heaping a full measure of older-adolescent contempt onto his words.

“Daaaavy, come on! They want you!”

David shrugged helplessly and unhitched himself from the tractor. “Gotta run, guys. You comin’?”

“Not even breathing hard,” Darrell snickered, poking Gary in the ribs and doubling over while Alec and Calvin exchanged eye-rolls of resignation.

David scowled back at them, then spared one final glance toward the still-empty road. He had just started to follow his brother when his eyes suddenly took on a familiar tingle. He frowned and scanned the line of trees that crowned the hill above the farm, then frowned harder when he saw—what?

“You guys run on,” he told Little Billy. “You folks too,” to his buddies. “I gotta check out something first.” He locked gazes with Alec, slid it across to Gary, but avoided Darrell’s out-of-focus stare.

“Davy!”

“Just a blessed minute, kid! Tell ’em I’ll be right there.”

“
Daaaaaavy!”
But already David was dashing up the hill. An instant later he was in the forest.

Fionchadd stood there, slipping out from behind a tree in the full glory of his Faery shape: gray velvet tunic and gray silk hose and a gray leather hat with a feather. He held a pair of small, tightly coiled scrolls, which he handed to David, who took them hesitantly.

“I do not understand what cause for joy there is in aging,” the Faery said. “Our kind do it but slowly, and after we get our full growth—which takes long and long, as I can tell you—we do not further mark it, except for the strengthening of Power it brings.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “Two things we
do
honor, though, are aid unasked for and friendship freely given, and we know what it is to lose a friend, especially a dear one. For that reason, the Ard Rhi has asked that these be given one to Katie McNally, whom he understands is returning to her people, and one to Dale Sullivan who remains behind. These he sends in acknowledgment of past efforts in behalf of his folk and his kingdom.”

“Thanks,” David said, glancing around nervously. “I know they’ll appreciate them. And I hope you’ll ’scuse me if I boogie, ’cause I really do have to get goin’.”

David had already turned away when the Faery spoke again. “Wait,” he called. “I too have a gift—an atonement; call it what you will.”

David stared at him uncertainly, but before he could speak, Fionchadd had reached into a pouch at his waist and brought out a golden chalice, completely plain, except for a delicate etching of interlace around the base, stem, and rim.

“Maybe it will make up for the pain I caused him,” the Faery said. “It is made from a nugget I found on his farm. I meant to leave it where he would discover it himself, but our discussion of yesterday put my conscience and myself at odds. I had my mother craft it in the night.”

“I’m not sure he’ll accept it, though,” David said as he took it. “He’s funny about such things, and he may consider it a bribe as much as a gift—either that, or too fancy a present, but I’ll pass it on. And hey, thanks. If not from him, then from me.”

Fionchadd’s knuckles brushed the ground in a deep formal bow. “I hope to see you again shortly.” And with that he turned and was gone, leaving David to call, “Carry on,” to suddenly empty air.

“Yeah, carry on,” he repeated, as he tucked the scrolls in his jacket and jogged off down the hill.

*

“Took you long enough,” his mother grumbled when David finally stumbled breathlessly into the chaos of Uncle Dale’s living room, having taken a time-consuming detour by his car to stash the gifts beyond the reach of nosey-cousin eyes and fingers.

“Took you long enough,”
one of those very cousins, the Dreaded Amy, echoed in the self-righteously indignant tone David found so irritating in girls her age. He glared at her, wondering what was keeping Liz, who was a much better example of red-headed female. And then found himself trying to remember if Liz had been like Amy when she was eight.
Uh-uh, no way.

“You stand over there, Davy,” JoAnne said, flourishing a complex Minolta and pointing toward the fireplace. “I want one of you and Dale first.”

David rolled his eyes, but allowed himself to be positioned, feeling the critical appraisals of at least a dozen relatives. The only consolation was knowing that his uncle probably felt as silly as he did—especially in the three-piece blue suit the old man hadn’t worn in at least three years.

The next fifteen
min
utes were spent preserving every possible combination of Sullivan kith, kin, and associate for posterity—including an excruciating three shots with the Dreaded Amy who insisted on pinching him with her sharp little fingernails when no one was looking. He busied himself by inventorying the other folk in the room.

Besides the immediate family and Uncle Dick’s crew, there were about twenty other cousins, mostly Uncle Dale’s first and second, ranging in age from fifty to over eighty. In addition there were various neighbors from the community—if Sullivan Cove could be said to be one, though actually there was only one other house on the road. These folks had come in from nearby, or were tradespeople from businesses Uncle Dale frequented. Most of them had simply gotten wind of a party and had come uninvited—but with food, of which there was God’s plenty. Over to one side two lonely-looking chaps were army buddies with whom the old man still corresponded. One of them—a jovial, bewhiskered chap from Virginia named Klondike John—was the subject of many an amusing tale, including a particularly hilarious one involving a Nashville transvestite. David wished there was time in which to get to know him, but he had volunteered to take Katie back to her home in South Carolina and would be leaving shortly after dinner. Of her folks, the Traders, there was not a soul. Not that she missed them, much, David thought, considering the way she was gazing at Uncle Dale.

And then it was time for the massive buffet supper that sprawled all the way across Uncle Dale’s front yard like dinner on the grounds at the Sullivan Cove Church of God across the hollow. The food, at least, was excellent, even if the same could not be said for the company, since there was still no Liz and David found himself obliged to sit next to the Dreaded Amy.

Another hour elapsed before David was able to get Uncle Dale down to the car to pass on the scrolls. Very cautiously the old man unrolled the creamy parchment.

It was not large, but David, staring over his uncle’s shoulder, gasped at the magnificence of the intricate interlaced illumination that spun and twisted around the border in a riot of color. Though obviously hand-done, the writing (printing, actually) was clear, if perhaps a bit spidery, and executed in the style he knew was called uncial. There was a rust-colored smudge at the bottom, which bore an unmistakable fingerprint. “Read it,” he said, “I think you’re supposed to.”

Dale put on his spectacles and began.

Lugh Samildinach, High King of the Daoine Sidhe in Tir-Nan-Og herewith sendeth greetings to Dale Yearwood Sullivan on the occasion of his seventieth year in his World. In recognition thereof, and in honor of past services done Myself and My realm, I herewith grant unto said Dale Sullivan one boon which, if it be within My power and a just thing, I will render unto him upon his stating his desire aloud and the burning of this parchment. Know that I have sealed it with My Blood, and My Blood is My Word and in it is My Power. By my hand this 17 day of August, as Mortal Men number the Circles of the World.

Lugh Samildinach, Ard Rhi

“Well, that was mighty nice of mister Lugh,” Dale mused. “But I reckon we’d better run and give Katie hers ’fore she leaves.”

“Hang on a second,” David said. “There’s…there’s one more.” Without further explanation he produced the chalice.

“Who’s this from?”

“A…
a friend, I guess. It’s from Fionchadd.”

“Fionchadd? Ain’t that the boy we resurrected? He think he owes me something for that?”

“No,” David whispered. “He thinks he owes you for something a lot worse. He was the one who shot you.”

The old man did not reply, and David was at a loss as to how to proceed, because for once he could not read his uncle’s face.

“He didn’t know you then, nor any of us,” David blurted finally. “And he feels real bad now. I think this is a peace offering. He’s already asked me for forgiveness. If you take this, he’ll take it as a sign you forgive him too.”

“Hmmmm. That’s a pretty big order, Davy, to forgive somebody for tryin’ to kill you.”

“Yeah, I know. And I guess I owe you an apology too, for not telling you when we brought him back, but so much was going on, and all that stuff last year seems so far gone…”

“It does to me too,” Dale said. “And I seen enough men caught between two kinds of duty durin’ the war to kinda understand, so if you see Mr. Finnykid, you tell him I’ll consider the case closed—if he’ll share a drop of ’shine out of this here fancy goblet with me.”