Enchanted Forests (32 page)

"If she's still in the well, it won't matter that she knows we're

coming," Burke answered,

The stone steps did not creak, but Dalton grimaced at each

footfall as they hastened down. Burke held a lantern, its lamp

hooded so mat only a single beam fell onto the steps before

them. The low ceiling of the crypt prevented the diffusion of

light

The sounds were coming through a low vaulted arch, built in

an age when men were smaller. They were louder now, and had

taken on definition; a sliding scrape, a pause, some tiny fidgety

sounds, and then another scrape.

Slowly they stepped through the arch. At the center of the

small chamber, a trestle with a bucket banging on a cord stood

over a circular hole three feet across. The sounds were echoing

off the low ceiling directly above.

The irregular oval of lantern light, which had advanced to the

edge of the well and then circled it like a cautious dog, slid sud-

denly to a far wall as Burke thrust the lantern into Dalton's

hands. Slowly he advanced to the edge of die well, where he

stood looking down for several seconds.

He's going to kill her. Dalton thought in alarm. He's going to

cosh in her head. In the dim light, he could not see whether

Burke's arms were raised. He wanted to call out, but didn't dare-

Then he saw a hand rise out of the blackness and grasp the lip

of the well. He didn't see Burke's reaction; his gaze was fixed on

the dim white shape clutching the stone's edge. A second later

another hand appeared, and a small head rose above the level of

me floor.

Its face was turned away, but Dalton could see the head tilt as

it noticed the dim light in the chamber. Then it turned, and a

dead white face—white even in the faint hooded lamplight—

turned and saw Dalton, men looked up at Burke.

"Have you come for me, then?" it asked in a little girl's voice,

scratchy with disuse. "I have been waiting so long."

A low moan filled the room, and Dalton realized with horror

that it was Burke. Something metal fell from his hands and

clanged against the stone floor.

The girl was pulling herself out of me hole. A funerary gown,

streaked with dirt, hung from her slender frame. The lantern

IN FEAR OF LITTLE NELL

209

beam fell as if of its own volition onto the girl; she blinked once

when it crossed her face.

She rose unsteadily to her feet, like one stiff from labor. Her

crown scarcely reached Burke's elbow, and the legs beneath her

ragged hem were thin as a doe's.

She held out her open arms, as though inviting the blow. "I

have been so cold and so lonely," she said in a quavering tone.

"I did not mean to be like this."

With a cry Burke bent over her, and her tiny arms closed

around his neck. Dalton shouted, or started to, but things hap-

pened too quickly for the sound to escape his throat.

Whether she pulled Burke down or slipped backward Dalton

could not tell, but the two fell together, with a terrible cracking

sound that must have been Burke's skull striking the far side.

Like a nut clattering down a rain spout, they knocked against the

sides going down, falling not freely but impeded, and hence for

far longer. Dalton thought he heard a scream, but it might have

been his own.

Dust flew through the beam as it swung wildly through the

chamber, then settled once more upon the well, now horribly si-

lent. Heart pounding, Dalton advanced to its edge, then leaned

slowly—he had to force himself for the last inches—over the

well's mouth, and shone the lantern downward. Rock dust boiled

up, obscuring the beam before it had. penetrated a yard. It would,

he realized, be hours in settling.

No sound from below. Somewhere behind, the faint call of

voices.

She could not have survived the fall, Dalton knew. Thin-boned

and emaciated, the poor monster had surely perished, breaking

(to some degree) the large man's fall. Even Burke, hale and burly

and aproned in cushioning leather, must lie unconscious at the

well's dry bottom.

Dalton tugged at the rope, which he found too thin to trust,

and pushed the bucket aside. He set the lantern next to the edge,

and unhooded it: the light cast a half-circle of pale illumination

through the dust-swarming chamber, but none fell into the well.

She is dead, he thought. Burke, perhaps, is alive. With trem-

bling hands he planted his palms upon either side of the well,

then swung his legs over the edge. Bracing each foot against the

rough stone was easy, and Dalton gingerly lowered his weight

below the level of the floor, disappearing at once into darkness.

If anything brushes my foot, I shall kick, he thought. / can

climb quickly, if need be. It is, moreover, a long way down.

210                    Gregory Feeley

The image of the girl's pipestem arms rose before him, and a

puff of invisible dust made his eyes sting. "The poor girl," he

murmured, too intent on maintaining his footing as he slowly de-

scended the narrow shaft to direct his train of thought. "She

should not have ended thus."

He coughed as the dust coated his throat, and hawked in a

racking sob. "I'm coming," he said softly, as he let his soles slip

several feet before regaining purchase. The stone was not as chill

as the crypt itself had been; a few feet further, and its tempera-

ture was the same as his own flesh. "Poor helpless thing, I'm

coming...."

And when the hands reached up for him, he fell into their em-

brace with a cry of exhausted relief. The smell of moist earth

rose about him, a puff of warm breath, and Dalton fell into un-

consciousness with the release of his overstrained limbs.

He woke when something prodded his shoulder, paused, men

bumped against his knee. Dalton was tying in a tangle of limbs,

some his own. He reached out, every muscle aching, and felt a

tiny smooth arm, cool as a root. He jerked his hand back.

Something was bumping about in the darkness, striking the

wall every few seconds with a metallic clang. He suddenly

guessed it: the weight at the end of a dangling cord. With an ef-

fort he recalled the coil of hemp slung over the journalist's

shoulder. He grabbed at it, but snatched only air.

He looked up into the darkness, and saw it quickly brighten to

gray. A burning lucifer fell through the dust and dropped before

him, illuminating the surrounding carnage for an instant before

snuffing out. Both Burke and the girl lay motionless, a disor-

dered salad of outflung limbs and loose hair.

Dalton stirred with difficulty in the cramped space, and squea-

mishly felt their lifeless persons. Both were extensively bloodied,

as (he came to realize) he was himself. Numerous bones were

broken: he felt them through the girl's thin gown, and even

Burke's heavy clothing. The weight brushed his neck and he

grabbed it, pulling down hard once. A muffle shout reached him

from above. Wrapping the cord around his bloodied knuckles,

Dalton tugged to ensure it was secure, then began to climb. After

a moment he could feel the cord being slowly drawn up.

"Good God!" the parson cried when he neared the top. Dalton

blinked at the lantern as his head crossed the plane of the floor,

and he felt hands pulling at him. The journalist's face, frightened

and alarmed, swam briefly in his vision.

"Are you all right? Burke is—?"

IN FEAR OF LITTLE NELL

211

"Down there. Dead." He found it difficult to speak. "Both of

them," he managed to add.

They laid him on the stone cold floor, smoother than the well.

"You are hurt," the parson said.

Dalton touched the side of his face. It was raw, and stung

dully. He wondered if he were in shock.

The parson spoke of going for help; footsteps retreated up the

stone stairwell. Dalton felt a bundled jacket placed beneath his

head- The lantern was set nearby, and he could see the journalist

in the harsh shadows.

"You have been hurt," the journalist observed.

Dalton nodded.

"Scrapes, from the look. From cascading down the well."

Dalton said nothing.

"It must have been nasty, in that hole," the journalist said after

a moment. "Especially at the bottom."

"I feel as if I am still there," Dalton said.

The other man nodded, not looking at him. "She must have

been ... hard to resist. Going to all those children who loved

her, and none of them ever complaining, not one report from this

village. These angelic young girls, sometimes I think they spend

their lives training to be dead."

Dalton closed his eyes. When he opened them a moment later,

the journalist had met his gaze at last.

"We'll take you to the Professor, and he'll look at you, and

wait. And then we'll see, won't we?"

THE NEW W8LD THAT

NEVER WAS

Branchings from history

Tooa Song

by Kate Daniel

Statistics say most people today will have three careers in

their lifetime. As a writer Kate Daniel is on her third right

now, having already been a teacher and a computer pro-

grammer. She has six YA mystery novels in print, the most

recent being Babysitter's Nightmare II, along with several

fantasy short stories.

At certain times of the year, late at night, the Coaster Grove on

Coney Island seems to sing softly to itself. Those who walk be-

neath the trees at such times feel a sense of awe, as though they

walk in a holy place. The grove has stood for over a hundred

years, immune to the twentieth century, wrapped in the peace of

an older time, and some credit the sensation to age. But even

they do not know how deep the years are that twist around the

young trees, or how far their roots extend. Like so many dreams

of the new world, the dream that is the Grove began in the old,

in a promise and prophecy given to a young girl as old as the At-

tic hills....

*'Go; you'll fee! better. See what a wonderful place this coun-

try is!"

The landlady's shrill voice grated on Daphne's ears. At least

the woman spoke Greek. It wasn't a musical sound, but it carried

the accents of home, here in this new world of foreigners where

Daphne was trapped by bricks and streets. And Mrs. Kontos

meant well. She was kind. Kind, but she'd never heard the del-

icate song of a breeze dancing among spring leaves, never tasted

216 Kate Daniel

the silence when trees hold their breath.... Daphne never should

have left her grove, no matter what the laurel had promised.

"You're so thin," Mrs. Kontos went on. "And pale as well. Go

on, let the salt air put some flesh on you. A body'd think you

was consumptive, to look at you- You couldn't go alone, it

wouldn't be proper, what with you not married yet and at your

age, too, but the Pappadeases want to take you.'*

"Are there woods there?" None of the trees in this new land

spoke to Daphne. She had tried to call them with her powers so

many times, in the park near the tenement, on the tree-lined

paths of Central Park. There was never a response, and she had

almost given up hope of finding me grove the laurel had prom-

ised her. But at least the scent of green helped her stay alive

amid me noise and crowds of this great city.

"Woods! What do you need with woods? There's people there,

good people—well, some others as well, but Mrs. Pappadeas will

watch out for you.** Mrs. Kontos nodded as she looked at

Daphne. "Your aunt is a decent woman. Miss, but she should

have found a proper match for you before now."

Daphne said nothing. Mrs. Kontos meant well, but Daphne

feared her. The tiny woman was a tireless matchmaker. Next she

would again hymn the praises of the Pappadeas' eldest son,

Nikkolas. He was past twenty and reckoned a good catch, with

dark good looks. For weeks now Nikki had pursued her, confi-

dent that the eldest son of a prosperous family would never be

refused as a match. Mrs. Kontos would be outraged if she knew

how little interest Daphne had in him. But she had watched

many young mortals such as Nikki fade with age, brittle as au-

tumn leaves in as little time. Daphne shivered. Nikkotas

Pappadeas was mortal, but she feared him even more than the

landlady. She feared the autumn he would bring to her eternal

spring.

Despite her misgivings, the next Saturday found Daphne

standing with Mrs. Pappadeas on the deck of an overcrowded ex-

cursion steamer as it cast off from the pier and started down the

river toward the ocean and Coney Island. The Atlantic wasn't the

wine-dark sea she longed for, any more than Coney Island was

one of the Kikladhes. But the Atlantic led to the Middle Sea and

the home she'd never see again.

She tried to shut her ears against the horrible din of the

"band," a small group of musicians who seemed determined to

force payment from the crowd by playing till they yielded their

WOOD SONG              217

silver dimes. Money was a mortal concern, but mortal concerns