Gravelight (5 page)
Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
When he straightened up he was dizzy, and the room
spun giddily around him. He backed up, holding on to the brass bed for support. What was all this stuff still doing here? Even if Evan's “Miss Rahab” had had no heirs, in Wycherly's experience, anyone would stealâand what could be easier than stealing from the dead?
spun giddily around him. He backed up, holding on to the brass bed for support. What was all this stuff still doing here? Even if Evan's “Miss Rahab” had had no heirs, in Wycherly's experience, anyone would stealâand what could be easier than stealing from the dead?
This is weird
, Wycherly thought with the serenity of drink and lingering exhaustion. But he didn't actually care much.
, Wycherly thought with the serenity of drink and lingering exhaustion. But he didn't actually care much.
And that, Wycherly thought to himself, clutching the bed frame for support, was the bottom line, as Kenny Jr. was so fond of saying. Wycherly didn't care what was going on, how many women had died here, or if they'd all been murdered by Charles Manson. Kenny'd said he was selfish. His father'd said he was weak. They could both be right for once, and he hoped it would make them happy: The only person Wycherly was interested in was Wycherly Musgrave, and Wycherly Musgrave needed a place to hide.
And a drink.
He pushed open the door to the main room.
Someone had been busy, though no one was here now. The front door to the rustic cabin was open, and Wycherly moved reflexively to shut it, although the only trespassers he was likely to get would be squirrels. But squirrelsâor even raccoonsâcould not be responsible for the condition of the cabin as it was now. The table was covered with a clean, bright red and white cloth with a wooden bowl of wildflowers and four gleaming hurricane lamps on it. He smelled the scents of white vinegar and pine soap. Little trace remained of the dust and eerie abandonment that still filled the bedroom.
Coals and kindling heaped beside the iron stove, pots and pans on the wall, canned goods on the shelves. Two wooden settles flanked the wood stove, a table and chairs in the middle of the room, cups and plates filled with grey dust still upon it â¦
A flash of recollection appeared and was gone. Someone had cleaned here while he slept. Was it that mountain girl, Luned?
A flash of recollection appeared and was gone. Someone had cleaned here while he slept. Was it that mountain girl, Luned?
The notion disturbed him deeply, though Wycherly had lived his entire life against a backdrop of invisible service. From buying the groceries, to preparing the food and a thousand other tasks, there had always been unseen hands to take care of it. Wycherly had never been called upon to perform any of the common chores of daily living, yet having someone else do it bothered him deeply.
Hunger made its presence faintly known. A drink would take care of that.
Wycherly walked over to the battered white refrigerator on the far wall. But when he opened it, all that greeted him was room-temperature air and a faint smell of bleach. Where was the beer? He'd brought at least two six-packs up with him. He looked all through the refrigerator, but found nothing other than dry cleanliness.
His attention was momentarily distracted by the calendar on the wall beside the sink. It was curled and faded, a promotional calendar from some supplier of bottled gas. The date was 1969, the month was August. A bad omen. August, his birthdayâthe anniversary of Camilla's deathâwas always a bad time.
He turned away, and saw a yellowed newspaper on top of the pot-bellied cast-iron stove in the other corner. Wycherly picked it up. It was yellowed and crumbling, but he could clearly see the masthead: THE PHARAOH CALL AND RECORD, PUBLISHED WEEKLY FOR LYONESSE COUNTY, INCLUDING THE TOWNSHIPS OF PHARAOH, MORTON'S FORK, LA GOULOUE, BISHOPVILLE, AND MASKELYNE; AUGUST 4, 1969.
No one had been here, even to steal, for nearly three decades. For a moment, Wycherly was distracted from his search for the missing beer; despite his professed disinterest, he felt the hackles on the back of his neck begin to rise.
The door banged open.
“Oh,
there
you are, Mister Wych!” Luned said.
there
you are, Mister Wych!” Luned said.
She strode through the door, a filled bucket in one hand,
a six-pack in the other. Wycherly hurried over and took the beer from her. It was icy cold.
a six-pack in the other. Wycherly hurried over and took the beer from her. It was icy cold.
“Been settin' in the crick,” Luned said, setting the bucket down beside the stove with a sigh of relief.
Wycherly pulled off the top of the can, sitting down in one of the wooden chairs to pour the beer down his throat in one long swallow. The need to have it available was almost stronger than his craving for it; he drank the next one more slowly.
“I'm sorry about the pump, Mister Wych, I truly am,” Luned said. “I'spect I can get it to run, but I didn't like to wake you or anything. Least-ways now you can wash up and all.” She looked anxious. “And there's a backhouse up the hill a-ways; you can see it from the window here.”
Thanks, but no.
“Never mind. I imagine, ah, âcrick-water' will be just fine,” Wycherly said. He wasn't sure he'd be willing to drink it, no matter how clear it looked, but then water hadn't been his preferred beverage for a very long time.
“Icebox works on white gas,” Luned went on. “The tank's empty, and there won't be any more along until Monday. You'll need kerosene for your lamps, and I guess Mal Tanner'll bring that too, along with what else you might think to ask for.”
Mr. Tanner, Wycherly remembered, was the local bootlegger. Evan had told him. He hesitated. Beer was one thing. Moonshine was something else again.
“What day is this?” he asked instead, shoving the rest of the six-pack aside.
“Thursday. It's about six. Dinnertime,” Luned added, as if Wycherly were ignorant of the most basic facts of life.
Wycherly said nothing, nursing his second beer. He wasn't entirely sure of what was going on here, and he wanted to know. For all her talk of ghosts back in the general store, Luned seemed to have had no hesitation in scrubbing the cabin from top to bottom. And the sun was starting to set, and she was still here.
Why?
As he stared broodingly at her, Luned moved to the cabinets over the sink and began taking down cans. They were new, obviously stock from the general store. Wycherly glanced around the room. Several cardboard boxesâsome filled with bulging rusted cans, some with shining modern onesâwere tucked into corners.
“Evan sent up a load of groceries,” Luned said, catching his look. “He says there's everything here you'll need. Bread comes in on Wednesday, milk on Monday, big store's in Pharaoh and you could maybe pay Francis Wheeler to run you down there or borrow Bart Asking's pickup.”
The speech had the air of something planned beforehand and carefully rehearsed. Wycherly wondered who else Luned' d had the chance to say it to; from the way Evan Starking had acted, Morton's Fork wasn't exactly on the tourist-trade map.
“And my car?” Wycherly asked, remembering it with an effort. The crash that must have been only this morning seemed an episode from another lifetime already.
“Jachin and Boaz pulled it right up the hill and it's down to Asking Garage right now. Mister Asking says he says he doesn't think it's any kind of an American car.”
Boaz and Jachin, Wycherly deduced, must be the oxen owned by Caleb. He felt a faint spasm of relief at knowing that the car was safely out of sight.
“It isn't. It's Italian.”
“Well! Fancy thatâand it uses American gasoline and everything?” Luned asked.
Wycherly stared at her, not sure whether she was serious or pulling a joke. After a moment, Luned turned away and went back to opening cans.
Silence.
“I thought you said no one lived here?” he said, just to break the silence.
So why are there still clothes in the closet?
So why are there still clothes in the closet?
Luned turned and stared at him.
“Old Miss Rahab did, thirty year gone, but it ain't good
luck to talk about people that clears out, Mister Wych,'specially for a fella with red hair like yours,” Luned said.
luck to talk about people that clears out, Mister Wych,'specially for a fella with red hair like yours,” Luned said.
“Clears out”? Not “dies”?
Wycherly grinned sourly to himself, finally understanding why he'd gotten the reception he had at Morton's Fork. Once upon a time people had believed that red hair was unlucky, and apparently that superstition still held in this backward place.
Wycherly grinned sourly to himself, finally understanding why he'd gotten the reception he had at Morton's Fork. Once upon a time people had believed that red hair was unlucky, and apparently that superstition still held in this backward place.
“All rightâLuned, is it?âwe won't talk about the missing Miss Rahab. Just as long as you're sure she won't be back.”
“Don't you worry yourself. They don't never come back, Mister Wych,” Luned said seriously.
I wouldn't, if I lived here.
“Well, that's fine then,” Wycherly said, a shade too heartily. He felt awkward talking to this skinny, painfully-ignorant girl-child; to treat her as his equal when she would never have the resources that had been available to him seemed cruel, but to patronize her seemed worse.
He'd much rather not talk to her at all, but considering the amount of cleaning she'd done, he certainly owed her a little polite conversation. As polite as he ever got, anyway.
“Now if you'll just get that fire going, Mister Wych, I can get your dinner ready and give your bedroom a lick and a promise while the vittles heats, and besides, you'll be wanting to heat up some good hot water for your shaving and all,” Luned said, apparently addressing her remarks to the silent refrigerator.
A shave. A wash. And little Luned to clean up for me.
Wycherly shook his head in bemusement. He had, he realized, entered a simpler world, one where men built fires and women cleaned house. It held no particular appeal for him. In Wycherly's universe, men and women both idled, and paid laborers ordered by his parents took care of the mechanics of living. He wasn't sure he wanted to think of Luned as a servant.
Wycherly shook his head in bemusement. He had, he realized, entered a simpler world, one where men built fires and women cleaned house. It held no particular appeal for him. In Wycherly's universe, men and women both idled, and paid laborers ordered by his parents took care of the mechanics of living. He wasn't sure he wanted to think of Luned as a servant.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Wycherly said, making no move toward the stove. “I mean, it was very kind
of you to show me up here, and everything ⦠.”
Go away so I can get drunk in peace.
of you to show me up here, and everything ⦠.”
Go away so I can get drunk in peace.
“And what'd you give Evan three hundred dollars for, cep'n so I could clean this place up for you and lay you in a nice mess of fixin's?” Luned answered inarguably. “I'll get my share out of him, Mister City Man, don't you worry your head none about that. So if you'd be so kind as to see to that fire, if it wasn't no trouble?”
She placed her hands on her hips and stared at him, and Wycherly really didn't have any choice. Fortunately the expensive summer camps where he'd had been warehoused as a childâas well as a number of the more innovative detox programs he'd attendedâhad stressed wilderness survival as the pathway to self-improvement; once Wycherly managed to unlatch the front door of the stove and make sure that the inside was reasonably empty, he had no difficulty in laying down a pattern of logs to light.
The antique newspaper made excellent starter, and he still had a box of matches in his jacket pocket from whatever New York restaurant he'd been thrown out of last. The well-aged wood caught quickly, and Wycherly shut the door, pausing only to wonder if the draw pipe still worked after all these years.
Apparently it did, because the fire burned cleanly, its flames visible in orange flashes through the glass of the stove's front door.
“Take that a while to heat,” Luned commented, struggling toward the stove carrying an enormous cast-iron pot filled with what looked like soup or stew. Wycherly rushed to take it from her. Every muscle he'd strained in the crash complained, and he nearly dropped it himself.
Once it was settled, Luned carried a second, smaller pot to the stove and ladled water from the bucket into it.
“There.” She inspected him critically. “H'ain't you got no other clothes, Mister City Man?”
“My name's Wycherly, I'm not a âMister,' and no I don't.” He looked down at the crisp grey work pants.
Couture courtesy of the Morton's Fork general store.
Couture courtesy of the Morton's Fork general store.
“Well-l-l, I reckon I'll just have to stitch up a shirt for you, Mister City Man,” Luned said slyly, turning away and sashaying-there was no other word for itâinto the bedroom. “Mind you stir that soup now, or it'll burn.”
Wycherly stared at the pot. He'd be damned if he'd stir soup.
He needed a wash, and probably to find that backhouse. Country plumbingâan outdoor privy, probably full of spiders and wasp nests if nothing worse. Wycherly shuddered. He looked at the cans on the table, beaded with condensation and creek water. He'd could wash up there, as he'd first planned. Abruptly the thought of going near the water made him shudder.
Don't be feeble-minded, Musgrave. Camilla Redford is safely in her grave and has been since 1984. You saw the gravesite, remember?
Only the dead never stay dead. That's the only real problem with them.
In the Musgrave family, there was no such thing as a dead issue.
In the Musgrave family, there was no such thing as a dead issue.
He got to his feet and knocked back the rest of the second can. Removing his jacket was a struggle, but he managed, laying it carefully over the back of the chair. He looked back at the beer. One for the road.
But no. Not right now. The two beers he'd already had were nothing more than a cushion, fuzzing the edges but not really intoxicating him. He meant to stop, he really did. He'd been dried out before, and he knew the drill. This time Wycherly had been drinking heavily for several monthsâheavily for him, which meant a considerable amount of alcohol every day. When a man reached that point, the trick was to sober up slowlyâno d.t.'s as the alcohol slowly worked its way out of his system. After he'd reached technical sobriety, he could start drying out. And then he could see if he could stay sober.
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