The Spirit Wood (23 page)

“You’d better lead the way, then.”

Lead the way? It was only by chance that she had stumbled upon the glade that day. How would she find it again now? They cut in through the trees at roughly the spot she had come in before. It was difficult to make much progress; everything was so overgrown, and what paths they could find brought them, as usual, to dead ends or, as far as they could tell, back to where they'd started. Unlike the last time she'd been in these woods, today it was dark and gloomy. There was no sun blazing through the treetops, but only a dull gray light ineffectually filtering down.

“Doesn't anything in here look familiar to you?” Byron asked in frustration.

“No,” Meg had to admit. “It all looks the same to me. But I wasn't the one who found that glade in the first place—Dodger sniffed it out.”

Byron hollered once or twice; the only reply was a fresh gust of wind shaking the branches around them. But on that wind came the faint aroma of charcoal again; they both smelled it, and instantly set off in the general direction it seemed to be coming from. Meg tried not to think what the smell could mean, but she remembered vividly the burnt circle in the center of the glade. A raindrop touched her cheek. Then another.

“I think we're on a trail again,” Byron said, slapping aside a bough, and when she looked down she saw that they had hit upon another path, one that seemed vaguely familiar. It had a worn, hard-packed look that she thought she remembered. They followed its meandering course deeper into the heart of the woods, through dark green brush just beginning to glisten with rain, up a slight rise carpeted with wild grass and clusters of toadstools, then down again, toward what appeared to be an opening beyond the trees. Yes, it
was
becoming familiar to Meg, that slight rise, and the slide down the other side. And the smell, that burning odor, was stronger here than it had been anywhere else.

Byron was the first to thread his way through the surrounding trees, then leap the moat of scrubby bushes that enclosed the glade. Meg caught her sleeve on a batch of thorns, and by the time she'd freed herself and clambered over the rest of the obstructing brush, Byron was already on his knees, his staff flung aside, at the edge of the burnt—and now faintly smoldering—circle.

He was leaning far forward, and Meg had to come around to one side before she could see what he was looking at. And touching.

The fur was singed to a muddy brown, in some spots black or burnt away altogether. He was lying on his side, his legs stiffly outstretched; Byron was stroking the top of his skull with one finger. Meg gagged, and felt her stomach lurch. She thought she would be sick, but she couldn't turn away; that would have been one more betrayal. She dropped to her own knees; the grass was damp.

“Dodger . . . Dodger . . . Dodger,” Byron was saying, like a chant, under his breath.

The head was bent backwards at a strange angle, and it took Meg a second to realize, with even greater horror, that the throat had been ripped open—the fur
there was darkly clotted—and the head pulled away from the body. The leather collar was charred to a twisted black strand, black as a coat hanger; the tags hung down into a pool of congealed blood, thick and viscous as tar.

Byron was gently rocking back and forth on his heels. The cinders hissed in the light rain. Meg cradled her cheek against Byron's shoulder, then reached out to touch one of Dodger's blackened paws. It was as cold and hard as stone, the leg rigid.

And his tail . . . his bushy golden tail had been torn away to a blunt stump.

Thirty

T
HE NEXT FEW
hours always remained confused and chaotic for Meg. Byron had wrapped Diogenes's corpse in his old brown sport coat and carried it up to the house. In the kitchen, he'd put the bundle down on the blue bath mat. Peter had come in, with the flushed, excited expression he often had now; Mrs. Constantine had been right behind him. Meg had said something, not much, to explain what had happened—there hadn't been much she could say. How could any of this be
explained?
Byron hadn't said a thing; he'd simply stood there looking lost and numb until Peter, nervously rubbing his unshaven face, had tried to get a closer look at Diogenes's remains. Byron, with his long, bony arms, had suddenly flailed out at him, one fist catching Peter on the chin and knocking him into the refrigerator. Peter, instead of swinging back, had charged at Byron like a ram, butting him to the floor, where they had wrestled wildly. Mrs. Constantine had screamed and slumped against the counter; Meg had tried to catch hold of their thrashing arms and separate them. But the fight was over almost as soon as it had begun; they had fallen away from each other, ashamed and disheveled. Meg had run upstairs to Mrs. Constantine's bedroom, to fetch a bottle of red capsules from her bedside table. Meg couldn't recall if anything had been said then, or whether Byron had helped them
bring Mrs. Constantine up to her room, or how long it was before she found herself alone again, in her own bedroom. What she
did
remember was lying down on the unmade bed and listening as the rain, now pouring down, splashed on the flagstones of the balcony. She must have lain there for at least an hour, thinking first of nothing, then of Dodger, then of nothing. It was as if she could assimilate all that had happened only in small increments, and even then only by repetition.

Mrs. Constantine's heart problem was news to her. Even Peter, she thought, had been surprised by it. Once she was upstairs, his mother had assured them that she'd be all right and there was no need to call a doctor or ambulance. But Meg was worried about her.

Just as she was about Peter. She realized that what Byron had said was true—he could go haywire again at any time. There was something . . .
off
about him, in nearly every way now. From sleeping on the balcony to the manic glitter that often filled his eyes. Even the way he'd fought with Byron in the kitchen—ramming him rather than throwing a punch—was bizarre. As for the fight, Meg feared that there'd be no going back; the break between Peter and Byron was too great, too violent, to be bridged anymore. Byron would undoubtedly leave.

Sometime later, when she heard him going into his bedroom next door, she knocked softly, announced herself, and went in. He was pulling off his wet wind-breaker. He looked lost and numb.

“I’d better hang this in the bathroom,” he said. There was mud on his hands and trousers. Meg understood what he'd been doing.

“Where?” she asked, gently.

“In the woods, just west of the gates.” He was washing his hands mechanically at the sink. “I wrapped him in his bath mat.” He sounded almost anesthetized.

“Did you put up any sort of a . . . marker?”

“I thought it was better not to.” He paused, then asked after Mrs. Constantine.

“She's still resting. She seems to be all right now.”

He came out of the bathroom again, drying off, then sat beside Meg on the bed to untie his shoes. “I don't think these will ever dry out.” He peeled off his socks, too, and rolled up the bottoms of his trousers. Then tentatively took one of Meg's hands in his own. They sat without talking.

Byron, hunched forward, appeared to be a million miles away. He stared absently at their intertwined fingers. Meg found herself thinking of the scarecrow in
The Wizard of Oz,
at the end, when Dorothy was about to return to Kansas. Byron had that same long, haunted face, and all the strength seemed to have gone out of his frame. She felt in her own heart, though hugely magnified, the same sadness she'd felt when she'd first seen the movie. She knew what Byron was going to say before he said it.

“I'm going to call Omaha and tell them I'll take that apartment now.”

“When will you leave?”

“As soon as possible. I'm sorry about punching Peter.” He looked up at Meg. “But I can't take it back.”

“I know.”

“Not that I really want to.” He gave her a wan smile. “He had it coming, I think, whether or not he had anything to do with what happened to Dodger.”

“Oh, By,” Meg said, “you don't really think he did, do you?” She couldn't imagine Peter, even drunk or in a rage, having anything to do with the killing—and mutilation—of Dodger. It was inconceivable.

Byron shook his head sadly. “Meg, I wish I could say that I
didn't
think so, that he
wasn't
capable of it. But I don't believe there's very much he's not capable of anymore.” He held her hand firmly. “I think you have to open your eyes to that. You can't keep trying
to forgive him, or explain him, or exonerate him. Whatever's going on in Peter is beyond your control. And to tell you the truth, I think it's beyond his control, too.”

“Then what
do
I do?”

“You know what I'll say . . . come out West with me.”

Meg was silent.

“Peter wants me out of here. He made that clear last night at the Caswells. I'm afraid that if I stay, I'll only make things even worse for you . . . though I'm also afraid of leaving you here alone with him.”

“I'll be all right.”

“I'll give you my address in Omaha as soon as I know it. And my phone number as soon as I get one. I want you to know that you have someplace you can go to, whenever you need to, for as long as you want—a week, a month . . . or for good.” He squeezed her hand tightly, then suddenly drew her toward him. His arms held her in a close embrace; she could feel his heart thumping against her. He was so different from Peter; his body was so thin, so angular. She stroked his shoulders.

“I want you, Meg,” he said in a whisper. “I want you, and I love you. I know that only complicates things for you. I know I should probably shut up and go. But I love you, I love you,” he breathed, desperately, into her hair.

Meg clutched him harder. To give him comfort, to share his pain. She didn't know what she was going to do without him there to lean on, to laugh with, to talk to. She needed Byron; she needed him. And she knew that now. He was the only certain thing in her world anymore, the only refuge she knew.

“I need you, too,” she said, so softly that she wasn't sure if he'd heard her at all. “I need you too, By.”

He held her face between his hands, tenderly, longingly, his fingers laced in her long blond hair. “Then
come with me,” he urged. “Come with me.” There was wild joy in his eyes. “Come with me, Meg.” And before she could answer, before she could say anything to dash his hopes, he kissed her . . . and held her close, as if to seal the bargain. They fell back onto the bed, his eager hands caressing her face, her shoulders, her breasts . . . “Come with me, Meg, come with me, my love.” Meg closed her eyes, tried to give herself over. She needed him, yes . . . she needed to be loved . . . she needed him now . . . her body surged, her hips arced with the pent-up heat inside her . . . but she could not give herself, not fully, not yet, as much as she longed to, not while her heart still bore the faint but agonizing impression of Peter.

Thirty-one

L
ET ME PUT
some new ice in that,” Leah said, taking the dishcloth to the refrigerator, then bringing it back to Peter. The rain, which hadn't let up since morning, beat on the roof of the cottage with renewed fury.

“He hit you good, huh?” Nikos said, chortling. “You want me to send Angelos"—who looked up dully from the stick he was whittling—"to get revenge?”

Peter didn't answer, but held the ice pack up to the stubble on his chin. He hurt not only where Byron had hit him, but all over now. His whole body felt as if it had been put on a rack and twisted out of shape. He must have landed on the kitchen floor even harder than he'd thought. Even the top of his head was tender, no doubt from charging into Byron.

His ears he didn't even want to think about.

“This friend of yours, he will be leaving Arcadia now.” Nikos almost made it sound like a question. “And we will be having no more trouble about Fifi and Fritz.”

“No, there'll be no more trouble about Fifi and Fritz,” Peter conceded. Jesus, even his teeth ached. “They can run free now whenever they want to.”

Nikos leaned back in his chair, with his shirt uncharacteristically pulled open. It was the first time Peter
had seen his chest and belly—or
almost
seen them. The covering of russet-colored hair was so thick, so curly and profuse, that even his nipples were completely hidden. The navel, too. It was as close to fur as Peter could imagine on a human being.

“So then there will just be your mother and your wife,” Nikos said, as if keeping score. Leah, Peter thought, threw her father a cautionary glance.

Why couldn't he have found Leah alone somewhere? That's what he really could have used right now. That's what might have taken some of the ache out of his bones.

“My mother's not feeling very well,” Peter said. How long had she had this heart condition? What exactly was it? “I don't know how much longer she'll be staying either.”

“Arcadia does not agree with her?” Nikos said, as if it were inconceivable. “Arcadia is like no other place on this earth. What can make her not well here?”

“It's not Arcadia,” Peter said, “it's her heart.” That's what she'd always said had killed his father—a heart problem of some sort. If that were so, then the odds against Peter were getting worse all the time. Maybe he'd better see a doctor himself.

“That is too bad,” Nikos said, clucking his tongue. “But even if your mother has to leave, that does not mean you have to go, too. Your grandfather, he always wanted you to live here after him.”

Peter still found it hard to believe that his grandfather, who'd set eyes on him only once, could have had these determined plans for him. Why in the world had he cared what happened to a grandson he'd never known?

“ ‘Nikos,’ he would say to me, ‘one day my grandson will come here, to Arcadia, to see what we have done. And you will show him,’ “ the caretaker recalled, proudly. “ ‘You will show him all the things that you have shown me. You will help him to under-
stand things, and to know who he is. With you, he will taste—’ “ and here Nikos lifted one of his straw-covered bottles from the table—” ‘the one true wine.’ “ He refilled both his and Peter's glasses.

"Stin eeya sas,”
Nikos said, raising a toast. Peter drank, too. Then he asked one of the many questions that had troubled him since coming to Arcadia.

“Nikos, how is it that you can make wine here? There's no other vineyard that I know of anywhere around this area.”

Nikos shrugged. “It is not so easy. Here, I can make much less than I could make in the old country. Near Heraea. But enough,” he said. “I can make enough.”

The mention of Heraea rang a bell. “Is that where you met my grandfather?” Peter asked. “In Heraea?”

“Very near.”

“Because that's where someone named Kesseogolou was from, a man who was included in my grandfather's will. Did you know him?”

Angelos laughed suddenly, in an alarming and improbable falsetto. Leah told him to keep still. Nikos gave them both a chastening glance, then said, “Yes, he was with us there. He had some business with your grandfather, and he—what is the word?—
introduced
us.”

“What kind of business?”

“Oh, business,” Nikos repeated evasively. “Who can say?”

“But what do you mean, he was ‘with you’ there?” Peter persisted. He felt that he mustn't lose this opportunity. “Was he part of your family?”

Angelos muffled another laugh. What was so funny, Peter wondered. Even Nikos was smiling slightly when he replied. “Yes, you could say that. But so was your grandfather.”

“So was my grandfather what? Part of your family?” My God, Peter thought, was he related to these people?

“I think that's enough,” Leah said, coming to the table.

“In Greece, there are some very old families,” Nikos went on, unallayed, “families that were once very large, but that are now very small.” He held his fingers an inch apart. “Sometimes they do not even know who the others in the family are . . . until they meet. And then they know. Then they know who they are.”

“The rain has stopped,” Leah said, perhaps to encourage Peter to go.

“The blood of these families is like this wine,” Nikos said, “very rare, and very precious. And what remains must be carefully tended to. It must be . . .
cultivated,
like the vines outside.” He was looking fixedly at Peter now, his dark eyes narrowing to catlike slits. “That is why your grandfather wanted you to stay here with us.”

“What—to be cultivated?” Peter said, with a bitter laugh of his own. His ears suddenly itched; he resisted the urge to uncover and scratch them. “He wanted me to learn how to play the flute? Is that it?” His ears burned; he heard an edge of hysteria in his own voice.

“Not that alone,” Nikos replied, coldly. “
Many
things, that you are only beginning to learn. One of them you learned last night,” he said, “in the woods with us. Can you remember that?” he asked. “Can you? You were very fast, Peter, faster than the rest of us. Even Fifi and Fritz could not keep up.”

“You should have waited for me,” Angelos complained.

“It will come to you,” Nikos said with certainty. “But perhaps not now.”

The screen door rattled, in a last gust of wind from the storm, as Peter sat, his ears prickling with fire, remembering again that flickering vision of smoke, and trees, and . . . God, what was it, an animal running, and hunted . . .