she told Shane. âIf I had any choice, I wouldnât.â
There was no fallen tree nearby, and she knew she couldnât vault on from the ground this time. She walked as far as the next cut, holding onto Shaneâs mane at the withers to support herself. Then he stood partway down the bank and she eased onto his back from above.
That afternoon seemed very long.
Giving up her pride, Bobbi had laid her head on Shaneâs neck when she felt his already-slow walk turn yet slower, then stop. It took her a moment to gather the strength to sit up and open her eyes.
Shane stood within the last fringe of trees before a tiny mountain town: just a dozen tumbledown buildings, half of them empty, strung along a narrow, winding dirt road that vanished back into forest again. It was dusk. For some reason Bobbi noticed with great clarity the minute, white spring flowers blooming in the woods trash at Shaneâs feet. Yellow light glowed gently from the windows.
The woods pressed on the town the same way they pressed on the Yandro farm, so that the trees seemed to push the shacks and trailers, the vacant single-room store and the square wooden post office down the steep slopes toward the road and creek at the bottom. The nearest house, a plain, two-story frame house, stood half in forest. Its front porch faced the downhill slope and the town. Its back stoop stood hidden in laurel, and taller trees fingered its roof, leaving mossy marks.
Shane looked at the lay of the land a moment, then drifted forward as silently as a mountain cat toward the back stoop, that house.
Though she could not possibly have heard them coming, a square-built old woman came to the back door, the one facing the woods, and looked out at the twilight. She stood in the doorway with the light streaming through from behind her back; Bobbi could not see her properly, only her housedress and her smooth silver hair. Shane had stopped. The old woman turned her head, and Bobbi knew she had somehow perceived the black horse standing in the nightfall, and though Bobbi could not see the old womanâs eyes, she felt as though they had looked on her naked.
The old woman beckoned, reached inside the door and turned off the brightest light, leaving the porch in near-darkness. Then she went back inside.
Shane carried Bobbi forward.
Straight up to the stoop he took her, and the fast, half-frightened beating of her heart gave her strength to dismount lightly, stand on her own and slip quietly in at the open door. The kitchen door. In the soft light coming through an inner door from what seemed to be a parlor, she could see the oilcloth-covered table, the ladder-back chairs. A good smell of cooked chicken greeted her. âSet down there at the table,â a throaty old voice told her. But Bobbi froze where she was, on the braided rug. The old woman standing at the cookstove was the one she had seen in Shaneâs eyes.
Shane came in behind her, up the wooden porch steps and right into the house, and the old woman scuttled over and shut the door behind him.
PART 2
Witch Hazel
âThe trickster must first win trust,â the bearded man whispered to his wand at midnight. âIt is tiresome, I know, my beauty, but âtwill be worth it in the end. And the years are short to an immortal.â
The wand lay in his callused hands without moving or speaking. It was made of wood stolen centuries before from a tree in a cemetery in Italy, a cypress then already old, with its roots deep in the dead heart of a Borgia, stolen in the dark of the moon, rumor said, with a sacrifice of human blood. The staff was black with age, thick as a blacksmithâs arm and very powerful, but still and mute as the tomb.
Bearded nearly to his waist, but with no mustache on his upper lip, the whisperer turned the death-wand in his hands. He caressed its steel-clad head between his palms. He murmured to it as if to a lover. Overhead hung a single dim, bare electric bulb,
There was no fallen tree nearby, and she knew she couldnât vault on from the ground this time. She walked as far as the next cut, holding onto Shaneâs mane at the withers to support herself. Then he stood partway down the bank and she eased onto his back from above.
That afternoon seemed very long.
Giving up her pride, Bobbi had laid her head on Shaneâs neck when she felt his already-slow walk turn yet slower, then stop. It took her a moment to gather the strength to sit up and open her eyes.
Shane stood within the last fringe of trees before a tiny mountain town: just a dozen tumbledown buildings, half of them empty, strung along a narrow, winding dirt road that vanished back into forest again. It was dusk. For some reason Bobbi noticed with great clarity the minute, white spring flowers blooming in the woods trash at Shaneâs feet. Yellow light glowed gently from the windows.
The woods pressed on the town the same way they pressed on the Yandro farm, so that the trees seemed to push the shacks and trailers, the vacant single-room store and the square wooden post office down the steep slopes toward the road and creek at the bottom. The nearest house, a plain, two-story frame house, stood half in forest. Its front porch faced the downhill slope and the town. Its back stoop stood hidden in laurel, and taller trees fingered its roof, leaving mossy marks.
Shane looked at the lay of the land a moment, then drifted forward as silently as a mountain cat toward the back stoop, that house.
Though she could not possibly have heard them coming, a square-built old woman came to the back door, the one facing the woods, and looked out at the twilight. She stood in the doorway with the light streaming through from behind her back; Bobbi could not see her properly, only her housedress and her smooth silver hair. Shane had stopped. The old woman turned her head, and Bobbi knew she had somehow perceived the black horse standing in the nightfall, and though Bobbi could not see the old womanâs eyes, she felt as though they had looked on her naked.
The old woman beckoned, reached inside the door and turned off the brightest light, leaving the porch in near-darkness. Then she went back inside.
Shane carried Bobbi forward.
Straight up to the stoop he took her, and the fast, half-frightened beating of her heart gave her strength to dismount lightly, stand on her own and slip quietly in at the open door. The kitchen door. In the soft light coming through an inner door from what seemed to be a parlor, she could see the oilcloth-covered table, the ladder-back chairs. A good smell of cooked chicken greeted her. âSet down there at the table,â a throaty old voice told her. But Bobbi froze where she was, on the braided rug. The old woman standing at the cookstove was the one she had seen in Shaneâs eyes.
Shane came in behind her, up the wooden porch steps and right into the house, and the old woman scuttled over and shut the door behind him.
PART 2
Witch Hazel
âThe trickster must first win trust,â the bearded man whispered to his wand at midnight. âIt is tiresome, I know, my beauty, but âtwill be worth it in the end. And the years are short to an immortal.â
The wand lay in his callused hands without moving or speaking. It was made of wood stolen centuries before from a tree in a cemetery in Italy, a cypress then already old, with its roots deep in the dead heart of a Borgia, stolen in the dark of the moon, rumor said, with a sacrifice of human blood. The staff was black with age, thick as a blacksmithâs arm and very powerful, but still and mute as the tomb.
Bearded nearly to his waist, but with no mustache on his upper lip, the whisperer turned the death-wand in his hands. He caressed its steel-clad head between his palms. He murmured to it as if to a lover. Overhead hung a single dim, bare electric bulb,
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