Page 34 (1/2)
PROLOGUE
I woke three times in the dark predawn First in sorrow, then in joy, and at the last, in solitude The tears of a bone-deep loss woketouch of a da hands I turned my face to the wet pillow and sailed a salty river into the caverns of grief remembered, into the subterranean depths of sleep
I came awake then in fierce joy, body arched bowlike in the throes of physical joining, the touch of hi the paths of my nerves as the ripples of consummation spread fro the sharp, war arms of my lover, sleep
The third tiht of the stones was fresh instones on the crest of a steep green hill The nah na Dun; the fairies' hill Some say the hill is enchanted, others say it is cursed Both are right But no one knows the function or the purpose of the stones
Except me
PART ONE
Through a
Looking Glass,
Darkly
Inverness, 1968
1
MUSTERING THE ROLL
Roger Wakefield stood in the center of the rooely justified, insofar as he was surrounded: by tables covered with bric-a-brac and mementos, by heavy Victorian-style furniture, replete with antis that lay on the polished wood, craftily awaiting an opportunity to skid beneath an unsuspecting foot Surrounded by twelve roo and papers And the books—my God, the books!
The study where he stood was lined on three sides by bookshelves, every one craht, tatty piles in front of calf-bound tomes, jammed cheek by joith book-club selections, ancient volumes pilfered from extinct libraries, and thousands upon thousands of pamphlets, leaflets, and hand-sewn manuscripts
A similar situation prevailed in the rest of the house Books and papers cluttered every horizontal surface, and every closet groaned and squeaked at the seaood ten years past his biblically allotted threescore and ten And in eighty-odd years, the Reverend Mr Reginald Wakefield had never thrown anything away
Roger repressed the urge to run out of the front door, leap into his Morris Minor, and head back to Oxford, abandoning the manse and its contents to the mercy of weather and vandals Be cal deeply You can deal with this The books are the easy part; nothingsomeone to come and haul them away Granted, they'll need a lorry the size of a railcar, but it can be done Clothes—no probleets the lot
He didn't knohat Oxfae suits, circa 1948, but perhaps the deserving poor weren't all that picky He began to breathe a little easier He had taken a month's leave from the History department at Oxford in order to clear up the Reverend's affairs Perhaps that would be enough, after all In his ht take years
He moved toward one of the tables and picked up a sles; lead "gaberlunzies," badges issued to eighteenth-century beggars by parishes as a sort of license A collection of stoneware bottles stood by the lamp, a ramshorn snuff mull, banded in silver, next to theht dubiously The house was filled with Jacobite artifacts; the Reverend had been an a ground
His fingers reached involuntarily to caress the surface of the snuffthe black lines of the inscriptions—the names and dates of the Deacons and Treasurers of the Incorporation of Tailors of the Canongate, froh, 1726 Perhaps he should keep a few of the Reverend's choicer acquisitions…but then he drew back, shaking his head decidedly "Nothing doing, cock," he said aloud, "this way lies madness" Or at least the incipient life of a pack rat Get started saving things, and he'd end up keeping the lot, living in this enerations of rubbish "Talking to yourself, too," he muttered
The thought of generations of rubbish reed a bit at the knees The Reverend, as in fact Roger's great-uncle, had adopted hie of five when his parents had been killed in World War II; his mother in the Blitz, his father out over the dark waters of the Channel With his usual preservative instincts, the Reverend had kept all of Roger's parents' effects, sealed in crates and cartons in the back of the garage Roger knew for a fact that no one had opened one of those crates in the past twenty years
Roger uttered an Old Testah his parents'but that!"
The remark had not been intended precisely as prayer, but the doorbell pealed as though in answer, ue in startlement
The door of the manse had a tendency to stick in damp weather, which er freed it with a rending screech, to find a woman on the doorstep
"Can I help you?"
She was ht and very pretty He had an overall impression of fine bones and white linen, topped with a wealth of curly brown hair in a sort of half-tanon And in the ht eyes, just the color of well-aged sherry
The eyes swept up from his size-eleven plireider "I hate to start right off with a cliché," she said, "but er!"
Roger felt hihed and extended a hand "You are Roger, aren't you? My name's Claire Randall; I was an old friend of the Reverend's But I haven't seen you since you were five years old"
"Er, you said you were a friend of my father's? Then, you know already…"
The sret
"Yes, I fully sorry to hear about it Heart, was it?"
"Um, yes Very sudden I've only just co" He waved vaguely, enco the Reverend's death, the house behind him, and all its contents
"From what I recall of your father's library, that little chore ought to last you 'til next Christmas," Claire observed
"In that case,you," said a soft American voice
"Oh, I forgot," said Claire, half-turning to the girl who had stood out of sight in the corner of the porch "Roger Wakefield—hter, Brianna"
Brianna Randall stepped forward, a shy ser stared for athe door open wide, ed his shirt
"Not at all, not at all!" he said heartily "I was just wanting a break Won't you come in?"
He waved the to that as well as being irls he'd ever seen close-to She had to be easily six feet, he thought, seeing her head even with the top of the hall stand as she passed He unconsciously straightened hi up to his full six feet three At the lasthis head on the study lintel as he followed the women into the room
"I'dherself deeper in the huge wing chair The fourth wall of the Reverend's study was equipped with floor-to-ceiling s, and the sunlight winked off the pearl clip in her light-brown hair The curls were beginning to escape from their confinement, and she tucked one absently behind an ear as she talked
"I'd arranged to coency at the hospital in Boston—I' a little at the look of surprise Roger hadn't quite ed to conceal "But I'm sorry that we didn't; I would have liked so ain"
Roger rather wondered why they had co the Reverend was dead, but it seehtseeing, are you?"
"Yes, we drove up frohter "I wanted Bree to see the country; you wouldn't think it to hear her talk, but she's as English as I ah she's never lived here"
"Really?" Roger glanced at Brianna She didn't really look English, he thought; aside froht, she had thick red hair, worn loose over her shoulders, and strong, sharp-angled bones in her face, with the nose long and straight—
"I was born in America," Brianna explained, "but both Mother and Daddy are—were—English"
OLOGUE
I woke three times in the dark predawn First in sorrow, then in joy, and at the last, in solitude The tears of a bone-deep loss woketouch of a da hands I turned my face to the wet pillow and sailed a salty river into the caverns of grief remembered, into the subterranean depths of sleep
I came awake then in fierce joy, body arched bowlike in the throes of physical joining, the touch of hi the paths of my nerves as the ripples of consummation spread fro the sharp, war arms of my lover, sleep
The third tiht of the stones was fresh instones on the crest of a steep green hill The nah na Dun; the fairies' hill Some say the hill is enchanted, others say it is cursed Both are right But no one knows the function or the purpose of the stones
Except me
PART ONE
Through a
Looking Glass,
Darkly
Inverness, 1968
1
MUSTERING THE ROLL
Roger Wakefield stood in the center of the rooely justified, insofar as he was surrounded: by tables covered with bric-a-brac and mementos, by heavy Victorian-style furniture, replete with antis that lay on the polished wood, craftily awaiting an opportunity to skid beneath an unsuspecting foot Surrounded by twelve roo and papers And the books—my God, the books!
The study where he stood was lined on three sides by bookshelves, every one craht, tatty piles in front of calf-bound tomes, jammed cheek by joith book-club selections, ancient volumes pilfered from extinct libraries, and thousands upon thousands of pamphlets, leaflets, and hand-sewn manuscripts
A similar situation prevailed in the rest of the house Books and papers cluttered every horizontal surface, and every closet groaned and squeaked at the seaood ten years past his biblically allotted threescore and ten And in eighty-odd years, the Reverend Mr Reginald Wakefield had never thrown anything away
Roger repressed the urge to run out of the front door, leap into his Morris Minor, and head back to Oxford, abandoning the manse and its contents to the mercy of weather and vandals Be cal deeply You can deal with this The books are the easy part; nothingsomeone to come and haul them away Granted, they'll need a lorry the size of a railcar, but it can be done Clothes—no probleets the lot
He didn't knohat Oxfae suits, circa 1948, but perhaps the deserving poor weren't all that picky He began to breathe a little easier He had taken a month's leave from the History department at Oxford in order to clear up the Reverend's affairs Perhaps that would be enough, after all In his ht take years
He moved toward one of the tables and picked up a sles; lead "gaberlunzies," badges issued to eighteenth-century beggars by parishes as a sort of license A collection of stoneware bottles stood by the lamp, a ramshorn snuff mull, banded in silver, next to theht dubiously The house was filled with Jacobite artifacts; the Reverend had been an a ground
His fingers reached involuntarily to caress the surface of the snuffthe black lines of the inscriptions—the names and dates of the Deacons and Treasurers of the Incorporation of Tailors of the Canongate, froh, 1726 Perhaps he should keep a few of the Reverend's choicer acquisitions…but then he drew back, shaking his head decidedly "Nothing doing, cock," he said aloud, "this way lies madness" Or at least the incipient life of a pack rat Get started saving things, and he'd end up keeping the lot, living in this enerations of rubbish "Talking to yourself, too," he muttered
The thought of generations of rubbish reed a bit at the knees The Reverend, as in fact Roger's great-uncle, had adopted hie of five when his parents had been killed in World War II; his mother in the Blitz, his father out over the dark waters of the Channel With his usual preservative instincts, the Reverend had kept all of Roger's parents' effects, sealed in crates and cartons in the back of the garage Roger knew for a fact that no one had opened one of those crates in the past twenty years
Roger uttered an Old Testah his parents'but that!"
The remark had not been intended precisely as prayer, but the doorbell pealed as though in answer, ue in startlement