 XII. Beron 1:00 PM The sun was out in full force, bathing the entire lakeshore with its warmth. But the ground remained soggy from the previous night’s storm. Reine frowned as she stepped out onto the trail. The ground made a greedy sucking sound as if it was valiantly attempting to transform itself into quicksand. Most of the trees in the surrounding area were striped. Gold and red leaves littered the ground in a show of dying dramatics. Pinecones occasionally littered the trail, crunching beneath their boots. “The Baron was right,” remarked Marcus as the two of them tramped down the trail and turned at the fork into the forest. “The day is better after the storm.” Sunlight filtered in from the bare branched canopy to light up the interior with specks of light. Tuesday would have found it fascinating. But the small cat had decided to sleep in yet again. Not that Reine blamed him. After her disturbing visions the night before, she had also wanted to cower back underneath her covers and shut out the world. But, yes, it was a nice day. Perhaps their little jaunt to the church ruins would provide a bit of relief from the strange things up at the mansion and the pang she felt whenever she remembered again that Ira was missing. They had brought two flashlights with them at the suggestion of Palwick, the butler. “They’re interesting for tourists if you know the right place to look,” he had sniffed airily. “And it’s quite dark in there despite the sun and despite it’s supposed to be a ruin. The windows are all boarded up so hardly any light goes in. And definitely go in with a partner. I’d say the old church is liable to fall down any moment.” “You don’t suppose we might find some relics in there, would we?” said Reine. “Nah. Didn’t the Baron and the Baroness say that archaeologists already went through the place and saw nothing of interest? I think the only thing interesting would be seeing Phineas Cronan’s grave.” “I find it morbid.” “What’s morbid?” “Using a grave as a tourist attraction.” “Well, the Taj Mahal is a mausoleum and everyone visits that.” “I’m not quite sure that would apply as something mainstream.” “How about the pyramids?” “Now you’re just being silly,” smiled Reine. “Well, I am being serious. Too many people have flicked off graves as being uninteresting. It’s the remains of someone who used to be alive, just like you and me. And they talked and laughed and cried and had thoughts like us.” “Great philosophy, but poor in practice, Marcus. How many times a day do you think of dead people.” “Well. I guess you have a point. Less than once average. But I do think about dead related things sometimes. Like graveyards and pyramids and hearses.” “Is that all you think about?” “Now that you mention it, no. I think about other stuff.” “Like what?” “Hm,” he said, avoiding the chance to answer. He stopped and looked briefly behind them. “Ah. We’re finally out of sight of the house.” She stood beside him, looking in the direction of his gaze, seeing nothing but bare trees and the trail. “And what does that supposed to mean? Did we forget something like leaving a trail of crumbs like Hansel and Gretel to help us get back home?” “You’ve been reading too many fairy tales.” “Oh yeah?” “Yeah.” Marcus took a hold of Reine’s wrist and pulled her toward him so they were only a few inches apart. Reine felt her face warm and it had nothing to do with the afternoon sun. “Am I going to be eaten by the big bad wolf?” He grinned. “I’m not a wolf. But I can be big and bad if you want.” He leaned down so she could feel his breath caressing her nose. She tilted her head up and watched the pupils of his eyes grow larger. “Hm. I’ve…” “Hey, wait up!” Simultaneously, they stepped back from each other. Reine crossed her arms. Marcus stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and narrowed his eyes at the figure jogging along the trail to catch up. It was Hadrian. “So, where’s your dog shadow?” said Reine. “For once, I’m glad to have left him back at the house. He probably ate too many mints yesterday. All of that mint extract probably went to his head.” “Humph,” Marcus grunted. Hadrian smiled, knowingly. “The Baron said that you two were going up to see the old ruined church this afternoon,” he said instead. “I just thought I’d tag along. I don’t want to miss an opportunity.” “To visit a pile of rubble?” Reine turned to continue hiking up the trail, not waiting for the men to follow her because she knew they would do it automatically. “I think you just want to visit the gravesite of this Phineas Cronan. From what we’ve heard of him already, he could be your hero.” “Actually, I think he’s crazy,” said Hadrian. “I mean, ten mistresses at one time? What man in his right mind would want to have ten women at a time calling upon his attention? And think of all the money he must have spent on them all.” “But think,” said Marcus, “he didn’t have to spend the long winter nights up here alone.” “Yeah, there’s that.” “Is that what you guys always think about? Getting laid?” “We’re not that complicated to understand,” Hadrian told Reine. “We’re not,” Marcus agreed, drawing an amused glance from Reine. “But I’ve met quite a few authors who think the contrary.” “Send those literary types my way then,” said Hadrian. “I’d like to hear their side on what makes a man tick. Then I’ll beat him to the ground to demonstrate who’s right.” “How barbaric,” she replied. She pushed away a swinging branch as she continued on the trail. Marcus ducked as the branch came swinging back. The branch smacked Hadrian on the forehead. “Ow! How am I going to explain a mark on my head when we come back?” “You stepped on some fairies. They wreaked retribution,” said Reine. “Huh?” “Expert on fairy tales,” Marcus explained. “Oh really?” The mystery editor rubbed his head. “Well, tell those fairies to go to hell.” With his free hand, he took out a cigarette from his pocket and stuffed the end in his mouth. He fumbled for the lighter. “Is it me or is this trail getting darker?” “The branches are thicker overhead,” Reine replied absently. “Look. I think I see it.” The trail turned revealing a clearing that was on the verge of not being a clearing as bushes had started encroaching onto the perimeter. One church steeple reached upward toward the sky in a plaintive last testament. The church was built entirely of dark quarry stone except for the rotting stairs and the wooden doors which were hung at an odd angle. Hadrian was disappointed. “You know, I was sort of expecting a spooky, haunted house sort of thing.” He breathed out a cloud of smoke which dissipated almost immediately once it hit the air. © 2002, S. Y. Affolee |