Finishing

For most of my life, I've been paralyzed by a fear of failure.

I'm not really sure where it got started, but being labeled as gifted in grade school probably didn't help matters much. When you hear over and over again at a formative age that you're smart, especially in conjunction with the phrase "so why can't you apply yourself?", you tend to develop a sharp, haunted fear of failure. (After all, if intelligence is a major part of your personal identity and yet you can't seem to make intelligent choices or live up to other people's expectations of your abilities, then who are you?) I'm also a perfectionist who can't bear to create flawed or slipshod work. And I don't like people to see when I've made mistakes.

So, naturally, I put up a write-as-you-go rough draft of Unseen on my blog. Because I'm stupid that way.

This story both thrills and terrifies me. I can see the desired shape of it in my head; I know what I want it to be like. And yet I also feel like it's devolving into a train wreck in real time. It lacks the depth and texture I want for it, and there are plot holes I don't know how to close up. I've been sitting on the next section of the story for almost two years, writing and tweaking and rewriting, and finally deleted the whole section because it's been stuck like a front-wheel drive car in waist-deep mud. nnnghrlhblhr.

I was sitting in my car at a stoplight yesterday, waiting for the light to change and mulling over these and other concerns, when I noticed the license plate of the SUV in front of me. It said "IFINISH." And I thought, If ever there were a phrase that didn't describe me, it would be "I finish." I can't seem to get anything of consequence done. I'm a regular champ at starting things, but finishing them? Yeah, not so much. But the more I sat there looking at that license plate, the more I thought to myself: Sooz, you are seriously being stupid.

Looking at this situation honestly, what's the worst thing that could happen? Well, I could write a crappy story and bore you all to death. Or I could never finish the story, in which case certain parties would come after me with torches and pitchforks because they'd invested precious hours of their life reading the draft, and now they have to know how it ends. Or I could write a mediocre-to-good story and have to self-publish it because no editors would give me the time of day.

Or I could finish the draft, polish it, publish it and make millions, and have to go into hiding or something. (Nah. You are not reading the random rantings of the next J.K. Rowling here.)

But really, even if I do fail, so what? Would anyone other than me care or even notice?

So right now the wall beside my desk is plastered with little yellow Post-It notes all having to do with plot bits and pieces from Unseen. I'm shuffling them around to try to figure out what happens when and why. It's making my brain and stomach hurt. But I'm starting to reach a point in my life where not finishing things is more painful than the fear of doing them wrong. I don't know when the next installment of Unseen will be posted or even whether it'll be any good, but it will happen, even if no one is around to see or care. Because I'm crossing this finish line for myself, if for no other reason than to prove to me that I can do it.

Unseen (part 29)

[Author's note: I know my Unseen updates have gotten unbearably irregular when even Captain Midnight starts bugging me to finish. I wasn't even sure he was reading this. OK, time to kick it out.]

previous

I don't remember fleeing the Townleys' house, or how long I ran, but it must have been some distance -- through the town square, past the old abandoned houses, and right through the boundary separating Corey from the outside world without stopping. Finally, when a stitch in my side forced me to stop, I found myself deep in the state forest. I stumbled and leaned against a tree, taking ragged breaths. My face was wet and stinging from the new growth of branches that had whipped against my face; I wiped at my cheek and my hand came away bloody.

One of the most frightening histories I ever read was about the Black Death. Back then, no one really knew how it was spread, though everyone seemed to have a theory. Some thought it was breathed in, along with the pollution of cities and the foul odors of their streets, and they carried sachets of herbs to sniff, trying to fend off the corruption. Others believed it was divine punishment for secret sin, and would whip themselves to shreds to show God their penitence. The wisest ones took to the countryside, far from human contact. Worst off were the wretched people who caught the plague and were then set upon by healthy relatives who, knowing the signs of illness and the certainty of death, would sometimes bury plague victims alive. As I read, I wondered how people could have been so cruel.

But, bleeding and trembling against the rough bark of the tree, I thought I understood for the first time the cold calculations of the uninfected. The plague, once released, had no antidote; it could only be contained. New knowledge had always felt like a gift, not this dark infection spreading through my brain like ink through water. But working with Mrs. Townley had introduced me to the needful pressures of secrecy, and now it seemed my duty to keep this other secret of hers from spreading any further.

And yet even as I leaned against the trunk, taking strange sobbing breaths, my mind was still trying to make sense of what I'd seen. What were those books doing in the basement? Did anyone else in the Conscient know about them? Were they -- could they possibly be -- part of Mrs. Townley's service? How? And if so, why hadn't she said anything about them? Was she even aware of them, long rows of the dead of Corey locked away in that airless stone room downstairs? Who had owned those commonplace-books; who had scribed their lives into them?

And what was written inside them?

I recoiled at the thought. Those books were sacrosanct, filled with other people's lives and meant to be buried with their owners. I'd be digging up corpses next. And yet the thought persisted: what was in all those commonplace-books that someone had chosen not to bury? There were so many; they couldn't be there by accident.

I was in desperate need of some good counsel. But there was no one -- not a soul in or out of Corey -- that I could confide in.

Straightening up, I began to walk back toward the boundary. My earlier adrenaline-fueled speed and strength were gone, and I wobbled a few times and had to sit down, knees trembling. When I reached the invisible boundary line, I walked straight through it without calling to Corey to let me in. I'd done it before, but only with other townsfolk on Moreweight Day -- never alone or out of season.

Most of the bodies of the Salem "witches" had disappeared shortly after their sentences were carried out, given a secret mass burial on some plot of unhallowed ground. But Goody Conant somehow managed to spirit away the mangled remains of her old neighbor, Giles Corey, so that he could be properly laid to rest. The Conscient chose to bury him in a spot that had once been located in the center of town before Corey was sealed away from the outside world -- and now he rested outside his namesake town, an outsider whose memory and sacrifice were nonetheless dear to us.

The boulder as a gravestone was probably Goody Conant's idea. I wondered, not for the first time, whether Giles Corey himself would have been amused or incensed at the idea of being buried under a rock. A simple glamour spell hid the worn inscription:

HERE LYES Ye BODYE OF
GOODMAN GILES COREY
PRESS'D TO DEATH
19th OF SEPTEMBER 1692
And then, a little below the rest:

MORE WEIGHT
At my first Moreweight Day, I didn't think to ask about the final words on the boulder. I'd just assumed they were there because it was Moreweight Day. When I was a little older, my mum explained that Giles Corey had refused to plead guilty or innocent to the crime of witchcraft, so the people of Salem had piled heavy stones on his body in an attempt to get him to confess. He never did; his final words, before he died from the pressure of the stones, were "More weight." I used to think it was Goodman Corey's final sign of defiance against his accusers. But now, with another kind of weight pressing on me, I wondered whether he hadn't actually been pleading for an end to the torture. Who could live with the knowledge that your friends, neighbors and relatives feared and hated you?

I knelt beside the boulder, my knees still shaking, and stretched my palms out against the ground. Under the surface soil heated by the sun, the earth was still winter-cold. Dad's words echoed in my memory -- every work carries a trace of its maker -- and I did my best to still my own thoughts, to reach out for the trace, if there were even a trace left, of Goodman Corey.

For a long time there was nothing more than the song of the world, the deep bass notes of earth and rock vibrating in my bones. I could not sense anything human, or even anything that had once been human. I waited, trying to be patient, wondering how much of Giles Corey's "bodye" remained after nearly 300 years of interment. And then, just as I was about to give in, a tendril of something cold and tenuous seemed to rise up from below and curl itself around my left wrist.

It was nothing like the trace left by a living person. It wasn't just the coldness, the faintness or the sensation of distance. It was flat, emotionless and logical, like a mathematical equation. What dost thou want?

I tried to maintain calm, to think clearly -- and politely. Goodman Corey?

So they called me in life.

I took a deep breath. I need your wisdom, sir.

Why comest thou to me? I sleep in Christ. I have no wisdom to give.

But -- but sir, you have experience I lack… and besides, I have no one else to turn to.

A long, stony silence. Finally: Speak thy peace, then.

Haltingly, I tried to give a simplified version of my dilemma -- the task I had taken on, the secrecy it required, and the ghoulish library I'd found. And now I don't know what I should do about it, I added. I fear what I may find there.

The cold trace of Goodman Corey's shade -- if that was what it was -- did not hesitate. I remember little now of life, it stated. But I well know that life gave me burthens to bear, and bear them I did, to the best of my ability. I did not hide from them as thou hast done.

This was not the comforting wisdom I had hoped to receive. My eyes prickled and began to water.

The goodfolk of Salem, it continued, did not seek truth, for all the words they spoke contrary. All they sought were human vessels to contain their own fears and sins -- vessels that could be broken and buried. The trace was stronger now. But thou -- thou hast in thy power the means to discern truth from error. And wilt thou now flee from it?

The intent was perfectly clear. Goodman Corey had suffered a painful, ignominious death because the people around him were too afraid to look past their fears. If there were any truth to be had in this situation, it would be waiting for me in that basement room. All that remained for me to do was to summon the courage to look. My face burned. I thank you, Goodman Corey.

See thou to thine own, was the only reply before the trace broke and faded.

I sat there for some time after, listening to the early-morning sounds of the forest, the creatures rousing and calling to one another near the gravesite. The state forest had been preserved largely intact, thanks to Massachusetts state law -- and probably some string-pulling behind the scenes by some of my ancestors. It was probably similar to what the area looked like when the first members of the Conscient decided to build their refuge here.

Had they been as afraid then as I was now?

Did they know what they were doing?

These were unwelcome thoughts. I straightened up, dusting dirt and twigs off my knees. Well, Goodman Corey was wise, even if his wisdom was no comfort. The only way to make sense of what I'd found in Mrs. Townley's basement was to take a closer look.


The Townleys' front door was still hanging open after my flight from the place; I might have been imagining it, but it seemed as though the damp smell of that basement room wafted out the open door toward me. Peck was messing with his nest again. He cawed at me in alarm, and I realized I must look a fright with my scratched face and arms.

"I'm all right, Peck," I said, not entirely sure if I was telling the truth. It seemed to be sufficient for him, though, as he turned back to his work without giving me another glance.

The basement waited. I took a couple of deep breaths, summoned a light and went down.

I think some part of me had been hoping that the vision which had so frightened me would have faded away and that the Townley basement, on my return, would be like any other basement I'd ever seen -- filled with preserves and jams and dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. But no -- there were the rows of commonplace-books, stacked against each other like an ossuary in paper and leather. I stood still in the cold room, afraid to touch them. Solid silence.

"Oh, this is stupid," I finally said aloud, and I reached out to pluck a random book from the shelf. Almost immediately I recoiled from the touch -- the leather cover seemed to give off the warmth of human skin. I set my teeth and tried again. It was only the difference between the coldness of the room and the softness of the leather. Gingerly I pulled it from the shelf and sat down on the stone floor, the book resting in my lap.

I'd picked up my mum's commonplace-book and tried to read it when I was little. As far as I could remember, it was the first time she'd spanked me.

The cover was crisscrossed with scars and gouges. Whoever had owned this commonplace-book had been careless with it. Almost anticipating a smack, I opened the cover.

PORPETRY OF ISSAC INGRSOLL 1919 was scrawled in a child's hand on the title page. Underneath it, in a tidy copperplate hand, were the words I. Ingersoll -- f. f. C. -- 1/1931.

The next page was a child’s stick-figure drawing of a family, with each figure labeled: "Pappa," "Mum," "me," "Rachel," and what looked to be a dog, "Shepard." There followed some basic spells and charms, a list of the Public Niceties, pasted images of toys from an old Sears catalog, some fragile leaves and a rather goopy-looking pressed insect, and, in a slightly older hand, a version of a certain spell I knew by heart:

"Hark ye the gate of Correy I am Isacc Ingersoll a son of Correy ope now to me & let me pass"

I smiled a little at Isaac's spelling troubles with his own name; it had taken me a while to learn how to spell mine properly, too. Mum kept getting after me about it: "If you can't bother to spell it right, who else will?" she'd chided me. I turned the page.

"I AM TOO old enough to go outside. Pappa don't know what he is talking about. He says I'm not ready for outside yet. But I snuck out to the village with Grandy and Shep, and nothing bad happened. Pappa says I'd be scared of outside. I HATE PAPPA. I bet he is more scared than me."

The petulance and anger practically leapt off the page. This Ingersoll kid had been a lot like the other boys of Corey, but his attitude -- openly defiant, rebellious, sneaking out without permission -- was not like a child of the Conscient at all. He seemed more like the boy characters I'd read in outsider books, determined to get their way even when they were clearly too young to make wise decisions.

I skipped ahead several pages and read: "Why's it so blasted important to keep Corey secret from outsiders, anyway? It's already protected by all these fiddly spells. Outsiders couldn't come in even if they knew it was here. So what's the point of being all sneaky about it? Pappa keeps saying I'm a foolish boy, and Mum says I'll understand it better when I'm older, but to me it all sounds like 'Because I said so, that's why.'"

Isaac had a point. Corey was already invisible to the outside world, and only members of the Conscient could enter.

On the very next page: "Does the boundary magic even work on animals? I have to call to the gate to let me pass, but ol' Shep doesn't need to -- the gate lets him trot right in as long as he's with me or Grandy or anybody else from Corey. I wonder what other animals can get through the boundary?" This was a topic I'd never even considered before. Mum didn't like having pets in the house, so I'd never seen an animal cross the boundary into Corey. But it had to be happening. Local wildlife looked pretty much the same, whether inside Corey or out of it, and birds and other flying things probably crossed the boundary all the time. Huh.

Next, after a page half-covered with odd symbols I couldn't decipher, there were several yellowed, crumbling newspaper clippings tucked into the book. One read, "JAZZ: Pearly Breed and His Orchestra, The Chestnut Brothers, The Boston Brownies Orchestra -- this Friday only, 8 p.m." and an address in Boston. The other clippings were similar -- all advertisements for jazz bands in Cambridge, Quincy, Somerville and other towns around Boston. It seemed as though Isaac had a thing for jazz. He'd also pasted advertisements for some early sound movies into the book; he'd been interested in The Jazz Singer (well, naturally), The Cocoanuts with the Marx Brothers, and Broadway Melody of 1929. After these came yet another set of squiggly symbols, some of them crossed out, and then the comment, "Stayed too late at the flicks with Ruby tonight. Pa caught me sneaking in. Don't think he knows abt. Ruby but he doesn't like me 'fraternizing with outsiders,' as though they had the plague. I said maybe if we had our own movie house in Corey I wouldn't have to go out for entertainment. Saucing Pa turned out not to be the best choice. He was livid. Now forbidden to leave Corey for a fortnight. But this burg can't hold me."

The next words were oddly penitent for Isaac: "In my heart I know Pappa and Mum are right. They want the best for me, and I shouldn't give them so much grief. I should be a better role model to Rachel, too. Truth is, the Conscient needs me and I've been turning my back on it for too long."

Odd. This didn't sound much like the defiant, questioning, saucy Isaac I'd been reading. It seemed as though the words weren't his own, almost like... almost like...

Almost like the way "7 times 8" had been altered in Renee Flint's head.

Had someone gotten to Isaac?

I went on, flipping through pages of additional spells and charms -- some of which I'd never seen before -- and sketches of Corey; I recognized most of the locations. There was a deteriorating long, black crow feather; I recognized it from my recent time with Peck. And then there was another page of writing.

"Have tried to put Ruby from my mind but can't do it. I love her. Thoughts of her are constantly stirring in my head. Last night I checked our rock for messages and found a letter from her. She's in a family way, but her own family has thrown her out and she has nowhere else to go. The only thing left is to bring her into Corey, and I think I've figured out how to do it. Pappa and Mum might not like it, but they'll be forced to give her a place here when I tell them she's bearing my child."

Well. Obviously Isaac had been doing more than watching movies with Ruby, but the real shock was his assertion that an outsider could be brought into Corey. I'd always understood that it was impossible for outsiders to cross the boundary. Of all the things we did to keep safe, the boundary was the most powerful. How on earth had he intended to breach it?

The next few pages were covered with the odd symbols from earlier in the book, some crossed out, some transposed, some overwritten. Whatever it was he'd been trying to do, it had occupied most of his time and thoughts.

And then it dawned on me: this was an incantation. I clapped my hand over my mouth, staring at Isaac's handiwork.

The thing about spells and charms is that they work in harmony with the laws of nature. A twist spell opens or closes a lock because locks were designed to open and close; a light-summoning charm gathers up sunlight or moonlight into a ball, which dissipates after several hours or when it's no longer needed. But an incantation is different. It is a complex, powerful form of magic designed to wrest the laws of nature to an individual's will. If a spell or a charm can be compared to gentle persuasion, an incantation is best described as brute force. And it always, always has consequences.

What had Isaac done? I traced the line of symbols with a finger, wishing I had access to some kind of Rosetta stone, but nothing stood out to help me figure out what the incantation was meant to do. I was quite sure that Isaac intended to use it, whatever it did, to get his Ruby past the boundary. Maybe there was more information further on --

Three blank pages, and the book came to a sudden end. There was no clue to indicate what had happened to Isaac, Ruby or their unborn child. It all just seemed to evaporate before my eyes.

I was no closer to determining why the book had been separated from its owner in the first place. Was it because of the incantation? But then, who else would have known Isaac had been working on such a project?

The light flickered and began to dim. I looked up, startled. My little summoned light was fading; I must have been reading for hours in the sunless basement, unaware of the passage of time. Impulsively I turned back to the page with the incantation and ripped it out of the book, folding the thick paper and tucking it into my shirt pocket.

I was going to need another brain to decipher this puzzle.

next

Unseen (part 28)

previous

I don't think about it now, not if I can help it. The bleeding shock of the discovery is still fresh in my head, as though it happened not decades, but moments ago. When I tried to grasp the depth of betrayal in that windowless room -- well, frankly, it's impossible to explain completely to someone raised outside the Conscient, but I'll try.

In our tradition, the commonplace-book provided an inviolable refuge, a kind of cross between a grimoire and a confessional. In the Conscient, where knowledge was highly prized and not even your thoughts were guaranteed to be private, you could write things in your commonplace-book that you would never reveal to your best friend, your parents, your lover. We were taught from infancy never to touch anyone else's commonplace-book without permission, never to read from one. Each book represented the distilled wisdom of a life; each had scribed into it the thoughts of a unique soul that never had been before and never would be again. Thus, when people died, their commonplace-books were buried with them. That had been our way since the founding of Corey.

And Mrs. Townley had violated that trust. If you want an approximation of what I felt, imagine going down into your best friend's wine cellar to pick out a bottle for dinner, only to find the room filled with the rotting corpses of your missing family.

Enough. I can't bear to think about it now.

It's grown warmer here as spring slowly edges into summer, pleasant enough for me to sleep in woods and wilds even if I'm often wakened by a late rain falling on me. Besides, I've been avoiding humans ever since that last visit to Raffini's circus. I'd forgotten how depressing these encounters can be, how the disappointment takes a few days to properly sink its claws in you. Sooner or later I'll have to connect with people again, if only because I can't forage for food indefinitely. But for now it's a relief not to feel the constant background drone of their wishes and worries in my mind. Trees and animals, for the most part, don't have secrets.

next

Unseen (part 27)

previous

"Bird-headed men?" asked Mrs. Sanger curiously over the top of her book.

"Yeah. I'm looking for anything I can find."

She closed her book.  "Well, several ancient cultures had an obsession with bird-headed people.  Egypt, Sumeria, India -- are you working on a report?"

"Something like that," I said.  In truth, Peck's bizarre mental image from that morning was starting to get to me.  I couldn't help thinking that I was supposed to understand it somehow.

"Well, come on, let's see what we find."  Mrs. Sanger directed me deep into the 290 section and began pulling titles. Soon she had accumulated a small pile of books on the pantheons of ancient religions.

"There's something else I wanted to ask about," I began uncertainly.

"Mmm?" Mrs. Sanger was reading the spine of another book.  "Try this one," she added, and slid The Gods of Ancient Egypt off the shelf and added it to the stack.

"Is there... um... do you know of anything fun going on around here that's free?"

She gave me a knowing smile.  "Such as, say... something to do on a date?"

My face burned. I wondered briefly if this was what being John Woodbury was like.  "I... I guess you could say that."

"Oh, I'm sure I could set you up with a few ideas," Mrs. Sanger said.

Eventually Mrs. Sanger saw me off with about thirty pamphlets and flyers detailing local free things to do, plus a couple of museum passes.  The Schwinn's basket was so laden down that I was tempted to use the knack just to keep the bike upright, but Keefe wasn't going to be bored if I could help it.

I slowly wobbled my way out of the parking lot and down the long main street of the village.  At the corner I turned to head toward the state forest road -- and was almost run over by a battered green pickup truck.

The driver hit the horn hard and long.  "Watch where you're going!" he screamed out the open window.  "What the hell's wrong with you?  Stupid little bitch!"

For a moment I thought it was Keefe screaming at me, and it felt like a slap across the face.  Then I realized that, although it was Keefe's pickup, someone else was driving -- an older man I recognized from Keefe's mind, with similar facial features, but twisted and hard from years of simmering anger.  It had to be his father.  Keefe was riding shotgun, with his hand shading half his face.  We made eye contact for a moment, then he slumped down in the seat until he was all but invisible.  The driver gave me a final glare, violently shifted gears and the car roared away.

I stood there for a while, one leg out to hold the bike upright, staring after the speeding pickup, and a shiver passed through me.  How had someone as thoughtful and gentle as Keefe ever grown up in that man's shadow?  Poor Keefe.  I wished I could spirit him and his little sisters away to Corey, somehow.  There had been a way to do it, once upon a time, a way to protect those in need of sanctuary from the people who would do them harm.  Had the Conscient really taken the right decision to seal Corey off from the world -- even if it was a world with people like Mr. Godwin in it?  The way things stood, the Conscient was safe from people like him... but weren't there many others who also deserved safety?

* * *

Peck cawed lustily as I came in through the front door, but I didn't see him right away.  He wasn't in the kitchen or the dining room, either.  I dropped my library books on the dining room table and went looking for him.  He turned out to be in Mrs. Townley's room, pulling his nest apart and putting it back together again.

Mrs. Townley was right -- Peck made an unseemly mess.  Bits of twigs and feathers were spread all over the desk and floor, even across the coverlet of Mrs. Townley's bed.  Scattered among them were the shiny objects that so fascinated Peck -- metal scraps from Mr. Herrick's foundry, broken jewelry, bits of mirror, foil gum wrappers, buttons, even a few silver coins.  Peck would steal anything shiny that wasn't nailed down.

"Oh, you dirty bird," I said, exasperated.  "What are you up to now?

Peck took time out to give me a single brief glance of disdain, then returned to pulling twigs out and stuffing twigs in every which way.  Whatever he was doing, it seemed blatantly self-evident to his crow brain.

"Fine," I muttered, raking nest detritus off the bed with my fingers.  "When you're done making a mess in here, I'm going to need your help."  I gathered up the twigs and other junk in my hands as best I could and dropped it all onto the desk; if Peck was determined to destroy his nest, I could at least try to contain the damage.

That was when I first noticed the key.  It was an old, beat-up skeleton key, a few inches long and covered in crow mess, half-buried in all the junk Peck had pulled out of his nest.  I picked it up for a closer look, and Peck cawed and tried to grab it away with his beak.

"Jeez, Peck!  Leave me alone!  Doesn't even belong to you, birdbrain."  I shooed Peck off, closed the bedroom door on his raucous cawing and went out to the kitchen, where I pumped some water and washed off the key.  It cleaned up nicely, to a dull silver color; the stem had an unusual diamond shape and there were elaborate curlicues around the bow.  I wondered where Peck had found it, who was missing it, what it was meant to unlock.  There wasn't much need for keys in Corey. Peck had probably taken it from an outsider's house.  After a moment's reflection, I slipped the key into my pocket.

Peck was still making a fuss in the bedroom.  I opened the door.  "All right, I hear you.  I'm sure the whole neighborhood hears you.  You want out of here?"

Peck hopped on the desk, mentally demanding the key back.

"Just because you took it from someone doesn't mean it belongs to you."

He cawed angrily at me.

"You want it back?  Come help me out."

Peck shot a number of obscene images at me, but eventually he joined me in the dining room as I sat browsing through the library books.  He perched on the chair behind me and peered at pictures of Indian bird-men and Assyrian demigods.  Then I opened The Gods of Ancient Egypt.  Ra, Isis, Set, Amun, Thoth...

Suddenly Peck began cawing wildly.  He hopped onto the table and pecked at a picture.  It was the image of a man in a white skirt, with the head of a bird of prey.  I read the caption:

Horus, patron god of the ancient Egyptians.

"You think Mrs. Townley is hanging around with an Egyptian god?" I asked Peck incredulously.

He cawed and pecked at the picture again.  There was an edge of impatience to his thoughts now, as though it should be obvious.  I tried to think it through.  Mrs. Townley had left Corey to visit... Horus.  Peck was a birdbrain.  Why was I even doing this?

And then a fragment of conversation whispered through my mind.  Something Mrs. Townley had said just before she told me what her service to Corey was.

"Horace and I always thought we'd have children..."

"Horace," I said.  Mr. Townley's given name.  "You think Mrs. Townley is visiting Horace?"

Peck cawed as though I'd hit the jackpot.

"But that's not possible, Peck," I said gently.  "Mr. Townley died a long time ago."

I remembered Mr. Townley's funeral -- the bittersweet Song of Leavetaking, the glorious Song of Homecoming, the shared prayers and memories, the burial in the soil of Corey.  I thought of Mrs. Townley, numb and staring dry-eyed at nothing until Mrs. Ingersoll gently led her away from the grave.  Peck had to be mistaken.

Meanwhile, Peck was insistent on getting his key back.  He had held up his end of the bargain.  I sighed and held the key out toward him, and he grabbed it away from me and flew out of the room.  Moments later I heard him cawing again, and sensed he wanted me to follow him.  I shook my head at the weirdness of pet crows and wandered back toward the bedroom.

Peck wasn't there.  He was standing beside the other door.  The one I assumed led to a room full of Mr. Townley's effects -- the one Mrs. Townley always kept locked.  The key lay on the bare wooden floor before the door, where Peck had dropped it.  He looked up at me expectantly.

Slowly I bent down to pick up the key, and as I did so I noticed a draft coming from beneath the door.  It was cold and slightly damp, and it had a peculiar, dark smell -- strangely familiar, but not like anywhere else in Mrs. Townley's house.  And in that moment it occurred to me that none of this was really my business.  It wasn't my place to snoop around Mrs. Townley's house and explore all the locked spaces.  I should just put the key back into Peck's nest and walk straight out the front door.

But that's not what I did.

The wooden door stuck, having swollen against its frame, and I had to use a twist spell and an old-fashioned hard yank on the doorknob to force it open.  When the door finally swung wide, I saw that the space behind it wasn't a room at all.  It was a long, straight stone staircase, leading down into pitch darkness.  More of the strange dark smell wafted up toward me, and I recognized the slightly mildewed smell of a windowless basement.  I hadn't even known there was a basement in this house.  I breathed into my cupped hand, whispered a charm and clapped once, and made a small, bright ball of light to banish the darkness.  Beckoning to the light to follow me, I headed down the stairs.

The steps were very steep and narrow, and it was easier to walk down them sideways, crab-fashion.  The further down I went, the colder the air became, so that at the bottom of the stairs I could almost see my breath.  Even the light, trailing behind me, flickered in the stale air.  The basement walls were likewise made of stone, with crumbling bits of mortar holding them together.  It was very still and silent.

"For the love of God, Montresor," I muttered to myself.  In the mood I was in, I half-expected to find a skeleton still dressed in motley, chained to one of the walls.  Instead all I discovered was a low stone archway.  I ducked and passed through it into a large, stone-walled room that appeared to run the full length of the house.  The room was lined with shelves, and the shelves were stacked from floor to ceiling with books of different shapes and sizes.  It was an odd place to put a personal library, I thought.

But as I drew closer and realized what the books were, the hairs on the back of my neck rose.  These books had no business being there.  They should have been decently wrapped in white linen and buried with their owners, just as Mr. Townley's had been buried with him.

Mrs. Townley's basement was filled with hundreds of commonplace-books.

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Unseen (part 26)

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I stand three paces from a stone in the sea and I am not precisely sure what I am doing here, nor even how I came to be here.  I see the stone very clearly, rising above the water, small ripples pulsing out and away from it.  I am not even sure how I know this is a sea, for there is no evidence of a tide; it is calmer even than the surface of a lake.  Yet I look out through vague distances in the grey fog and know that, farther than my eyes can see, a vast and shallow ocean stretches away and away, a distance I cannot remotely fathom.  I stand ankle-deep in the water, which is blood-warm, but so clear that I can see my bare feet and the particles of grey sand in which the ocean floor is covered.

There is no sun I can see through the foggy greyness above me, but there is some light source, perhaps even coming directly from the fog.  Also from the fog there seems to come a faint hushed sound, like a wind soughing through a cave; it comes and goes with the currents which stray here and there and pattern the fog in places.  Yet I feel no wind touch me.

The stone is tall and narrow, taller than the height of two men, twice as wide as a man.  It is smooth, with some small flakes from the side as though it had been beaten once by a very hard and angry object.  It is the only identifiable object I can see and I want very much to touch and explore its surface, yet I hesitate to move and break the stillness all around me, to pattern and ripple the water with the movements of my feet toward the stone.

Suddenly a high, sharp keening sound breaks the silence.  It comes again, and a white gull slants down out of the fog.  He circles perfectly to alight on the stone, but his webby feet find purchase only with difficulty, and he flaps wildly to keep his balance.  He regains his dignity and turns a sheepish black eye toward me.  "Did you see that?  I meant to do that," his shining eye seems to reflect.

I grin, wondering now where the gull came from.  In such studied silence, it is vastly comforting to find a fellow creature.  The gull keens again at me in greeting, seeming almost to grin back, if a gull can grin.  He leans forward, examining me with first one eye, then the other, as if to be sure he sees me aright.

"Cocky, aren't we?" I ask him.

He hops toward me a bit and fluffs up his neck feathers in response.  Definitely cocky, but cheerful.

"Well, my fine friend, I seem to be lost.  Any idea where I am?"

The gull leans forward as if listening, then without warning spreads his wings and takes off toward a point somewhere behind me in the fog.  I turn to watch his flight as he enters progressive layers of greyness, seeming to dissolve before my eyes, and is gone.  Something buried in me struggles to rise from the water, to take to the air in sweet release, to fly effortlessly after him.  But --

feet on the ground sweetheart

-- I have forgotten how.  It's been too long.  And the sand and water clutch suddenly at my feet, pulling insistently at me, swallowing me down and down and down, and I try to pull away, to fight this inexorable sinking into the mistrust and cruelty of the outside world, but I am weak as a kitten against this force.  I open my mouth to call again to the gull, assaying for outside help, but the only sound I can make is the hoarse caw of a carrion bird...

... and I start suddenly out of my dream to the sound of crows circling and cawing just outside the window.  I'm curled up in the window seat of a public library.  I'd only intended to sit down for a minute to gather my thoughts; I must have been more tired than I imagined.

When was the last time I had a really pleasant dream?

In any case, this branch has Internet access and I've been able to update my master list.  There are a few new names now, which always renew my hope.  Maybe this time...  I swing my backpack up over my shoulder, take a long draught at the drinking fountain by the entrance, and head out, taking some extra pains to avoid the crows.

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Unseen (part 25)

previous

I had scarcely closed the door to my room when Mrs. Townley summoned me.  Come, child; there's not much time and a great many things to do. She was standing just beneath my window, her bearing very erect, with Peck sitting on her shoulder, looking up.

Be right down, I replied. She was unusually early; the sun hadn't yet set.  Most evenings she waited until after dark to start our rounds.  But wherever it was she was going, she'd be away from Corey for a few weeks, and she might be expecting me to teach in her place.  In the next several hours I might well be getting a crash course in any remaining skills I lacked.  I grimaced at the thought.

Well, it couldn't be helped.  I drew my blue cloak out of the closet, threw it over one arm, opened the window and let myself out into the air, drifting down to meet Mrs. Townley.  She nodded at me perfunctorily.

Ingersolls first tonight, she told me.  Come along.  And she turned and made her way toward the square, letting me trail along in her wake.  I followed on foot, still wondering to myself.  In fact, I was so lost in thought that I almost missed the first notes of the Evensong -- but soon the trickle of sound broadened into a great river, its notes plashing and swirling all around me like a current of praise, and I opened my mouth and let it fill with sweet, cold song, joining the rest of the Conscient in the selfless joy of the moment.

The Evensong seemed to sweep me along until I drew up even with Mrs. Townley, and I was so lost in the complex sweetness of that night's evolving melody that at first I took little notice of her.  But as we continued toward the Ingersolls' house, I saw something, and the realization shocked me into a moment's silence: Mrs. Townley was not singing the Evensong.  Her eyes were shut -- though that made little difference as Peck was there to guide her -- and there was a hard tension around her lips, almost like pain.  When the last notes of the song had died away, she seemed to loosen and sag, as though she carried a weight on her shoulders far greater than Peck.

"Mrs. Townley?" I asked, softly.  "Is something wrong?"

Nothing is wrong, child, she responded.  You have a lovely voice.  It shapes well to the song.  Then: Mrs. Ingersoll is expecting us.  Would you kindly run ahead and let her know I shall be along presently?

"Happy to help," I said, still a bit unsettled at Mrs. Townley's silence during Evensong.  And I dutifully went on ahead, though once when I looked back Mrs. Townley had stopped along the path, and it almost seemed to me that she was wiping her eyes.  But it might have been a trick of the light.  I'd never seen Mrs. Townley cry, not even at her husband's funeral.

Mrs. Ingersoll was working late; the leaded windows of her studio glimmered in twilight and lamplight.  She responded to my call with typical cheeriness.  Come on in, sprout, and have a little something to drink.  I slipped in through the side door, gave her a quick hug and took a glass of Juneberry punch from a tray.

I didn't like to play favorites, but Mrs. Ingersoll was easily one of my favorite people.  She was probably in her forties then, tall for a woman -- over 6 feet -- and built sturdily, with large, scarred hands and close-cropped dark hair.  She preferred practical trousers over skirts, and usually carried a pair of antique pince-nez in her breast pocket for detailed work.  I'd never seen Mrs. Ingersoll simply sitting; she was always busy at work on something, but she also had a talent for listening to others.  "Come tell me about it while I work on this" was one of her most frequent phrases.  And she made wonderful Juneberry punch.

"So how are your folks?" she asked, carefully scoring a pane of glass.  "Fay never stops talking about her woodworking these days.  Your mum have a nice birthday?"

"I think so," I said uncertainly, remembering her sudden tears after supper.  "Something made her sad, though.  I'm not sure what it was."

Mrs. Ingersoll thought for a bit before she responded.  "Some people find birthdays trying when they reach a particular age," she said.  "Could be your mum is like that."  She glanced up.  "Well, hello, Mrs. Townley.  Hi, Peck."

"Evening, Dorothy," replied Mrs. Townley, and I realized they were the first words I'd heard her speak aloud that evening.  Her voice was hoarse and jarring, compared to the calm no-nonsense quality of her thoughts.  Peck preened, apparently pleased to be acknowledged.

"You sound a little parched," said Mrs. Ingersoll.  "Care for a drink?"

"Oh, no, dear, thank you.  Actually, I was hoping that project might be complete by now."

"Finished this afternoon, in fact."  Mrs. Ingersoll turned and pulled a little tooled leather pouch off a nearby shelf.  She handed it to Mrs. Townley, who opened it and took out a pair of smoked spectacles.  Peck flew to the windowsill and looked on, curious, as Mrs. Townley faced him and gingerly set them on the bridge of her nose.

"How's the fit?" asked Mrs. Ingersoll.  "They may need a little tweaking..."

"Oh, not at all, Dorothy.  These are lovely.  Light as a feather, too."  Peck cawed raucously, and Mrs. Townley shushed him.  "Thank you very much for your service."

"If I might ask..."

"Oh, I'll be doing a little business out of town and I can't bring Peck with me," Mrs. Townley said lightly, but in a tone that suggested she would answer no further questions on the subject.  "You know how outsiders can be."  She removed the glasses and slipped them into their pouch.  "Now tell me, how is little Fay coming along with her apprenticeship?"

While the two talked, I killed time wandering around the studio looking at Mrs. Ingersoll's glass works in various stages of completion.  She had installed several windows in our house, including my bedroom window, and I always enjoyed the figures -- dragons and deer and hummingbirds -- that she put into the glass.

All right, child, pay attention.  Now's as good a time as any to learn the fade.  The comment startled me, as Mrs. Townley was still talking with Mrs. Ingersoll; she seemed capable of carrying on at least two disparate conversations at once, without a break in either.

What do I need to do? I asked.

Here.  And the basic information was there, all neatly placed in my head.  Now it's a subtle art, and as such it requires hands-on practice.  So you're going to try it out on Dorothy.

Fade Mrs. Ingersoll?!  Oh, but... but I can't do that!

Child.  The thought had an edge of impatience.  There's no need to be squeamish.  You're just going to fade a tiny snippet of our conversation from her mind, that's all.  It's something that might well have slipped from her memory all by itself.  Now then... right... here.

Nervously twisting my hands, I concentrated on Mrs. Ingersoll's mind from across the room, using my newly-received knowledge to strip out a bit of the conversation that Mrs. Townley specified -- actually, the bit where she'd said she was leaving Corey on business.  Peeling it away left the same translucent scar I'd seen Mrs. Townley make in Renee Flint's mind.  Mrs. Ingersoll didn't even seem to notice that I was damaging her thoughts, stealing a memory out of her head.  Somehow that just made it worse.

"...good to see that she's finding her vocation, isn't it?"  Mrs. Townley hadn't even paused the conversation for a moment.  "Well, Dorothy, we'd best be on our way.  Thanks again for your service and your beautiful work."

"Happy to help," Mrs. Ingersoll smiled.  "Come by any time, either of you."  And she turned back to her work as we let ourselves out.  But I couldn't imagine myself returning to the glazier's studio any time soon.  I didn't think I could face Mrs. Ingersoll after what I'd done to her.  Not even if she never knew that I'd done it.

* * *

Mrs. Townley left Corey before daybreak, escorted by Gerry Putnam.  She'd explained exactly whose education would need close tending in the next few weeks, what could be left undone until she returned, what Peck was and was not allowed to eat.  She had me memorize everything and repeat it back to her several times.  I could practically have said it all in my sleep, if I'd been able to get any.  My dreams were filled with dark pits and pendulums tipped with razor edges that left fresh translucent scars on anything they touched, and I woke many times shivering.

The cold light of morning was just starting to lighten my room when the dreams woke me for the final time.  I wanted out, away from the troubled thoughts of my own head.  Barring that, I thought maybe I'd get out of the house for a while.  It would give me a chance to clear my mind.

I slipped out my window -- these days it was getting more use than the front door -- and climbed up to the roof, sitting down on the ridge to get a look at Corey in first light.  There wasn't much to see at that hour.  Patches of fog lingered here and there, especially near the lake, and everything was still and dark, other than the occasional bleat from the Phillipses' farm.  It would be a good half hour before the Daydawn.

Why didn't Mrs. Townley sing the Evensong?  Everyone sang in Corey.  And where on earth had she gone, and on what business?  It didn't make sense.  But there really wasn't anyone I could ask about it...

Wait.  Peck!

I stood straight up on the ridge.  Peck would know where she'd gone -- or at least he'd served as Mrs. Townley's eyes when she read that letter from outside.  Whether he'd be able or willing to tell me anything about it, I didn't know, but he must have some useful information in that little crow brain of his.

I didn't even bother to go back inside and fetch my cloak.  Instead I took a running start along the ridge and leapt into the grey morning air.  It was wicked cold flying at that hour, especially without a cloak, but it helped jolt me fully awake.  In very little time I slid to a landing on Mrs. Townley's front steps and ran inside.

"Peck!  Hey!  You awake?"

I got a dull caw of response from the bedroom.

"Come out here.  I need to ask you something."

In response Peck sent me an extremely rude mental image.  Apparently he wasn't much of a morning bird.

"Peck," I said, trying to sound as imperious as Mrs. Townley sometimes did, "she is going to be gone for several weeks.  I'm the one who's going to be responsible for feeding you.  Now are you going to come out here, or are you going to be a very hungry bird?"

Scrabbling sounds from the bedroom.  Finally Peck appeared, winging his way to a chair back.  He alighted and cocked his head at me.

"Thank you.  Now... where did Mrs. Townley go?"

Peck's thoughts were less word-based and more visual than human thoughts.  He sent me an image of Mrs. Townley heading down the road that led out of Corey.

"Yes, Peck, I know she left town.  But she said she had business outside.  What was it?"

In response Peck sent me a bizarre image of Mrs. Townley walking arm in arm with a bird-headed man.

"What?  That doesn't make any sense."

But the image returned, highly colored, and Peck hopped on his perch as if he were insisting on the thought.  I sighed.  I should have known better than to ask a bird for information, even one as relatively bright as Peck.  He probably had no idea where she'd gone.

"Oh, fine, then.  You want some breakfast?"

Peck cawed appreciatively, spread his wings and flew to my shoulder.  It didn't feel at all comfortable having him there, but I took him into the kitchen anyway and fixed him something to eat.  While he proceeded to make an unholy mess with his breakfast, I thought about the image Peck had sent me.  Something about it seemed familiar -- maybe something I'd read? -- but I couldn't quite place it.  Then again, it might very well be an image Peck had chosen completely at random, just so I'd feed him.  I sighed.

Maybe Mrs. Sanger would have an idea.  I needed to go to the library anyway; I wanted some ideas for things I could do with Keefe that would be cheap or free, and the library seemed a good place to start looking.

Meanwhile, I had some crow mess to clean up.

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Feedback request

Gentle Readers, who among you is reading "Unseen?" If you are, would you please leave a comment on this entry to that effect? I know it's taking me forever to finish AND I do plan on finishing it regardless of interest, but I am curious to know if anyone's out there (besides moms and friends whose loyalty I'm currently testing with my slow updates).

Thanks.

Unseen (part 24)

previous

At the top of the hill I stop for a moment to catch my breath, looking down the slope into the valley. The snowy crags of volcanic mountains are visible in the distance, the sea of evergreens below me is punctuated here and there by islands of bright green deciduous trees in new leaf, and the rising moon is reflected in the curve of a freshwater lake, but dwarfing everything else are the two impossibly steep spires and the gaudy green-and-yellow stripes of a circus tent just below me.

Good. I was afraid I might have missed them again. I pick my way carefully down the hill -- there really isn't much of a trail here -- pause behind a tree to watch the crowd, crunch across the gravel road, bypass the ticket line, put a breath charm in place and slip inside unnoticed.

The tent smells of sawdust, popcorn and horse dung. Workers scurry around, putting all the last-minute preparations in place before the crowds are ushered in. I wait in a dark corner, and when someone calls "Doors, people!" and the first audience members begin to trickle in, I quietly join them and find a spot in the bleachers.

Raffini's is a small family-owned circus, and like many other old-fashioned forms of entertainment, it's only a matter of time until it folds. The family worries constantly about how to keep the lights on, how to pay for groceries and feed the horses, how to make it to the next town. Once the whole troupe lived on concession popcorn and peanuts for three days. Sometimes they put up the banner "HELD OVER DUE TO POPULAR DEMAND!" as a way to pull in a little more money. One of these days they'll pack the tent away for good -- or they'll publicly burn it, one huge final spectacle for the fickle crowds -- and the performers will retire or take their chances with the big ones, Ringling Bros. or Cirque. Meanwhile, they continue doing what they love for as long as they can.

The show begins with fancy equestrian riding. Performers bounce on and off their horses, juggle with swords, balance other performers on their heads. A small boy is in charge of bringing the horses into the ring, one by one, and each time he pantomimes a desire to ride with the others, but his father solemnly shakes his head. Finally the boy rides out on a huge white stallion, doing the most amazing backflips and frankly outdoing all the other performers. The crowd cheers for the little guy, then laughs as the father and the other performers chase after him, to no avail. It's entertaining enough, but it's not why I came here.

Clowns invade the ring. In keeping with the Raffini name, they wear grotesque Venetian-style masks instead of clown makeup. I duck my head and stare at the bleachers, reflecting that the troupe probably chose masks over makeup as a quick-change tactic, so the audience doesn't realize it's all the same performers. Clever, but that doesn't mean I have to like clowns. I wait until the crowd applauds with finality, and look up to see the last of the clowns, in a flying harness, going straight up toward the top of the tent where the trapeze artists stand in wait.

He's up there, the tallest of five performers. From this distance it's hard to tell how old he is -- his body language suggests a younger man, but the best guess is that he's in his mid-forties. He glides out on the trapeze, lean and lithe and absolutely sure in his movements. And I remember what I read about him in a somewhat pretentious Times article from the late '80s, just after he joined the troupe: "The youngest Raffini, like a Baryshnikov of the big top, seems to float of his own accord as he performs -- as though he were more comfortable in the air than on the ground. One senses he was born to fly."

One senses that. There really is something special about his performance. And now that I have a good idea of his body language, it's easy to pick him out from the rest of the troupe in other acts. He's no slouch at juggling or at stage magic, but his real forte is aerial work -- anything that launches him high above the crowds. He's fearless in the air, and the audience loves it. From what I can hear, he gets well-deserved cheers and hoots from the crowd while taking his final bows.

But I'm not there, of course. I've already ducked out and circled around to the back yard, where all the makeshift living quarters are hidden from the audience. Circus people tend to make themselves scarce after the show, to keep the magic intact; that, and this troupe has got to be dead tired after that performance, so I don't have much time. I reach down into the very bottom of my backpack and bring out my commonplace-book and the other object, neatly wrapped and tied in white linen. I unwrap it carefully while I wait.

There are a number of ways to do this. I've tried them all by now, and learned which ones work well, which ones work occasionally, which ones never work. Sometimes the simplest ways work the best. So as the performers enter in ones and twos, I wait for Pietro Raffini. When I see him I affect the most starry-eyed pose I can think of and practically latch on to his arm, gushing.

"Mr. Raffini? Oh, wow, it's really you. I -- I'm a big fan, you were AMAZING tonight, I just... wow. Could you, uh, I know you're busy and I don't want to keep you, but could you sign my autograph book, please?" I present him with a blank page of my commonplace-book, and he smiles and graciously signs it. I keep up the steady patter of adoring fangirl talk, watching him carefully. He is tall, has dark hair. His eyes are set rather wide apart, and they are also dark. His nose has a funny curve in it that suggests it was broken at one time. And his mind... well, he has no memories before the age of sixteen. That's why I'm here.

"...really appreciate it, I've followed your career for a long time. You know the papers say you joined the circus when you were a teenager and worked up to becoming the owner. Is that true?"

"Yes," he says tolerantly. "That's true. I don't mean to be rude, but--"

"And that you had some kind of amnesia?"

He looks up, startled. "Well, yes, that's true too," he says. "But where did you read that?"

"I can't remember," I lie. "Probably the Times. Is it strange not to remember who you are?"

Pietro Raffini gives me one piercing look. "Ma'am," he says, "you must understand something. This circus took me in and cared for me and gave me a place in this world when no one else would. It's everything to me. It's my family. I may not remember who I was before I joined the circus, but I remember well enough who I am because of the circus. Have I made myself clear?"

I act cowed. "I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to offend."

"And now I think it's high time--"

"Wait!" I say. I've come too far not to ask him now. "I know it's an imposition, but with your ability as a magician and all, I wanted to ask: what do you make of this?" And I hand him the object.

He takes it, puzzled. "Some variation of the Chinese linking rings, am I right?" he asks, turning it over and over in his hands.

"Yes, I think so. Anyway, there's a trick to opening it."

Pietro Raffini doesn't give up easily. He inspects the object for a full five minutes before handing it to me with a shrug. And I take both ends, twist gently, and it comes apart into two equal pieces.

"Let me see that again," he says, and for another three minutes he tries to put it back together without success. He's absolutely determined to figure out the trick, but I know now that he can't.

A statuesque blonde -- his wife -- comes up alongside him. "Pete," she says gently, "dinner is getting cold. I think it's time to say goodnight." And Pietro Raffini admits defeat and hands the pieces back to me without a word. I thank him again as the two walk away, talking softly together.

So he's not the one I'm looking for.

I click the object back together again, tie it neatly in its linen covering, return it to the bottom of my backpack. I put away my commonplace-book, an object Pietro Raffini was happy to sign for a star-struck fan without any indication that he knew what it was.

It's strange, to feel both disappointed and happy at once. Disappointed because once again I've failed, but happy because, whatever else might be in his past, Pietro Raffini loves his life now. He has something he does well, he has a family that loves him, and he has a reason to live. The empty part of his mind has been filled with the richness of his current existence. He's happy with his place in the world, and I can't help but be happy for him.

I guess I just wish...

Well, it doesn't matter. All it really means is that I'm still free of human entanglements. I can go where I like and do what I please. I don't have to think about feeding my family or paying the vet bill or even making it to the next town. My life is easily as rich as his, without all the baggage of worry that comes with it.

I'm fine.

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Unseen (part 23)

previous

The letter from outside came on Mum's birthday.

Mum didn't like a lot of fussing over on her birthday, but she couldn't hide the fact that she loved getting gifts. I'd thought for some time about what I could make for Mum, and at last hit upon the perfect gift: a hand-drawn family portrait, using the colored pencils the Hibbards had given me. There were no portraits in our house, but this was hardly unusual; Corey had produced few portrait painters, and none of quality. Photographs required technology and materials only outsiders could provide, so they never really caught on either.

Mum often wished aloud that she had a likeness of her own mother, my grandmother, who died just before I was born. "She had such a gentle face," she would sigh. "Gentle ways, too. She would have loved having a granddaughter. When you were born it just felt right to give you her name. And you do resemble her, especially around the eyes. But as much as I try to keep her face fresh in my mind, I'm starting to forget it."

I couldn't draw my grandmother's face, but I was sure I could draw my family. I could get the shape of Dad's nose and the curl of his mouth, Mum's dark hair and high cheekbones, even the annoying little pouches that formed under my eyes when I smiled. Mum would love it. I started to make a few surreptitious sketches, trying to find the best way to show all three of us in one portrait.

Meanwhile I still had to come up with some activities Keefe and I could do together, and something told me that sketching his portrait wasn't going to cut it for an evening's entertainment. I knew what kinds of things outsiders did on dates, and I knew what kinds of things were done within the Conscient when boys and girls started stepping out, but how many of them were compatible? There really wasn't anyone I could confide in, at least not in Corey. Maybe I'd talk to Mrs. Sanger on my next visit to the village.

On top of all this, Mrs. Townley was still tutoring me in concept introduction theory during the day and having me practice with her at night. I could tell I was starting to toughen up, needing less sleep than I had before, although I tended to fall into a coma on weekends -- my body's effort to catch up, I guessed. Sometimes weariness would get the better of me, though, so that I found I was having a harder time thinking clearly and juggling all responsibilities at once.

The night before Mum's birthday, I was out doing the rounds with Mrs. Townley and we'd stopped at the Flint house. Over time Mrs. Townley had been giving me more and more teaching tasks, and that night I was responsible for introducing more of the times tables to Finlay's little sister, Renee. Her mind was very different from Finlay's -- it was the easiest thing in the world to slide ideas into his head, but Renee was stubborn and resistant to ideas, especially to math. We'd gotten all the way to the 7 tables, but for some reason she had a few answers wrong in her head. I'd tried to transpose her "7 times 8 is 65" to "7 times 8 is 56," three nights in a row, but her mind was clinging to the answer it preferred.

How do I fix this? I asked Mrs. Townley, showing her the problem. Renee just isn't giving up on it.

Mrs. Townley frowned. Well, child, she replied, in a situation like this where a mind is resisting the right answer, there is a way to make it right. It's not the most elegant solution, mind you, but... And she guided me to the spot where Renee was clinging to her wrong answer and, clean and clear and quick, she wiped it away. It left a fresh translucent space behind, something like a scar. And it dully occurred to me that I'd seen something like that before.

Don't just stand there gawping, child! Mrs. Townley's thoughts rang in my head. Get the right answer into her mind while the getting's good! And I shook myself free of my musing and dropped "7 times 8 is 56" into the spot where the wrong answer had been. It didn't quite match up with the other ones, the ones Renee had learned properly on her own, but at least it wasn't wrong any more and we could move on to the next house.

The next day, during tutoring, my curiosity got the better of me. "What was that thing you did to Renee's mind last night?" I asked Mrs. Townley.

"That's called a fade, child," she replied. "It's a way of erasing a memory. I can show you how it's done, but I don't recommend that you use it often in teaching. It's a powerful tool with the ability to do serious damage, especially to an older mind." She sighed. "And if you aren't very precise and very careful, you can fade the wrong memories by accident."

I winced. "How often does that happen?"

"Not very often. As I say, the fade isn't commonly used in teaching. The only reason I thought to use it on Renee is because her mind is very tightly wound. It's critical for her to have all the basic knowledge correct and in its proper place. Too many wrong answers could twist her mind right out of kilter, heaven forbid."

About that time Peck began cawing raucously for his elevenses, and Mrs. Townley excused herself to make us a snack, so I opened my commonplace-book and got back to work on the family portrait for Mum. It just needed a few finishing touches at that point; I figured I'd have it ready to give to Mum by suppertime. I'd decided on a slightly asymmetrical portrait, with Dad to the left, Mum to the right, and me just right of center, closer to Mum than to Dad. It was turning out well enough, although I still wasn't completely pleased with the way I'd drawn myself. But Mum would probably say that was my vanity acting up.

There was a knock at the front door. I did a quick mental check -- Gerry Putnam -- and was on my way to answer it, but Mrs. Townley swept past me faster than I thought she was capable of moving. She opened the door, took the letter from Mr. Putnam's hands, held it up so that Peck could see.

"Thank you for your service, Gerry," she said, very softly, and Mr. Putnam nodded and went away down the front steps, and Mrs. Townley shut the door quietly after him. She went back to the kitchen without a word.

Most of us didn't get mail from outside. Tom Herrick had his business address, and occasionally people like Mum, who traveled outside, would send picture postcards home via the "General Delivery, Corey, MA" address, but that was about it. I wondered who on earth would be sending Mrs. Townley a letter, and what made her so keen to read it out of my sight.

After a long time, during which I finished the portrait, started some new sketches in the commonplace-book, and wrote up a list of possible things to do with Keefe, Mrs. Townley returned with a tray of cheese and homemade crackers. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her mind was a stone wall.

"Bad news?" I asked.

Mrs. Townley sat down slowly. "My dear," she said, "I know I'm already prevailing upon you for much of your time, but I wonder if I could ask another favor."

"Happy to help," I said, almost automatically. "What do you need?"

"I'll be going on a trip out of town tomorrow, and I won't be able to take Peck with me. Would you be willing to watch him while I'm gone?" Before I had time to respond, she went on, "He's not hard to tend. He eats what we eat and he sleeps in his own nest. He's used to staying around here most of the time. You'd just need to come over here once a day and give him some food and companionship. I'll be gone only a few weeks at most."

"But... where are you going?" I asked.

Mrs. Townley said nothing at first. She passed me a plate with a pat of soft cheese on it, then the crackers, and I began to think she wasn't going to answer at all. But then, as I took my first bite, she said, "I know you have your secrets, my dear."

I nearly choked. "What?"

"You have secrets, child. There's no need to pretend otherwise. One of them is called Keefe Godwin, if you require specifics." Peck's eyes stared brightly at me, and I could feel myself blush. "Now, I've made it possible for you to keep your secrets. Let me keep some of my own."

I'm very sorry. I didn't mean to pry, I told Mrs. Townley, but the wall stayed firmly in place. The conversation was over -- and, directly after elevenses, so was tutoring for the day, hours before she usually gave me leave to go home.

My thoughts hurt, and I decided I could do with a little meandering. So I took the long way around toward home, walking swiftly and letting ideas coalesce gradually in my mind like butter in a churn.

Mrs. Townley was leaving Corey, in all likelihood because of something in the letter she'd received. Whatever it was had upset her. But who could have written her from outside? She had no living relatives, and she'd never mentioned any business with outsiders. In fact, she seemed to have a very low opinion of outsiders in general. So who was writing to her? And what had the letter said?

I passed by Jed Conant, Corey's own Pied Piper, hooting out a new tune on his ocarina and followed by a dozen giggling, dancing children. For a few seconds I fell within the sound of his spell-song and danced nimbly and helplessly like the rest, but soon broke free and continued on my way. Jed was usually good fun, but I was in no mood to watch him prank some hapless person with his dancing spells today.

Where was she going, that she couldn't take Peck with her? And how would she get there without the use of his sight? It was all very irregular. I wished there were someone I could talk to about all this. Not long ago it would've been Dad or Mum. Mum was sensible, and Dad was good at figuring things out. But since I'd started shading my mind from them, I was afraid to let down the wall in case I revealed certain things -- Keefe, for instance, or the skills I was learning from Mrs. Townley. It was as though I'd stranded myself on a rock in the middle of a treacherous river, unable to fly, not strong enough to swim to shore.

That evening I made supper instead of Mum, to give her a day off. When we'd cleared off the supper dishes, Dad presented her with a new sewing box with a beautifully carved lid, and she made much of it and kissed him for his trouble. Then I proudly brought down my gift, finally finished and wrapped up in one of my scarves. Mum smiled like a child as she opened it.

"Oh," she said as she realized what it was, and the smile drained away. "Oh, darling. It's beautiful. It's just--" and suddenly the tears welled up in her eyes, and she turned her head away from the portrait and began to sob as though her heart would break.

"Mum! What's wrong?" My stomach felt like a pit of ice. "Should I take it away?"

"No, no, not at all, please." Dad put his arm around Mum, steadying her, and with some effort she composed herself. "I don't even know why I'm crying. I must be getting old." She sniffled and gave me a smile. "It's a beautiful likeness -- of all of us. I'm so proud. Thank you, sweetheart." She gave me a hug -- a real, strong hug, to show she really was pleased. And while I was washing up, she sat at the kitchen table and looked at the portrait.

She was still looking at it when I went upstairs.

next

Unseen (part 22)

previous

It's easy to travel light when nobody knows you exist. I don't carry food or bedding, since I tend to gather both as I need them. I didn't use money growing up in Corey, and rarely see the point of carrying it even now. I don't need keys or a flashlight as long as I have the knack. So my ratty old backpack is more than roomy enough for the few items I do carry: two changes of clothing, one of them a dress lifted from someone's clothesline; a tin drinking cup from a military surplus store; a zippered bag containing a toothbrush, a hairbrush and a bar of soap; a discarded Leatherman tool with the knife blade partially broken off, but otherwise useful.

Then there are the two other things.

Although I try to make sure I don't look like I have anything worth stealing, I've had the occasional run-ins with pickpockets. They're easy to avoid in large crowds, because they're stupid enough to broadcast their thoughts and because I can blend into a crowd so completely that they'll never find me. But streets like this one -- dark, mostly deserted, shrouded in patches of fog -- present more of a challenge.

And the three would-be pickpockets behind me, who have tailed me for about a block and a half, are slowly gaining on me. I know they have designs on my backpack, and I also know they're not going to get it.

I know how the scam works. They send their newest guy out to jog up beside me and ask questions about a nonexistent address he's trying to find; he provides the distraction his buddies need to loot my backpack and beat feet. Calling the police would be out of the question even if there were any around, and I can't possibly take on three guys half my age and win. So at the moment I'm trying to decide how best to disappear.

"Excuse me? Ma'am?"

Ignoring my fluttering heartbeat, I keep walking steadily, firmly, swallowing the urge to speed up. I must not show fear. A botched pickpocketing can easily turn into a mugging.

"I'm sorry, ma'am? Lady?"

His voice cracks on the last word; he's younger than I thought. This must be his first time out pickpocketing, and he's not doing very well in front of his friends. But his lack of experience makes him dangerously unpredictable; he might try anything in an effort to impress them, and I don't want to find out how inventive he is.

There's a gathering patch of fog ahead of me. It's not much, but it'll have to do; the kid is coming up fast. I turn suddenly and look out into the street, over their heads, and I gasp and point out into thin air. Just as I'd hoped, their eyes all follow the direction my finger is pointing -- and as they do, I hold my breath, gather up an edge of the fog and fold myself into it like a cloak, and duck back into a doorway.

Moments pass. One of the pickpockets swears under his breath.

"Wait, where'd she go?" says the youngest.

"Your face musta scared her off, man," says another voice. "Toldja you were too ugly for this job."

"But she was right next to me," the youngest insists, a little petulantly.

"That was weird," says a third voice. And then, teasingly, "Hey, maybe she wasn't real. Maybe she was a ghooooost."

"Shut up, man!"

"It's too dead around here, anyway. We should try over by the Cinemark."

I hold very still, focusing on the breath charm, and they pass by, still teasing and arguing.

If they'd wanted my soap or my Leatherman tool, I would have handed it over. But I can't afford to lose the two other things in my backpack. One of them is my commonplace-book. I've been writing in it nearly every day, for some reason. The other is in the bottom of the backpack, wrapped and tied neatly in white linen, and I'd sooner give up my right arm than let anyone take it away from me.

next

Unseen (part 21)

previous

Keefe waited, looking at me expectantly.

"I -- I'm so sorry," I finally stuttered out. "I j-just had an idea and there was no paper handy, so I used your book. I'm really -- I didn't mean to leave it like that--"

"Oh, no, it's all right," Keefe said. "Sometimes I'll write in my own books. But what does it mean?" His eyes dropped to the page again. "'What service does Mrs. Townley do for Corey?'" he read aloud.

He knew the name of our town. Without even trying, I had violated the most basic of the Public Niceties. All the myriad warnings I'd learned from childhood on babbled together in my head, and a rush of guilt made the ice cream curdle in my stomach. How was I going to get out of this? I had to create a quick, believable lie. But the more time I spent with Keefe, the harder it was becoming to lie to him. Instead I found myself saying the first thing that popped into my head, which was the truth.

"I'd been reading 'The Purloined Letter' and it gave me an idea," I said. "And sometimes I forget ideas unless I write them down. So I just wrote it as quickly as I could."

"An idea?" asked Keefe. "Like for a story?"

A story. That was it. I grabbed hold of Keefe's innocent suggestion and ran with it. "Yes!" I said. "Exactly. An idea for a story."

"You didn't tell me you were a writer," Keefe smiled. "So what's it about?"

"Well," I said, stalling for time, "it's not finished yet..." And at that moment it hit me: I didn't have to lie to Keefe. I just had to tell him the truth as though it were fiction. "But it's a story about a little town called Corey," I went on. "It's the sort of place that's hidden in plain sight. Not even the people who live in the towns nearby know that it's there." I paused for a moment, wondering how much I should reveal, but Keefe seemed fascinated. I went on. "And the people of Corey are hidden because... well, because they're special. They have unusual gifts and talents that most other people don't have -- or, or maybe don't know how to use."

Keefe's eyes were glued to mine. "What kinds of gifts?" he asked softly.

His obvious interest spurred me on. "Oh, things like... well, they can heal people with a touch. Or they can draw and send objects -- you know, move them around just by thinking about it." I began to think of all the various ways we used the knack. "And they can speak to each other, mind to mind, without saying a word, and they can communicate with certain animals, and shape the weather, and create things, and -- and -- and they can fly," I finished, a little bashful at how he was going to receive all this.

I needn't have worried. Keefe's mind lit up with successive delight at each new description, and it was illuminated like the sun when I mentioned flying. "Sounds... magical," he said, a little wistfully. "I'd love living in a place like that."

"Well, yeah, but it's not all perfect. They do have to keep their gifts secret from other people," I said. "I mean, imagine how it would be if outsiders saw them doing all these things."

Keefe nodded. "I suppose some people wouldn't understand," he murmured.

"Exactly!" I pressed on, suddenly keen to share more. "Anyway, they don't have jobs, really, in this town. Instead it works kind of like a big extended family. They all contribute by doing service for each other. As people grow up they discover what their particular talents are, and they offer those talents as a service to everyone else. But there's one woman in town who doesn't seem to do any service for others, and it's up to the main character to figure out why."

"Hmm," Keefe said, and then a puckish grin broke over his face. "Maybe she secretly rules the town?"

"Oh, well, I dunno. I haven't gotten that far yet," I said. "But... does it sound like a good idea for a story?"

"Are you kidding? It sounds fantastic," said Keefe. "I'd read it right now if you had a copy."

The ability to talk to an outsider about Corey, even under the guise of fiction, coupled with Keefe smiling at me gave me a dizzy feeling of euphoria. I desperately wished I could tell him more. In truth, I wished I could take him on a long walk and show him every bit of the knack I possessed. I wanted to know what he'd do as I whispered the nature of his innermost thoughts to him, I wanted to discover how he'd react when I caused the rain to bend softly around us and keep us dry, and more than anything I wanted to know the wonder in his mind as I rose up into the air before him, perhaps drawing him up to me so that he could see the things I saw, in the skies high above Corey. I could tell how deeply he wished for flight, and I knew it was something I could make come true so easily. If only it weren't forbidden.

"I've never told anyone about this story before," I said, twisting a strand of hair. "Actually, I've never tried to write a story before. You're the first to know."

"I'm honored," said Keefe. "Will you promise to tell me how it goes?"

I nodded. "If you like," I said.

"I'd like that very much."

"Just promise me you won't tell anyone about it," I added, as an afterthought. "It's really not ready to share yet."

Keefe made a gesture I didn't recognize. "Scout's honor," he said. And I knew he wouldn't; it was all there in his head.

We kept talking right down into the dusk of the evening, before I finally looked up and saw the first stars appearing in the sky.

"Wait, what time is it?" I gasped.

Keefe looked at his watch. "Going on eight-thirty," he said.

I'd stayed far later than I'd planned. Someone was going to notice I was gone. "I'm sorry, but I have to go home," I said. "Right now. Where's the bike?" And I scrambled out of my chair, intent on fetching Mum's bike out of the back of Keefe's truck.

For a little while, Keefe didn't move -- merely sat and watched me from the table. But from the growing storminess of his mind, I could tell he was upset about something. When I looked up again, he was standing beside the truck bed.

"Would you please tell me why you don't want me to know where you live?" he blurted out.

I stopped, looking down at him, genuinely surprised at the hurt and frustration I saw there. "What?"

"I don't think I've done anything to break your trust," he said. "I've tried my best to be a gentleman. And yet you're ready to run off on your bike in the dark, all by yourself, rather than let me take you home. So what did I do?"

He thought this was somehow his fault. "Keefe," I said as placatingly as I could, "you haven't done anything wrong, believe me."

"What is it, then? You afraid your folks wouldn't like me?"

I hated to admit it, but he was partly right. If my parents knew I'd been traipsing around outside of Corey without permission, they'd merely be upset; if they discovered I'd been on a date with an outsider, any outsider at all, they'd be livid.

"They're just... they're... really strict," I said, rather lamely. And then I remembered the glimpse of the dark anteroom in Keefe's cathedral, and the bitter-faced man I'd seen there, and I took a chance. "Don't you know what it's like to have parents who don't understand?" I asked.

Keefe knew. He knew it well. I could see it in his eyes, and it took all the wind out of his sails. Slowly, he nodded. "All right," he sighed. "Fine. At least let me help you get your bike." He hoisted himself up into the truck bed and helped me unload the Schwinn in silence.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "I really have had a wonderful evening."

He said nothing in reply, but I could tell he was unhappy.

"And thank you for lending me the Poe," I added. "He really is a genius."

Still nothing. I tried once again.

"Keefe? Could I... could I see you again next Friday?"

"You sure your folks will let you?" Keefe responded, somewhat bitterly.

Well. Ouch. "It doesn't matter whether they let me or not," I retorted. "If I really want to see you, I'll find a way." After all, I had the ability. Even though I was taking a chance by slipping out of Corey without permission, I could shield myself from prying minds and find chunks of time to spend with Keefe Godwin if I really wanted to. And I really wanted to.

I guess that much must have come across clearly enough, because Keefe's expression changed a bit. "I've got something going on next Friday," he said. "But how about the one after that?"

I nodded. "Okay. Library at five?"

"Sure."

"And this time it's my treat," I added. "Fair?"

"You know, I can't figure you out at all," said Keefe.

"What was it you said before? Something about my being a woman of mystery?"

Keefe shook his head at me, but he was also starting to smile. "Go on, then," he said. "Get home before your folks ground you again. I guess I'll see you in two weeks. And be careful out there!" he shouted after me as I shot off on the bike.

I'd gone three blocks in the dark at nearly full-tilt speed before I really stopped to think about what I'd gotten myself into. How on earth was I supposed to pay for a date? I didn't have any money, nor did I have any way to get some without looking suspicious. I had no idea what Keefe and I were going to do, where we'd go, anything. Something about being close to Keefe apparently made me an idiot. At least I'd have the better part of two weeks to figure it out.


* * *
"The gavotte!" Mr. Flint called out from the end of the floor.

Most of the dancers cheered, a few groaned, and the chaperones looked at each other and clucked their tongues knowingly. Gavottes might still have a slightly scandalous reputation in Corey, but they were lighter and bouncier and a lot more fun than the English country dances that were the mainstay of our gatherings. The moment Mr. Flint put bow to fiddle and began to scrape out a rendition of "Johnny's Fair Partner," we were all off.

Of course, I hadn't counted on John Woodbury being my partner for the gavotte. "Where were you?" he hissed in my ear as he went by.

"What do you mean, where was I?" I whispered back. I had come late to the dance, having slipped back into Corey around nine o'clock.

John said nothing for a while, preferring to focus on the dance. I could tell he was shielding his mind, though little darts of resentment escaped every now and again.

There was a commotion on the end of the dance floor, which was built out out over the water of the lake. Marcus Felton, apparently taken by a playful fit, had launched Janie into the air -- and rather than coming back down, she was simply continuing the gavotte eight feet above our heads, taunting Marcus to come up after her. Several dancers cheered and egged her on.

"I saw you leaving Corey," John said quietly. "Where did you go?"

My heart hammered in my throat, and I missed a step. But it's easy to find your place in the gavotte again, and in a moment I had a reply. "Working on that surprise for my mum," I said. "Just like I told you."

John continued to look suspicious, and on the next turn he asked, "What was it you needed from outside?"

"I'm not going to spoil the surprise," I replied calmly. "You'll just have to wait and see."

Marcus finally scrambled up after Janie, and more and more dance partners joined them. It was about time. As lovely as a gavotte is on the ground, I can't help but think it was really meant to be performed in midair.

"Shall we join the others?" I said, smiling at John. And despite his lingering feelings of suspicion, he gave in and took my hand as we rose up into the late spring air above the lake, spinning and bouncing in time with the others as Janie and Marcus led a loose, drifting chain of dancers on the wind. Far below us we could hear Mr. Flint hooting with amusement as we sailed on over the trees, through a glade, and up over the houses and streets of Corey. My foot narrowly missed a chimney-pot once, and John ducked just in time to avoid a branch in the face, but overall we kept up pretty well.

Eventually the dancers returned to circle above the floor, laughing and teasing each other. We formed a London bridge chain where each set of partners ducked under one couple's raised arms in turn, and John and I, being the last couple through, were caught. Even John had to laugh, though I noticed that he was turning red again.

next

Unseen (part 20)

previous

I woke to a sea of fog this morning. Fog mutes everything -- light and sound and distance alike -- and for a moment I was back in Corey, knowing that at any moment Peck would come silently at me out of the fog like a dark bullet, and Mrs. Townley would know where I was. Suddenly I couldn't breathe, and my legs began to shake. I had to retreat into the barn for a while, crumpled against the wall, took many long, slow, deliberate breaths until the panic passed through me and I could convince myself I was, if not exactly safe, then at least out of immediate danger.

Last night I slept in the barn loft. I don't particularly like the itchy feel of hay, but it was warm and quiet, and it had the advantage of being sufficiently far away from human beings while still offering human comforts. The thoughts of farm animals are simple and placid, like white noise for the mind. Some of them consider me now, and their quiet helps restore my calm.

This fog is only fog, I tell myself. There's a river or a lake near here, and conditions are right for it to form. It doesn't mean anything else. Besides, if I stay in here all day for fear of an earthbound cloud, I'm a pure coward. I push myself to stand and to venture outside again.

When we were children, we played with the fog. It was easy to pull shapes out of it, like cotton candy, and wrap it around our foreheads like daisy chains, or weave strands of it into our hair until we went into the warmth of our homes and the fog melted into our wet braids. Janie was especially good at making things out of fog, maybe because she'd inherited the talent from her dad. She'd twist and twirl all kinds of shapes into it: patterns, plants, animals, faces. For years I thought children everywhere played with the fog as we did, just like making snow angels in winter or jumping into leaf piles in fall. I didn't realize we were using the knack.

Out of curiosity, I reach out to see if I can still do it, and pull a long, thin strand of fog out by my fingertips. It has a different consistency from the fog back in Corey -- finer, more delicate. I wrap the tendril around my left wrist, like a bracelet, and it continues to curl gracefully around my arm. The fog seems to be exploring me; it wants to know why I'm here.

Funny, I'd like to know that too.

next

Unseen (part 19)

previous

On Wednesday and Thursday I spent the daylight hours at Mrs. Townley's, learning theory, and most of the night walking through Corey with her and observing as she put that theory into practice. In the process, I discovered that all students in Corey were on a complex schedule, since not everyone learned everything at once, or even in the same way. Some students, who readily took up new ideas and learned at a faster pace, received new ideas from Mrs. Townley on an almost nightly basis; others, who had resistant mental structures or who took time to process a new thought, only received additional instruction when they'd had sufficient time to digest the latest idea. (I was deeply curious to know where I had fit into this schedule, but I didn't dare ask, and Mrs. Townley didn't volunteer the information.) I was getting home at 3 or 4 a.m., usually going in covertly by my bedroom window, and getting by on a scant few hours of sleep.

No one seemed to see how hard I was pushing myself or that I was consistently shading my mind, with the possible exception of Dad. Despite the long hours I was putting in, I slept only fitfully and was often peevish and cranky at breakfast, and Dad noticed.

"Where's my happy little girl got to?" he asked on Friday morning.

I glared at him over my one-eyed sandwich. "Daaad. I'm not 'little' any more."

"You're not happy, either," he observed. "Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?"

"It's too early and you're not funny," I snapped. "Just leave me alone."

Some small part of my mind was cruelly satisfied to see how easily I could wipe the usual cheery smile off Dad's face. It took a few minutes for the meanness of what I'd done to hit me -- but not hard enough to make me apologize. My eyes dropped to my plate and to the now tasteless sandwich, whose eye-like yolk seemed to be staring at me in shock.

Mum immediately told me off for rudeness, but Dad stayed silent all through breakfast, which was worse. After finishing his meal, he hugged Mum and went off to work, still without saying a thing. Silence from him as I washed up the breakfast dishes, silence as I gathered my commonplace-book. But on my way to Mrs. Townley's, I got a quiet message from him: You have the ability to hurt others. Be careful how you choose to exercise it. In my mind's eye I could see him in the workshop, creating a stepladder, and I saw the strength behind the chisel he was using, how easily the tool could be wielded to mar and destroy the work.

At Mrs. Townley's, I didn't have to put on much of an act; I really was exhausted, and my low-level sense of misery over snapping at Dad just added that much more depth to the performance. Two hours into the morning tutoring, Mrs. Townley paused.

"Child, you look as though you haven't slept in three days," she said.

"I'm feeling tired," I admitted. "Dad says I'm not myself lately."

Peck cocked an eye at me, and Mrs. Townley rested her chin on her hand. "I have been working you pretty hard the last little while," she said thoughtfully.

Now was my chance. "Mrs. Townley," I asked, as though the idea had just occurred to me, "do you think maybe I could have today off? Just for today," I added, "and I'd join you later tonight for practice. Would that be all right?"

Mrs. Townley considered. Mentally, I held my breath. My plans for the evening hinged on her willingness to let me out of service for the day.

"Oh, very well," Mrs. Townley finally said. "Go on home and get some rest. I'll see you this evening. If your mother asks what you're doing, have her speak to me about it."

"Yes, ma'am." I didn't wait to give her a chance to reconsider. In less time than it takes to tell about it I had packed up and was headed home.

Mum had opened the windows to the morning air, and the rhythmic chk-chk-chk-chk of her treadle machine blended with birdsong and the distant bleating of the Phillipses' goats. I'd already decided to sneak in; that way I wouldn't have to deal with another potential tongue-lashing about rudeness. As long as I could hear the machine running, I'd know where Mum was. I crept around to the back of the house and looked up into the higher branches, toward my open bedroom window. I'd taken to leaving it open so I could sneak out to keep my evening appointments with Mrs. Townley.

My plan was very simple: basic misdirection. If Mrs. Townley thought I was at home, and everyone else thought I was at Mrs. Townley's, I could be pretty much anywhere I wanted to be. The secret nature of Mrs. Townley's service to Corey meant she wouldn't want to risk loosening the charm that helped keep the secret in place, so she wouldn't venture to ask anyone where I was if I happened to run a little late. All I had to do was lay low in my room for a few hours, getting some much-needed rest and reading another half-dozen creepily delicious Poe stories. Then, some time in the early afternoon, I'd quietly leave Corey and head straight for the village library.

I just had to get up to my room without being seen. But I'd gotten pretty good at going in and out by my bedroom window without making much noise. It wouldn't be too--

"What're you doing?"

I just about jumped out of my skin at the voice. From the shadow of the trees John Woodbury emerged, carrying a wire basket.

"John!" I hissed. "What... why are you even here?"

He held up the basket. "Doing some service for the Phillipses. I was just coming to see if your mother was in need of eggs." His face was turning slightly red again. "I... thought you'd be at Mrs. Townley's this time of day."

I thought as fast as I could. "I was," I said. "Earlier. But we've been cleaning house and, you know, uh, she was really tired out... and she decided she could use a nap. I told her I'd come back later this afternoon."

If John was skeptical of this explanation, he didn't say so. Instead he followed my gaze upward to my window. "You know, it is your house," he said. "Why not just use the front door like a normal person?"

At that moment I was deeply grateful for the ability to hide my thoughts from others. "I... John, I'm trying to put something together for my mum's birthday," I whispered. "I really want it to be a surprise. Please don't tell her I'm here. It would ruin the whole thing."

John looked mildly horrified. "You can't ask me to do that," he protested. "I can shade a little bit, but I can't hide stuff from your mum. I don't think anybody can."

Odd to think that only a few days earlier I would have agreed with him.

"Well, then, just don't stop by with the eggs. Then you won't have to explain anything." I gave him my best puppy-dog look. "Please, John?"

He blushed a deeper red, looking almost like a beet under his white-blond Woodbury hair. "Fine, all right," he muttered.

I gave him a quick, impulsive hug, flew straight up to my window and silently let myself in. I thought to give John a little wave of thanks, but when I leaned back out he had already made himself scarce.

Leaving the window open, I sprawled out prone on my bed and started in on the Poe, but found it surprisingly hard to follow. Odd things kept creeping into the stories, like the presence of Janie Herrick as the Red Death or Montresor bricking Dad into a wall, suggesting that I might not be as fully alert as I supposed. Eventually I pushed the book away, too drowsy to continue, and pillowed my head on my arms for a quick nap. But Poe's phrases and poems followed me into my dreams -- "You are not wrong, who deem that my days have been a dream..." "To dream has been the business of my life..." "And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming..." -- along with the faraway sound of weeping. Once I even thought I heard someone crying in the spare room nearest mine, but when I woke up the sound was gone.

Most of the afternoon was gone as well. My clock showed it was twenty minutes of five. I was going to have to hotfoot it if I wanted to reach the village by five o'clock -- the only thing for it was to take Mum's bike again. Wishing for the departed fashion sense of my broken mirror, I hurriedly made myself as presentable as I could, then grabbed Keefe's book and let myself out by the window, floating gently to the ground.

It took a few minutes to find Mum's bike, but soon I was whizzing along -- technically a little too fast, and a little too high off the ground -- down the long road that led out of Corey and toward the village. And if someone happened to see me leaving, and wondered where I was going, I certainly was too focused on my own plans to notice.

Once out of Corey, I had to keep the tires on the ground and stick to normal bike speeds, but even before I got in sight of the library I could feel that Keefe was there, waiting for me. He was pretending to read, but the shape of that quick, beautifully structured mind was all pointed in my direction. When I stopped the Schwinn in front of the library steps, he immediately looked up.

"You came!" he said, and the smile in his eyes brightened his whole face. At that moment, I thought I would have gladly lied to Mum or Mrs. Townley or anyone on earth just for a chance to see Keefe Godwin smile at me like that. "I didn't think you would."

I swung off the bike. "Of course I came." Who in her right mind wouldn't? "I couldn't resist the lure of candlepin bowling and ice cream."

"Well then, sounds like my wily plans are coming along nicely." He stood up. "Do you want to leave your bike here, or would you rather stick it in the back of the truck for safekeeping?"

"Let's put it in the truck," I said, thinking of the last time I'd left it at the library. "I don't really trust leaving it here."

"True. It might get ideas and start wandering around by itself again." He bounded down the steps and picked up Mum's bike as though it weighed a few ounces. "Oh, hey, you brought the Poe back. Thanks. What did you think?"

I can't remember exactly which direction we drove in, or how long it took us to get there, or much of anything else except that I was with Keefe, talking about "The Cask of Amontillado" (he had a much greater understanding of the story than I did, helping me appreciate it even more than I had when I read it alone) and being awestruck all over again by his astonishing mind. I was doing my best not to pry into his head, since I knew how rude I was being, but it was almost irresistible. Since I'd started studying concept introduction theory with Mrs. Townley, I realized how amazing the vaulted structures of Keefe's mind really were. Not one member of the Conscient whose mind I'd glimpsed in the past few days possessed anything like what I found in Keefe's head. It was beautiful. Like the inside of a grand cathedral, my familiarity with it bred not contempt, but a greater sense of wonder.

"He was smart to work Montresor's coat of arms and motto into the story," he was saying. "Nemo me impune lacessit? Tells you a lot about his temperament, and suggests the lengths he's willing to go to for the sake of revenge." He considered (and the way his thoughts moved! It was like watching a dancer, an acrobat, an angel move all at once) and added, "But the most amazing thing about the story is how Poe takes an unrepentant, cold-blooded murderer like Montresor and turns him into a sympathetic character. He actually makes his readers root for the man who bricks up an enemy alive inside a wall. How many writers could do that?"

I thought of Montresor slowly, implacably burying his erstwhile friend alive, and shivered. "Montresor is creepy, though. I mean, Poe makes you assume that all those snubs and insults that Montresor talks about at the beginning of the story are real. But Fortunato probably didn't do anything that was worthy of death. He might not even have done anything bad. It's all about one man's point of view -- it's totally subjective."

We pulled up in front of New England Lanes, a slightly scruffy-looking building sandwiched between a strip mall and a tire store, and Keefe said, "Wait a minute." He hopped out of the truck and went around the back. At first I thought he was checking on the Schwinn, hidden under a tarp, but then I caught a glimpse of his thoughts, so I wasn't completely surprised when he came around and opened the passenger-side door for me.

"Yeah, I know, you can open the door yourself," he said, somewhat apologetically.

"I know," I said, smiling a little. "I know that's not why you do it. Thank you."

He seemed surprised, but pleased by this. I wondered who had raked him over the coals in the past for showing common courtesy, but decided it was probably best not to find out.

As we walked in, Keefe breathed in through his nose. "Ah, eau de bowling alley," he said appreciatively. "Smells like 1963 in here."

I sniffed experimentally. "I never realized 1963 smelled like stale cigarettes and pizza."

"See, you learn something new every day." He smiled. "Let's get you some shoes. What's your size?"

"Shoes?"

He looked at me quizzically. "You've really never gone bowling before?"

I cast around wildly for a good excuse, and found none. "Um... I guess I don't get out much," I finally said.

"Well, you need to rent special shoes when you bowl so you won't slip and fall in the lane. You return them and get your regular shoes back when you finish playing."

I knew better than to ask what it meant to "rent" shoes; I'd read about the practice of renting in a few library books. I still didn't get the point of paying someone to use an object for a short time, when it was so much simpler just to borrow it and return it in good condition. But, I reminded myself, this isn't Corey. Outsiders do things differently.

A frizzy-haired girl behind the counter smiled broadly as we approached. "Hey, Keefe!" she sang out cheerily.

"Hey, Sandra!" Keefe hollered back, and they high-fived across the counter.

"Are you coming back to league, you traitor?"

"I wish I had the time," said Keefe. "There's only so much a man can do in a day."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Sure, whatever. And who's your friend?"

Keefe introduced me. "She's never been candlepin bowling before, if you can believe it."

Sandra looked me over and grinned. "First time? Better watch out for our man Keefe here. He thinks he's the second coming of Justin White." She pulled out a pair of shoes for Keefe. "Men's 8, right? What's your size, hon?"

This I was sure I'd get right; Mrs. Putnam had measured my feet for new shoes only a few months earlier. "9 1/2 inches, with an 8-inch circumference," I said confidently.

Both Sandra and Keefe stared at me, nonplused. "I mean, what's your shoe size?" Sandra asked.

"I -- uh..." How many times this evening was I going to put my foot in my mouth? "I'm not sure what the right size is for bowling shoes," I said.

"Well, hand me your street shoes," Sandra said. "I'll figure it out."

I slipped off my shoes and handed them to Sandra, who seemed impressed. "Wow. Your shoes are really nice," she said. "Where do you get them?"

"Friend of the family," I offered, hoping it wouldn't make me stand out even further. But Sandra was too busy comparing heels and toes. "OK, women's 7," she said, handing me a pair of garish two-tone shoes. "Enjoy!"

At first I thought I must be the butt of some kind of joke -- surely no sane person would wear shoes this offensively ugly -- but when I turned to Keefe, he was nonchalantly lacing his up, so I reluctantly put mine on as well. As it turned out, everyone who was bowling wore the same crazy footwear, so at least I wasn't alone.

Candlepin bowling turned out to be pretty fun. The ball weighed only a couple of pounds, a little larger than a softball, but smaller than a melon -- Keefe said it was "like bowling with coconuts" -- and after the first few boxes I was starting to get the hang of it: you could use the downed pins to help knock over anything that was still upright. Keefe was a good teacher, and I could see why they wanted him back in the league; he beat me easily. I was sorely tempted to maneuver the ball a bit using my knack, but I figured I'd already drawn enough attention to myself for one evening. Besides, it's more satisfying to get a good score without cheating.

When I finally got my first strike, I turned back toward Keefe with a triumphant smile -- and just as I did, I picked up a thought from him. It was the memory of a poem, though not one by Poe, and not one I remembered reading:

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face...

I was struck by the beauty of the words before I wondered why he was thinking of them, and curiously probed a little deeper. And in a flash I saw the connection in his mind. My face went suddenly hot, and I dropped my eyes, but I could still see Keefe's eyes seemingly looking down into my soul, making one of those effortless mental connections between the poem and the girl before him. The poem was how he saw me.

After that I must have been unusually quiet, because at one point Keefe turned to me and asked, a little anxiously, "Are you all right? You're not bored with this, are you?"

"No, no, not at all. It's fun," I assured him.

"Well, maybe we'll finish up this string and get some ice cream. I know a good place."

Keefe beat me again (though a little more narrowly, I noted with satisfaction), and after getting our shoes back we hopped into his pickup and headed a few miles down the road to a tiny ice cream parlor, painted pink and white, with a walk-up window and three or four wrought-iron tables and chairs set outside. Keefe confidently stepped up to the window and ordered one apple crisp scoop and one ginger scoop. Then I had a really good look at their signboard, which was covered with flavors. I'd had ice cream exactly once, years ago when I was traveling with Mum, and now there were so many flavors to choose from that I felt almost dizzy with choice.

"You should try the Black Bear," the guy behind the counter finally suggested. "And maybe a scoop of vanilla to go with it."

"Trust him," Keefe said. "He's probably tried them all."

I smiled. "OK. I'll try that."

Black Bear turned out to be blackberry ice cream with a chocolate ribbon, studded with big chunks of chocolate, and it might very well have been the most delicious thing I'd ever eaten. I ate it very slowly, making it last as long as possible, and listening to Keefe.

"There's a place in Somerville that apparently makes avocado ice cream," he was saying. "Avocado. I'm just trying to get my brain around what that would taste like."

Considering the many ways I'd made a fool of myself already that night, I didn't mention that I'd never even tasted an avocado, let alone ice cream made from one. "Different, I'd guess."

"Well, yeah, but in a good way or a bad way?"

"Maybe we should go to Somerville and try it some time," I said.

"Hmm. Maybe we should."

I savored another spoonful of Black Bear, wondering why it was that we didn't make ice cream in Corey, or play candlepin bowling, or do so many other things that outsiders did.

Well, I knew what Mum would say -- these things weren't necessary.  But neither were the elaborate scenes Dad carved into the backs of his chairs, or the imprint on Mrs. Phillips' cheeses, or any one of dozens of unnecessary but lovely things we did around Corey. In fact, it seemed to me that based only on the events of the evening, most of the things the outsiders did weren't bad at all. What was so wrong about the way they lived, that made them so untrustworthy? They might not rely on each other as much as we did, but they still made beautiful things. Worthwhile things. If what I'd been taught was true and we really couldn't live among them in safety, then why couldn't we bring some of the best of their ways into Corey?

For that matter, why did some outsiders have to be outsiders at all? Wasn't it likely that there were more just like us -- gifted with the knack -- who were trapped outside Corey? And wouldn't they be in just as much danger as we would be, if we were forced to live like outsiders? There had to be a better explanation why Corey had been closed for good. I needed to ask Mrs. Townley.

"So tell me about you," Keefe said. "I'm curious to know more about this woman of mystery."

I must keep Corey safe and secret. "I, um... I'm really not all that interesting," I stammered.

"Oh, come on."

"What? I'm not really that different, am I?" I sincerely hoped not.

"Hmm, let's see... you're homeschooled, your family doesn't have a car, you've never gone bowling until tonight, and you don't want me to know where you live," he teased. "See? Mysterious."

What could I tell him that wouldn't give too much away? "Well, um... I'm an only child. I haven't really decided what I want to do when I grow up. I like to draw. I mostly make sketches, nothing too amazing. And I love to read, especially histories. I like swimming and bike riding and summer dances, and I like to sing -- in groups, not alone. And I've just discovered that I like candlepin bowling and ice cream. And Edgar Allan Poe." And you, I wanted to add, but thought better of it.

Keefe grinned. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Well, what about you?" I asked. "Time for you to tell me about you."

"Let's see." He'd brought the Poe with him from the car, and absently ran his fingertip along the edges of the cover as he talked. "I'm the second oldest of four. I have an older brother named Finn, and two younger sisters, Cait and Tara. I mostly take care of the girls. I want to go to college, and I'm busting my hump in school so I can qualify for a scholarship. I love poetry and essays and pretty much any fiction I can get my hands on. I like to fix things that are broken so they work again. And I like candlepin bowling and ice cream, and Edgar Allan Poe." He smiled. "And I... like to spend time with you."

I could feel myself blushing. The word he'd used in his head wasn't "like."

"You think about what you read," he went on. "You don't assume the narrator is always telling the truth. Which is good, because sometimes you're right not to trust him. Like in 'The Tell-Tale Heart,' for instance..." and he opened the book and read the words I'd written hastily across the flyleaf, and had forgotten to erase.

I froze.

Keefe looked up at me, confused. "Who's Mrs. Townley?" he asked.

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