Clive Barker - Everville

Sturgis-who had not stopped trembling since his return-was first to his feet, his gun drawn.

"No need of that," came a floating voice. "I'm here as a friend." Whitney rose to his feet. "Then show yourself, friend," he said.

The stranger did as he was invited, and sauntered into view. He was shorter than any man around the fire, but he carried himself with the easy gait of one who was seldom, if ever, crossed. The high collar of his fur coat was turned up, and he smiled out from its luxury as though the faces before him were those of well-fed friends, and he was coming to join them at a feast. Apart from the snow on his boots, there was no sign that he had exerted himself to reach this spot. Every detail was in place and bespoke a man of cultivation: waxed mustache, clipped beard, calf-skin gloves, silver-tipped cane.

There was not one among the group around the fire unmoved by his presence. Sheldon Sturgis felt a deep shame for his cowardice, certain that this man had never shit his pants in his life. Alvin Goodbue's stomach rebelled at, the powerful perfume the man wore, and he summarily ffimw up his portion of gruel. Its cook, Ninnie Immendorf, didn't even notice. She was too busy feeling thankful for her widowhood.

"Where'd you come from?" Marsha wanted to know.

"Up the pass," the stranger replied.

"Where's your wagon?" The man was amused by this. "I came on foot," he said. "It's no more than a mile or two down into the valley."

There were murmurs of joy and disbelief around the fire. "We're saved!" Cynthia Fisher sobbed. "Oh Lord in Heaven, we're saved!"

"You were right" Goodhue said to Whitney, "we were in God's hands tonight."

Whitney caught the twitch of a smile on the stranger's face. "This is indeed welcome news," he said. "May we know who you are?"

"No secret there," the man replied. "My name's Owen Buddenbaum. I came to meet with some friends of mine, but I don't see them among your company. I hope no harm has befallen them."

"We've lost a lot of good people," Sturgis said. "Who're you looking for?"

"Harmon O'Connell and his daughter," Buddenbaum replied. "Were they not with you?"

The smiles around the fire died. There were several seconds of uneasy silence, then Goodhue simply said: "They're dead."

Buddenbaum teased the glove off his left hand as he spoke, his voice betraying nothing. "Is that so?" he said.

"Yes it's so," Sturgis replied. "O'Connell-got lost on the mountain."

"And the child?"

"She went after him. It's like he says, they're both dead." Buddenbaum's bare hand went up to his mouth, and he nibbled on the nail of his thumb. There was at least one ring on every finger. On the middle digit, three. "I'm surprised-" he said.

:'At what?" Whitney replied.

'At God-fearing men and women leaving an innocent child to freeze to death," Buddenbaum replied. He shrugged. "Well, we do what we must do." He pulled his glove back on. "I'll take my leave of you."

"Wait," said Ninnie, "won't you have something to eat? We ain't got much, but-"

"Thank you, no."

"I got a little coffee tucked away," Sheldon said. "We could brew a cup."

:'You're very kind," Buddenbaum said. 'So stay," said Sheldon.

"Another time perhaps," Buddenbaurn replied. He scanned the group as he spoke. "I'm sure our paths will cross in the future," he said. "We go our many ways but the roads lead back and back, don't they? And of course we follow them. We have no choice."

"You could ride back down with us," Sheldon said.

"I'm not going back," came the reply. "I'm going up the mountain."

"You're out of you're mind," Marsha said with her customary plainness.

"You'll freeze up there."

"I have my coat and gloves," Buddenbaum replied, "And if a little child can survive the cold, I surely can."

"How many times-?" Goodhue began, but Whitney, who had taken a seat on the far side of the fire from Buddenbaum, and was studying the man through the smoke, hushed him.

"If he wants to go, let him," he said.

"Quite so," Buddenbaum replied. "Well-goodnight."

As he turned from the fire, however, Ninnie blurted out: "Trumpets."

Buddenbaurn looked back. "I beg your pardon?"

"We heard trumpets, up on the mountain@' She looked to her fellow travelers for support, but none offered a word. "At least, I did," she went on hesitantly, "I heard-"

"Trumpets."

"Yes.

"Strange. "Yes." She had lost all confidence in her story now. "Of course, it could have been... I don't know@' "Thunder," said Whitney.

"Thunder that sounds like trumpets? Well, there's a thing. I'll listen out for it." He directed a little smile at Ninnie. "I'm much obliged," he said, with such courtesy she thought she'd swoon. Then, without a further word, he turned his back upon the assembly and strode out of the firelight, and the darkness swallowed him whole.

All those gathered around the fire that night would survive the rest of the journey, and all in their fashion prosper. It was a brave time in the West, and in the years to come they would build and profit and procreate heroically, putting behind them the harm they'd suffered getting there. they would not speak of the dead, despite the promises they'd made. they would not seek out the bones of those ill-buried and see them laid to rest with better care. they would not mourn. they would not regret.

But they would remember. And of the incidents they'd conjure in the privacy of their parlors, this night, and the man who'd come visiting, would prove the most enduring.

Every time Sheldon Sturgis brewed a pot of coffee, he would think of Buddenbaum, and recall his shame. Every time Ninnie Immendorf had a suitor come knocking (and several did, for wives were hard to come by in those years, and Ninnie could cook a mean stew) she would go to the door praying it would not be Franklin or Charlie or Burk but Buddenbaum. Buddenbaum.

And every time the Reverend Whitney mounted his pulpit, and spoke to his parishioners about the workings of the Devil in the world, he would bring the man with the cane to mind, and his voice would fill with feeling and the congregation would shudder in their pews. It was as though the preacher had seen the Evil One face to face, people would say as they filed out, for he spoke not of a monster with the horns of a goat, but of a man fallen on hard times, stripped of his horses and his retinue, and wandering the world in search of children that had strayed from the fold.

Six By the time Maeve reached the top of the slope she had lost sight of her savior, and as there were no lights around the tent, it was hard to make out much about those who lingered in its vicinity. Part of her hoped not to encounter him, given that she'd cheated on her promise and followed him into the midst of this ceremony, but another part, the part nourished by his honey-blood, was willing to risk his are if she could know him better. Surely he wouldn't hurt her, she told herself, however angry he was. What was done was done. She'd seen the secrets.

All except for what lay inside the tent, of course, and she would soon put that to rights. There was a door a few yards from where she stood, but it was sealed, so she headed around to the side of the tent, where there was nobody to see, and pulled the fabric up out of the snow so that she could shimmy underneath.

Inside there was a silence so deep she almost feared to draw breath, and a darkness so profound it seemed to press against her face, like the hands of a blind man reading her flesh. She let it do so, fearing that she'd be removed if she rejected it, and after a few moments of scrutiny its touch became lighter, almost playful, and she felt the darkness coaxing her up from the ground and away from the wall. She was obliged to trust to it, but that was no great hardship. There was no peril here, of that she was certain, and as if in reward for her faith the darkness began to flower before her, bloom upon bloom opening as she approached. The darkness grew no lighter, but as she walked her eyes understood its subtleties better; saw forms and figures that she'd been blind to before. She was one of hundreds here, she realized, members of the families she'd seen in the snow outside, lucky or worthy enough to come into this sacred place. There were tears of bliss on some of their faces; smiles and reverence on others. A few even looked her way as she was led through the throng, but most were watching some sight the black blossoms had not yet shown her. Eager to know what wonder this was, she focused her attentions upon the mysterious air.