Raymond E. Feist - Faerie Tale

Just then Bad Luck came galloping down the creek bed, red tongue lolling and tail wagging a furious greeting. He circled around the boys, then began sniffing at the ground.

‘Why?’ asked Patrick, contemptuous of anything resembling caution.

‘’Cause we could get caught down there,’ Sean answered, pointing to where the gully dropped rapidly into a dell, his voice sounding thin and frail over the water’s merry gurgle. ‘Besides, Mom said not to go too far.’

‘That’s dumb; she always says stuff like that,’ was Patrick’s answer as he tugged on Bad Luck’s ear and set off to follow the water. His catcher’s mitt hung by a thong from his belt and his Angels cap sat upon his head at an aggressive angle. He carried his Louisville Slugger over his shoulder as a soldier carries his rifle. Sean hesitated a moment, then set out after his brother, struggling to keep his beat-up old Padres cap on his head. Twins they might be, but Sean just didn’t seem to have Patrick’s natural confidence, and his timidity seemed to rob him of grace, causing him to slip often on the loose gravel and rocks.

Sean stumbled and landed hard on his rear. He pulled himself upright, all his anger at the tumble directed at his brother. He dusted himself off and began to negotiate the steep drop of the gully. He half scrambled, half slid down the incline, his baseball glove and ball held tightly in his left hand. Reaching the bottom, he could see no sign of Patrick. The gully made a sharp bend, vanishing off to the right. ‘Patrick?’ Sean yelled.

‘Over here,’ came the reply. Sean hurried along, rounding the bend to halt next to his brother.

In one of those moments the boys shared, they communicated without words. Silently they voiced agreement, This is a scary place .

Before them squatted an ancient grey stone bridge, spanning the gully so a trail barely more than a path could continue uninterrupted as it rambled through the woods. The very stones seemed beaten and battered as if they had resisted being placed in this arrangement and had yielded only to brutish force. Each stone was covered in some sort of black-green moss, evidence of the presence of some evil so pernicious it infected the very rocks around it with foul ooze. Overgrown with brush on both sides above the high-water line on the banks, the opening under the bridge yawned at the boys like a deep, black maw. Nothing could be seen in the darkness under the span except the smaller circle of light on the other side. It was as if illumination stopped on one side of the bridge and began again only after having passed beyond its boundaries.

The boys knew the darkness was a lair. Something waited in the gloom under the bridge. Something evil.

Bad Luck tensed and began to growl, his hackles coming up. Patrick reached down and grabbed his collar as he was about to charge under the bridge. ‘No!’ he shouted as the dog pulled him along, and Bad Luck stopped, though he whined to be let loose.

‘We better get back,’ said Sean. ‘It’ll be dinner soon.’

‘Yeah, dinner,’ agreed Patrick, finding it difficult to drag his eyes from the blackness under the bridge. Step by step they backed away, Bad Luck reluctantly obeying Patrick’s command to come with them, whining with his tail between his legs, then barking.

‘Hey!’ came a shout from behind, and both boys jumped at the sound, their chests constricting with fright. Patrick hung on to Bad Luck’s collar and the Labrador snarled and spun around to protect the boys, pulling Patrick off balance.

Patrick stumbled forward and Sean fell upon the dog’s neck, helping to hold him back from attacking the man who had come up behind them.

The man held out his hands to show he meant no harm. Bad Luck struggled to be free. ‘Stop it,’ shouted Sean and the dog backed away, growling at the stranger.

Both boys looked the man over. He was young, though not recognized as such by the boys, for anyone over the age of eighteen was a grown-up.

The stranger examined the two boys. Both had curly brown hair protruding from under baseball caps, deep-set large blue eyes, and round faces. Had they been girls, they would have been considered pretty. When older, they would likely be counted handsome. The stranger smiled, and said, ‘Sorry to have scared you boys and your dog. It’s my own damn fault. I shouldn’t have shouted. I should’ve known the dog’d be jumpy.’ He spoke with a soft, musical voice, different from what the boys were used to hearing.

Seeing no immediate threat to the boys, Bad Luck stopped his growling and reserved judgement on this stranger. The boys exchanged glances.

‘Look, I’m sorry I startled you guys, okay?’

The boys nodded as one. Patrick said, ‘What did you mean about Bad Luck being jumpy, mister?’

The man laughed, and the boys relaxed. ‘Bad Luck, huh?’

Hearing his name, the dog gave a tentative wag of his tail. The man slowly reached out and let the Labrador sniff his hand, then patted him on the head. After a moment the tail wagging became emphatic. ‘Going to be friends, right, boy?’ said the man. Leaning forward, with hands on knees, he said, ‘Who are you guys? I didn’t know there were any big leaguers around here.’

Sean grinned at the reference to their caps and equipment. ‘We just moved here from California. We live on a farm.’

‘Philip Hastings your father?’ Both brothers nodded. ‘I heard he’d be moving in at the Old Kessler Place. I didn’t know he was here already. Well, I guess I’d better introduce myself. I’m Jack Cole.’ He held out his hand, not in the manner of a grown-up making fun of kids but as if they were just like anyone else he’d met. The boys said their names in turn, shook hands, and silently judged Jack Cole an acceptable human being, even if he was old.

‘What’d you mean about Bad Luck being jumpy?’ Patrick repeated.

‘There’s this bull racoon that’s been hanging around this part of the woods for the last month, and likely as not that’s what your dog smelled under the bridge. If so, it’s a good thing he didn’t get loose. That ’coon has torn up most of the cats and half the dogs in the area.’

The boys looked unconvinced. Jack Cole laughed. ‘Look, take my word for it. This isn’t some little critter from a cartoon show. This ’coon is almost as big as your hound and he’s old, tough, and mean. And this is his turf, clear?’

The boys exchanged glances and nodded. Jack faced back up the gully. ‘This isn’t a good place to play, anyway. We get some pretty sudden showers in the hills near the lake, and if we get a big one, this gully could flood pretty fast. I mean, it can hit you without warning. I’d stay clear of this creek in future, okay?’ They nodded. ‘Come on, I’ll walk back to your house with you. Must be close to your dinnertime. Besides, I’d like to meet your dad.’

The boys tugged at Bad Luck’s collar and began to hike back up the gully. As they rounded the corner, Sean cast a backward look towards the bridge and for an instant felt as if he was being watched by someone … or something … deep within the gloom beneath the rocky arch.

Gloria regarded the grotesque carvings cut into the roof lintel over the front porch and shook her head in dismay. She gazed at the odd-looking creatures who squatted below the eaves of the roof and muttered, ‘Just what every girl dreams of, living in Notre Dame.’ Upon first seeing the house, she had inquired into her husband’s mental health, only partially joking. It was all the good things he saw, sturdy turn-of-the-century construction, hardwoods used throughout and every joint dovetailed and pegged, with nails only an afterthought. It was made of materials a modern builder could only dream of: ash, oak, and spruce now rock-hard with age, marble and slate, teak floors, and copper wires and pipes throughout. But Phil couldn’t see that it was also a living exercise in gracelessness, a testimony to Herman Kessler’s father’s knowing what he liked without the benefit of taste. The first Kessler had built an architectural hodgepodge. A gazebo, stripped from some antebellum plantation and shipped north to this gentleman’s farm, sat off to the left of the house, under the sightless gaze of Gothic windows. Regency furniture clashed headlong with Colonial, while a stuffed tiger’s head hung upon the wall of what was going to be Phil’s study, looking balefully down upon the ugliest Persian rug Gloria had ever seen. All in all, Gloria decided it would be a good year’s work fixing up Old Man Kessler’s place.