‘Must have been rough.’
‘I guess. I never knew it any different. Dad had to put in pretty rugged hours at the studio and travel on location and the rest, so he left me with my grandmother. Anyway, she raised me until I was about twelve, then I went to private school in Arizona. My father wanted me to come live with him when he married Gloria, but my grandmother wouldn’t allow it. I don’t know, but I think he tried to get me back and she threatened him.’ She fixed Jack with a narrow gaze. ‘The Larkers are an old family with old money, I mean, serious old money. Like Learjets and international corporations. And lawyers, maybe dozens all on retainer, and political clout, lots of it. I think Grandma Larker owned a couple of judges in Phoenix. Anyway, she could blow away any court action Dad could bring, even if he had some money by most people’s standards. So I stayed with her. Grandma was a little to the right of Attila the Hun, you know? Nig-grows, bleeding hearts, and “Communist outside agitators”? She thought Reagan was a liberal, Goldwater soft on communism, and the Birchers a terrific bunch of guys and gals. So even if she considered Mom a Commie flake, Grandma didn’t want me living with “that writer”, as she called Dad. She blamed Dad for Mom becoming a Commie flake, I guess. Anyway, Grandma Larker died two years ago, and I went to live with Dad. I lived with the family my last year in high school and my first year at UCLA. That’s it.’
Jack nodded, and Gabbie was surprised at what appeared to be genuine concern in his expression. She felt troubled by that, somehow, as if she was under inspection. She felt suddenly self-conscious at what she was certain was babbling. Urging her horse forward, she said, ‘What about you?’
Jack caught up with the walking horse and said, ‘Not much. Old North Carolina family. A many-greats-grandfather who chose raising horses instead of tobacco. Unfortunately, he bred slow racehorses, so all his neighbours got rich while he barely avoided bankruptcy. My family never had a lot of money, but we’ve got loads of genteel history’ – he laughed – ‘and slow horses. We’re big on tradition. No brothers or sisters. My father does research – physics – and teaches at UNC, which is why I went there as an undergraduate. My mother’s an old-fashioned housewife. My upbringing was pretty normal, I’m afraid.’
Gabbie sighed. ‘That sounds wonderful.’ Then, with a lightening tone, she said, ‘Come on, let’s put on some speed.’ She made to kick My Dandelion.
Before she could, Jack shouted, ‘No!’
The tone of his voice caused Gabbie to jump, and she swung around to face him, colour rising in her cheeks. She felt caught between embarrassment and anger. She didn’t like his tone.
‘Sorry to yell,’ he said, ‘but there’s a nasty bit of a turn in the trail ahead and a deadfall, then you hit the bridge, and that’s tricky. Like I said, this isn’t a riding trail,’
‘Sorry.’ Gabbie turned forward, lapsing into silence. Something awkward had come between them and neither seemed sure of how to repair the damage.
Finally Jack said, ‘Look, I’m really sorry.’
Petulantly Gabbie responded, ‘I said I was sorry.’
With a fierce expression, Jack raised his voice slightly. ‘Well, I’m sorrier than you are.’
Gabbie made a face and shouted, ‘Ya! Well, I’m sorrier than you’ll ever be!’
They both continued the mock argument for a moment, then rode past the deadfall and discovered the bridge. Gabbie’s horse shied and attempted to turn around. ‘Hey!’ She put her leg to My Dandelion as the mare attempted to jig sideways. As the horse began to toss her head, Gabbie took firm rein and said, ‘Stop that!’ The horse obeyed. Looking at Jack, Gabbie said ‘What?’
‘That’s the Troll Bridge.’
She groaned at the pun. ‘That’s retarded.’
‘Well, that’s what the kids call it. I don’t think there’s a troll waiting under it for billy goats, but for some reason the horses don’t like to cross.’ To demonstrate the point, he had to use a firm rein and some vigorous kicks to get John Adams across the bridge. Gabbie followed suit and found My Dandelion reluctant to step upon the ancient stones until Gabbie put her heels hard into her horse’s sides. But as soon as the mare was halfway across, she nearly bolted forward, as if anxious to be off.
‘That’s pretty weird.’
Jack nodded. ‘I don’t know. Horses can be pretty funny. Maybe they smell something. Anyway, these woods are supposed to be haunted –’
‘Haunted!’ interrupted Gabbie, with a note of derision.
‘I didn’t say I believed, but some pretty strange things have gone on around here.’
She rode on, saying, ‘Like what?’
‘Lights in the woods, you know? Like fox fire, but there’s no marsh nearby. Maybe St Elmo’s fire. Anyway, some folks say they’ve heard music deep in the woods, and there’s a story about some kids disappearing.’
‘Kidnapping?’
‘No one knows. It happened almost a hundred years ago. Seems some folks went out for a Fourth of July picnic one time, and a couple of kids got lost in the woods.
‘Sounds like a movie I once saw.’
Jack grinned. ‘Yes, it was the same sort of thing. These woods can get you pretty turned around, and it was a heck of a lot rougher back then. No highway a mile to the west, just wagon roads. Pittsville was about a tenth the size it is today. No developments, or malls, only a few spread-out farms and a lot of woods. Anyway, they searched a long time and came up with nothing. No bodies, nothing. Some think the Indians killed them.’
‘Indians?’
‘There was a reservation nearby. A small bank of Cattaraugus, Alleganies, or some such. They shut it down a long time ago. But anyway, a bunch of farmers marched over there and were ready to start shooting. The Indians said it was spirits got the kids. And the funny thing was the farmers just turned round and went home. There’s been a lot of other stuff like that over the years. These woods have a fair reputation for odd goings-on.’
‘For a southern boy you know a lot about these woods.’
‘Aggie,’ he said with an affectionate smile. ‘She’s something of an expert. It’s sort of a hobby with her. You’ll see what I mean when you meet her. You’re going next Sunday, aren’t you?’
She smiled at his barely hidden interest. ‘I guess.’
They cleared a thick stand of trees, then suddenly found themselves facing a large bald hillock. It rose to a height of twenty-five feet, dominating the clearing. Not a single plant save grasses grew on it, no tree or bush.
‘A faerie mound!’ said Gabbie with obvious delight.
‘Erlkönighügel.’
‘What?’
‘Erlkönighügel. Erl King Hill, literally. Hill of the Elf King, in German; it’s what Old Man Kessler’s father called it. Erl King Hill is what the farm is officially called in the title deeds, though everyone hereabouts calls it the Old Kessler Place.’
‘Far out. Is there a story?’
Moving his horse in a lazy circle about the hill, Jack said, ‘Usually is about such things. But I don’t know any. Just that the locals have called this place the Fairy Woods since Pittsville was founded in 1820. I guess that’s where Old Man Kessler’s father got the notion when he showed up eighty-odd years ago. They’ve got faerie myths in Germany. Anyway, “Der Erlkönig” is a poem by Goethe. It’s pretty scary stuff.’
They left the hill behind and moved down a slight grade towards