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  So the deal was consummated, as they say in business circles. I accompanied Mr. Brean (against the advice of the barkeep Tom, who told me to throw “the damned lump” into the nearest lake and forget about it) to his office, which was really his home, an obviously expensive “cottage.” There, he gave me what cash he had on hand (fifty-seven pounds and change) and filled out an I.O.U. for the remainder. He scoffed repeatedly at Tom’s dire warning. “These people are obsessed with superstition,” he told me. Obsession again, I thought. He seemed obsessed with the word.

  * * *

  Which was the end of that. Mr. Brean walked me to the Gateford Inn. (I learned, later, that Gateford was the original name of the community.) There, I acquired a room—I seemed to be the only customer—had a meal in their dining room, empty as I dined, retired to my room, and fell asleep quite rapidly.

  To suffer with a dreadful nightmare. In which I attended a double funeral—for my mother and sister. The dreadful element was that the good (bad) Captain met me at the door, took me aside from the other guests, whoever they were (I didn’t know any of them), and informed me that it had been decided by the navy “front office” that they would pay only a “limited” amount for the service, and therefore … well, I’d see.

  I saw, all right. Both my mother and Veronica lay in stained, ragged cardboard boxes, both wearing torn, muddy nightgowns. Worse than that, neither had been made up in any way. Their hair was uncombed and tangled, and their faces looked as they had when they died—gray and twisted, some of their teeth showing behind black, retracted lips.

  I screamed at my father, “How the hell could you have it done this way?! Are you insane?!”

  Yes, that’s right. He smiled at me, that damned, cold, superior smile. “What do you know?” he asked.

  “This is monstrous!” I yelled. “Monstrous!”

  Still that maddening smile. “What do you know?” he asked again. (Which is when—sweating and shaking—I woke up in a tangle of sheet and blanket.) “God damn you!” I muttered as though it had really happened. I lay there until the shaking had stopped. And I knew, at that moment, that I would never go home. Home, I thought with murderous contempt. It wasn’t that anymore. I’d stay in Gatford. If I went back to Brooklyn, I’d kill him. No, I’d stay in Gatford.

  I didn’t know then that it was a mistake.

  Chapter Seven

  The cottage I rented resembled a Nazi war bunker. I was about to write “reminded me of a…” but that would be inaccurate, of course. In no way could it have reminded me of a military structure used in World War Two. You recall that I am writing this in 1982. I can therefore state, with impunity, that it looked like a Nazi cement (or was it concrete?) bunker. Not that it matters a damn. Stay with me. I’m eighty-two years old and have a tendency to ramble. I assure you that the weird stuff will be forthcoming—word of honor, Arthur Black, Esq.

  Back to the cottage I rented. It resembled—sorry, just kidding. It was located on the edge of town. Not too attractive, the grounds (limited) overgrown with weeds and huge fernlike bushes, one of which resembled (no, not a Nazi bunker) a rearing lizard. It even had a yellow eye, a bright flower.

  As to the rest of it. Not much to brag about. Very little, for that matter. Massive, lumpy granite walls, one recessed window, a shapeless doorway with an ill-hanging door, one story with a plank ceiling forming what I suppose you would call a second floor; it was called a “crogloft,” meant for hay. This was reached by a ladder and was dark and devoid of air. To be my bedroom, I realized, although it was not roomy enough for a bed, I’d sleep on a hay-stuffed pallet. I suppose I had little justification to complain, though, since the rent was a pound and a half per month. And at least the steeply pitched tile roof looked sound.

  * * *

  The steeply pitched, “sound” roof leaked like a sieve. I woke up in the middle of my first night in Comfort Cottage (named, I am convinced, by some sardonic humorist) near adrift on my pallet, my clothes ready for hanging on a line.

  In somewhat of a testy mood, I trudged—deliberately wearing still-soggy apparel—to the farm of my landlord. He expressed deep surprise at my appearance and patiently explaining manner. Remember, I was only eighteen but did not wish to establish my stay in Gatford as a teenage curmudgeon. His reaction, accordingly—I learned a mini-lesson from that—was cordial. He would dispatch a repairman that very day to assess needed repair to my roof. He stated that the cottage had been unrented since 1916 and he hadn’t seen to its maintenance since.

  That afternoon, the repairman arrived. And my adventure enlarged.

  “Afternoon,” he said, a wiry man in his—no way of knowing, could be forties, fifties, sixties, seventies, eighties, or more; he looked fit enough to manage any age. He extended his hand and gave me a grip that made me wince and remember Harold’s forceful handshake.

  “I’m Joe Lightfoot,” he told me.

  I’m sure I gaped. “Lightfoot?” I murmured.

  “That’s the name,” he said.

  I tried to speak but couldn’t. I swallowed with effort and regained my voice. At least enough of it to ask, “You’re Harold’s—relative?” I hesitated before finishing the question, not wanting to name a specific relation—uncle, brother, father.

  His answer, as they say, floored me. “Who?” was what he said.

  “Harold,” I mumbled. “Harold Lightfoot.” I could not believe that such a name was commonplace.

  But it was. I learned, from him, that Lightfoot was a commonplace family name in Gatford, had been for centuries. He had never heard of Harold—although he did know a Harry Lightfoot.

  He asked me who Harold Lightfoot was, and I told him. He said it was known that several young men from Gatford had enlisted in the British Army; at least one of whom he knew of had been killed. His mother still lived in Gatford. Somewhere in the woods. He’d never heard of Harold’s death.

  And that was that. (For the moment) the rest was tile roof and leakage. He retrieved the ladder from inside the cottage, leaned it against an outside wall, and scrambled up to the roof. There, he seemed to know exactly where the worst leak was (above my pallet) and repaired it with some dark concoction he’d brought with him in a pail; he had the “spreading tool” (I don’t know what else to call it) inserted beneath his belt like a leak-combating weapon. He also pulled the soggy pallet outside and placed it in the one—miraculous, I thought—patch of sunlight available. He’d replace the pallet the following day, he said; continue his repairs. He suggested that, for the night, I sleep on my army overcoat.

  Which I did. And although it rained again, I remained dry, slept well and dreamless (I was grateful for that) until early morning. Joe was already at work on the roof. I had brought, from the village, a loaf of rye bread, a thick wedge of cheddar cheese, and a bottle of milk. This I had for breakfast, offering some to Joe, who thanked me but said he’d “already supped” on oatmeal and coffee.

  I thought, since there was nothing for me to do, that I’d go for a walk through the countryside. As I started away from the cottage, Joe called down, “Stay on the path, young man!” I made nothing of the remark. I should have.

  The path leading into Gatford woods was distinct enough. In its early stages, it had flat granite rocks lining its direction. Only as it led into the woods did the stone lining discontinue. Still, the path was clearly visible. It seemed (only seemed, I told myself, not wishing to succumb to negative fancy) to become more quiet as I entered a thickening section of the woods—more trees, more bushes, more grass and flowers—a little farther in, the sound of the “babbling brook” commenced that way. As I neared the stream. Or the stream neared me. I later wondered.

  Why I made my mistake so soon, ascribe to carelessness—or, more likely, to paying no attention to Joe’s words. At any rate, I left the path and walked over a carpeting of leaves toward the luring sound of the stream. A minute (or less or more) in, I reached the bank of the stream and found there, as though waiting for me (avast with nega
tive fancies! I ordered myself), a fallen birch trunk on which I perched myself and gazed at the smoothly running water. It was a hypnotic sight. The water, in a shaft of sunlight, looked silvery. I remember sighing with pleasure at the sight. At that moment, I felt inspired, not angry as I’d been before; determined not to return to Brooklyn. This was so much more peaceful and comforting. All the new elements in my life seemed attractive now, so reassuring. Even Comfort Cottage was attractive in its own lumpy, shapeless, leaking fashion—no, it wouldn’t leak now with Joe repairing the roof. The rye bread was delicious, the yellow cheese, the creamy milk. All was pleasing.

  In this billow of appreciation, I picked up a small rounded stone and tossed it into the stream. It plopped delightfully.

  At which I thought (or thought I thought), Don’t do that, boy.

  Strange, I was sure I thought. Why did such a reaction occur to me? Boy? I’d never conceived of myself as boy. Why now? I picked up another stone.

  I said no, the thought immediately came to me. I started. Then, as though in reprisal, the foliage of the trees I sat beneath began to shake. And I recalled—as though I actually heard his voice again, Joe calling down from the roof, “Don’t leave the path, young man!”

  I pushed to my feet. The pain in my hip and leg—which had not been more than mildly annoying for months—suddenly flared, and I would have fallen had I not thrown down my right hand, jarring its palm on the birch trunk. I cried out, faire la move (grimacing in French) in pain; it felt as though I’d come in contact with an electric shock. Rearing up, as best I could—very clumsily, in fact—I lurched back toward the path. I thought.

  I couldn’t find it. The damn thing’s vanished! I reacted. Where the hell is it? I knew I hadn’t walked that far from it. A minute? Less! God damn it! I felt genuine fury at my inability to regain the path. No, God damn it, not inability! Something was playing a trick on me! A God damn, vicious trick! Why? What had I done to offend that “something”? Tossed a God damn stone into the God damn stream? I ran and ran.

  Sense took hold of me at that point. A voice inside my head that said, Calm down, you idiot. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. It was your own mind—enjoying that state of inner pleasure—that told you not to disrupt the perfection of the streamside loveliness by throwing a stone in the water. Then a follow-up thought on the same subject, a dumb reaction to the trembling foliage, an ungainly stand due to your still-healing wound causing a loss of balance and a palm-down fall on the birch trunk, the “electric shock” no more than a tender nerve’s response to the impact. A moronic, lurching run followed. Stupid, I told myself. Totally stupid.

  Looking around, I saw the path; waiting, I thought at first. No, not waiting. I scolded myself. Just there. I reached it and turned back toward my cottage. As I did, I saw another path I hadn’t noticed earlier. I stopped for a few moments to look at it. The path disappeared into tree-filled thickness. I suggest you don’t enter it, I said to myself. No need to suggest it, my mind replied. You’ve had enough for one day.

  Which is when I saw the feather. It was white—startlingly white—lying at the foot of the new path. I leaned over and picked it up. As I did, a wind began to blow through the overhead tree foliage. I shuddered, my skin erupting into gooseflesh. Instantly, I dropped the feather; I’d had barely a moment to look at its delicate beauty. Enough!—cried my mind. Reason was abolished. Primeval fear swept over me, and I ran again. Imagining—or not—that I heard a faint voice calling out to me from the woods inside the previously unnoticed path. No! (The thought was both enraged and terrified.) I ran until I saw my cottage in the distance. I slowed down then but walked rapidly until I reached it.

  “I wondered how soon you’d be back,” Joe said. He was still at work on the roof. It seemed a bit late to me, and it was. I hadn’t been gone that long, had I? I let the question lapse. After what I’d been through.

  “You left the path, didn’t you?” Joe said, telling me.

  I drew in a rasping breath. “How do you know?” I asked.

  “You’re flushed,” said Joe. “Your cheeks are red.”

  Damn, I thought. I hadn’t mulled it over, but I believe I didn’t intend to tell him what happened. But I did, the words spilling quickly.

  “Wait a second,” Joe told me. He came down the ladder and stood before me. Listening patiently to my semi-breathless account, then finally smiling. “I told you not to leave the path,” he said.

  “You think that … something really happened?” I could only call it “something”; it was the best I could manage.

  “Of course it did,” he said without hesitation.

  “What?” I think I demanded.

  “It was the wee folk,” he said. “You’re lucky they let you escape.”

  I gaped at him in wordless disbelief. “The wee folk?” I said.

  “Yes.” He nodded, still smiling. “The little people.”

  “Little people,” I said, completely dumbfounded now.

  “Yes, little people,” he repeated. “Those who live in Middle Earth.”

  Chapter Eight

  Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, was, if anything, a stark realist. Neither Veronica nor I—nor Mother, for that matter—were encouraged (say, rather, “permitted”) to express an opinion unless—and even then—we could “back it up” with factual information. This was the attitude I was raised with. Facts first, then opinions. Verify all statements. Especially those with any “outré” element. Father loved that word.

  You can deduce then with what incredulous doubt I stared at Joe. Inbred from birth, my cynicism reigned supreme. Oh, I was frightened enough by what happened to me when I was sitting by the stream and when I picked up that white feather. But those were nerve-affected incidents. Explaining them as Joe did? “Persiflage.” Another of Dad’s favorite words, however badly defined. “Poppycock.” Another favorite, perhaps more accurately used. Were Joe’s words poppycock? I thought they probably were.

  “You don’t believe me,” Joe said, as though reading my mind.

  “Well … Mr. Lightfoot,” I began, politely if dubiously.

  “Joe,” he corrected.

  “Joe,” I said. “You’re … well, you’re asking me—expecting me—” I added quickly, still in the thought (prejudice) realm of Captain You Know Who. “—to swallow [was that too harsh?]—to accept what you’re telling me.”

  “Why?” he asked. “It’s the truth.”

  “Wee folk?” I said—not too scornfully, I hope. “Little people?” I made a scoffing sound. “Why not invisible people?”

  “They’re that, too,” Joe answered. “You didn’t see them, did you?”

  He sounded so gullible to me. Not me; the Captain’s welldisciplined son. I could only speak his name. My tone was clear enough, though—disbelieving, almost pitying—that I could see him tensing, face and body.

  “Very well,” he said, his voice stiffened. “Believe what you will. But don’t go off the path again if you value your life.”

  The way he said it made me shiver. And realize, in an instant, that he only meant me well.

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. I meant it sincerely. “I didn’t mean to be insulting. It’s just—” I was on the verge of telling him about the Captain’s influence, then decided against it. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, even more sincerely this time. He was a good soul who meant no harm. Who was I to be so insulting to him? And I had been insulting, no doubt of that.

  The Joe I’d accepted him to be from our meeting—genial and helpful—returned with my apology. He smiled and I smiled back; I tried to make it genuine. “All right,” he said.

  I hoped I was not reverting to insult when I chuckled. “It is quite a lot for me to—buy, though.” Was “buy” the wrong word? I wondered.

  Not for Joe. He chuckled back at me. “Well, yes, it is,” he agreed. “I should have given it to you slower.”

  There it is, I thought. Nothing but goodwill toward me, that was Joe.

/>   “I was just relieved to see you back in one piece,” he said. I tried to maintain my feeling of camaraderie with him, but I must confess, those three words jarred me. In one piece?

  I said them aloud, trying to sound amused.

  “Well, just a joke,” he said. “Although—”

  My smile and positive feeling vanished as he let the last word hang. I couldn’t help it. “Although—!” I challenged.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I spoke out of turn.”

  Yes, you did, God damn it! My mind ranted. Fortunately, I didn’t vocalize the complaint. Instead, I said, “You shook me up a bit.”

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized now. “I was trying to warn you. I like you, Alex.”

  “I like you, too,” I managed to say, trying to recoup some semblance of amiability.

  Trying too hard, I said, “So tell me about—”

  “The faeries?” he asked. Testing me, I’m now sure.

  Oh, Christ! I acted most adversely. “Fairies?” (I spelled them wrong at the time.)

  “That’s one of their names,” he said.

  I could not prevent my tongue from forming the (yes, very insulting) words, “Tiny, little ladies in silk gowns, flitting about with their tiny, little wings?”

  He tensed again but then controlled it. “Some of them,” he said patiently.

  Oh, persiflage, poppycock, shit! I thought. “Come on, Joe,” I pleaded irritably. “Enough!”

  “You don’t believe me,” he said.

  “I don’t believe that,” I told him.

  “Any of it?” he asked.

  I had to let that sit for the moment. Finally, I answered, “I’m not sure.”

  “What part?” he said.

  I had to think that over, too. “I believe that … something happened out there,” I said. “As for the rest…”