Wind Raker - Book IV of The Order of the Air (10 page)

"She sure can," Mitch said, since that was the only part of the entire speech he could answer.

"And that Joey Patterson. He ain't been right since Alice died. She just took the heart out of him and left him with the bottle, and that's poor comfort for a man with three children. He was bad enough before that, but I haven't seen him sober since the funeral. It would do Alice good to know that you're looking out for them." She nodded toward the box with the dresser set, the picture in its silver frame. "That's Alice there. And Jimmy, I reckon. Back when there was money for studio photographs, before the Depression."

"I reckon it is," Mitch said. He didn't trust his voice to say more.

"I know they'll get along fine with you," she said. "And would you ask your wife if I can buy two of her cakes? We've got a world of company coming this weekend for Homecoming at the church, and I sure could use some help with the baking."

"I will," he said. "What kind do you want?"

"I reckon those chocolate ones with the buttercream icing," she said. "If she can do that in this heat."

"I expect she can," Mitch said. "I'll tell her you want them. When? Saturday?"

"Saturday would be perfect," she said, and watched him lift the last box in. "You take care."

He went around to the cab and got in, backed the old Ford out and drove away. He trundled carefully through town, through two stop lights and up the long road that led into the hills, the peaks against the sky, lower slopes whispering with aspen trees, round the dirt road corners and switchbacks.

All the windows were open at the house, curtains blowing in house and garage alike, the Torpedo parked on the lawn. He pulled the pickup in beside it and lifted the box of clothes out, bending over carefully with the familiar aching pull of muscles in his abdomen. Then he got the box of toys out.

Douglas and Merilee came running, Jimmy following more slowly and suspiciously. Alma stuck her head out the front door to see what the commotion was and raised a hand in greeting.

"Bear!" Merilee squealed, making a dive for the box and grabbing the battered bear with both arms. "Bear, Bear, Bear!"

"There's your bear," Mitch said. "And your doll and your duck and some other things."

"My trains!" Douglas grabbed an engine and some track. "Jim, it's our trains! Our trains!" He waved one over his head, his round face pink and hot from running, then plunged into the box. "It's all here. Here's the Santa Fe and Western caboose!"

Merilee took off across the yard with her bear like she was afraid somebody would grab it while Douglas danced around.

Jimmy stood quietly, then reached in the pickup for the third box, the powder box lying on its side beside the brush, the silver picture frame. He pulled himself up, thin sharp shoulders under a plaid work shirt, his mouth working. He reached out and picked up the frame, one finger touching her face, and he closed his eyes for a second. Then he opened them and swallowed hard, squaring his shoulders. "Mr. Sorley, you didn't have to."

"Yes, I did," Mitch said.

J
erry smoothed the heavy folds of his linen robe carefully, taking pleasure in the severe lines and the general solemnity. His Lodge rarely made time for the formalities — rarely had time, if truth were told, snatching moments when everyone was home and awake, even when they weren’t cobbling together some last ditch plan to stop something dreadful from happening. He grinned, not sorry to be free of that as well, able to approach the evening in a contemplative frame of mind. Of course, he understood well enough that it was intent and precision that mattered more than the form of the ritual, but there were no escaping the beauty of ritual done with thought and care. Well done, it was a pleasure like no other.

He glanced at his image one last time, and opened the door of the spare bedroom that was being used for a changing room. The Patton children were elsewhere for the evening, and the house was full of people he didn’t know, or had met only in passing. To his surprise, the first person he saw was Dr. Buck.

“Dr. Ballard,” Buck said, his strong features emphasized by the white linen. “Good to see you here.”

“And you, sir,” Jerry said. He knew he had looked surprised, and hoped that didn’t offend.

“Both sides of my heritage,” Buck said gently, as though he’d said it often. “I am both. It’s no more startling that I should participate in this ritual than in any other.”

Jerry nodded, though of course respectable academics weren’t supposed to participate in any rituals more demanding than a bloodless Congregationalist Sunday service or the rounds of a country club dance. “I see that.”

Buck smiled. “I thought you would, Hellenist as you are. Syncretism isn’t just something that happened long ago.” He glanced toward the dining room doors. “It’s a rather more eclectic bunch than common, I believe. But that is the danger with these military people. They come and they go, and their hearth is where they sit today. They need gods other than the gods of place.”

The military was not alone in that, Jerry thought, following Buck into the dining room. He himself had planned just such a wandering life, and might still be coming to that, late as it was. There were perhaps a dozen people there, all in white linen — even George, somewhat to Jerry’s surprise, had donned a robe and was obviously prepared to take part. He still wasn’t sure what to make of George, a strange mix of career officer, hard-drinking playboy, avid outdoorsman, and now Lodge member, and that was another reason he had been glad to take Bea’s suggestion about a cottage. He and Radke had it all to themselves at the moment, but there was room enough that they should have their privacy even after the others arrived.

The men had gathered on one side of the room, and he let himself be shifted through the usual introductions, naming his own Lodge and tradition and hearing the others’ listed in turn. “Eclectic” might be an understatement, he thought, smiling politely. Many of them were related to the Golden Dawn, as was his own
Aedificatorii Templi
, but they had branched and split and changed dramatically. Isis and Serapis, Urania, Brotherhood of the Golden Rose, the Moon Increscent: those were all names he knew, and discreet questions established that they had acquaintances in common. But then there were the others who came from other traditions, like Mr. Solway of the British Pacific Company, who called himself A Perfect Accepted Mason, and the McIntyres, who followed the teachings of the Ascended Masters. Mrs. Johnstone claimed Tibetan revelations, and Jerry was relieved to see that she clung close to Solway, hanging on his arm as devoutly as she hung on his every word.

He eased away, found himself next to George and a stocky, bespectacled man who’d been introduced as Major Jennison. George gave him a nod of acknowledgement.

“Maybe you’ve run into her, too, Ballard.”

“Who?” Jerry asked, hoping he didn’t look as blank as he felt.

“Her name’s Lily, Lucy, something like that. Nice looking woman, dark-haired, kind of exotic? Not all that young, but probably not forty.”

Jerry shook his head. “She doesn’t ring a bell.”

“You’d remember her if you’d met her,” George said.

“Like that, is it?” Jennison asked, with a grin.

“She’s striking,” George said. “And she’s in trouble.”

The expression on Jennison’s face suggested he was having trouble repressing the words
of course she is
… Jerry shook his head again. “Nothing, sorry.”

“She said she was Brotherhood of the Golden Rose,” George went on, looking at Jennison now. “I don’t suppose you know her?”

“I don’t think so.” Jennison’s voice trailed off, and he frowned. “Wait a minute. Maybe — you know there was a split about ten years ago? Before my time, but it seems to me I heard there was a woman involved, and I think her name was Lily. Marie would know.” He looked over his shoulder for his wife, but before he could wave her over, Bea had moved to the room’s center and was calling the group to order. She turned off the dining room lights, leaving only the pair of tall candles on the sideboard to help them find their places.

The form of the ritual was Celtic, to Jerry’s mind an odd and rather newfangled set of correspondences to use for Lodge work. He had gathered that this gathering had no regular Form, but a different writer for each occasion, with each of the roles within the circle assigned according to who would be there and only then to how they suited. As a newcomer of course he had no part, but he was not surprised to see that the ritual’s creator had also chosen to call the southern quarter. She was a pretty Irishwoman perhaps five years his senior, the candlelight striking auburn glints form her hair as she called Brigid, smith of all learning and skill.

It was no particular surprise either that their hostess called north, but there was something in the tilt of her chin as she lifted her face to the darkness outside the circle of candles that sent a chill down his spine. “Lady of Ravens, She who masters the Wild Hunt, who gathers in the souls of the fallen and the unborn, grant us your blessing here tonight.”

Her robe was plainly white, but for a moment he thought it was black, saw Beatrice’s face painted like a skull, chalk white with her eyes and lips limned in black. His memory supplied the goddess’s name, though it was not spoken aloud in this place: the Morrigan, the Storm Lady who is Death herself. This was but the tiniest fraction of that awesome power, but it made the hair stand up on the backs of his hands. He had stumbled into — or been led to, he would admit that here in the circle, and be grateful — a group that practiced an effective power. Jerry fitted himself into the rhythm with the ease of long practice, letting the energy flow through and over him, passing it on as he was bid, until it was released to the healing of the land at the full moon, a tide of gratitude and peace.

And after the ritual, it was utterly gone, properly grounded and set aside, and the group stood gossiping in the dining room, baked ham and salads on the buffet, while George poured drinks for everyone.

Jerry accepted a cocktail, nodding to Jennison and his wife, and George said, “Jennison! What was it you said about your wife knowing about this Lily woman?”

Marie Jennison gave him a polite smile, but there was the faintest hint of withdrawal in her manner. “What woman is this, Colonel?”

“A woman I met at the Coconut Club,” George said. “She said she was in a bit of trouble — more than a bit, in fact. And she said she was Brotherhood of the Golden Rose.”

“There was something about a woman named Lily or something like that,” Jennison said apologetically. “At least I thought there was? Back when the group split.”

“That was before our time,” Marie said. There was a faintly repressive note in her voice, just as there had been a deep restraint in her presence in the circle, and Jerry wondered why she was there at all. But the answer was obvious: she was there to be with her husband, though whether he insisted on it or not was an open question.

“But I know I heard something,” Jennison persisted. “Something about a curse…”

George’s head lifted at that, but Marie spoke first. “My understanding is that there was an unfortunate affair, and people took sides. It happens.”

“Well, yes.” Jennison looked faintly embarrassed, and Marie tucked her arm through his.

“If you’ll excuse us, Colonel, I promised Mr. Solway that Frank would have a word with him.”

George made some sort of agreeing noise, then shook himself and began to assemble another drink, frowning more deeply.

“That meant something,” Jerry said, and looked away, embarrassed. “Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

“She said she was cursed,” George said. “She was three-quarters drunk, I’ll admit, but — you could tell she knew what she was doing. And I called her on it, and she named her lodge, and she said she was cursed. That it had ruined a job she had been hired for, and that she brought nothing but ruin.”

Jerry blinked. It wasn’t impossible, but it was hardly common; on the other hand, a drunken woman who talked about curses in a Honolulu bar was more the stuff of pulp magazines and B movies. Before he could say anything, George’s eyes shifted, the disillusioned stare of a man who knew himself disbelieved, and he quickly filled another glass.

“Do me a favor, will you, Ballard? Take this to my wife.”

“Of course,” Jerry said, and turned carefully away.

Jerry made his way across the room, cane hooked over his arm, and smiled politely at Bea. The Irishwoman stood with her, luckily with a full drink already in her hand, and Jerry included her in his nod. “Your husband sent this over, Mrs. Patton.”

Bea’s smile deepened. “That was nice of him. Did you meet Margaret earlier?”

“I didn’t have the pleasure,” Jerry said. “Though I think someone pointed you out as the author of tonight’s piece?”

She smiled. “I was.”

“It was very well done,” Jerry said.

“I’m glad you think so,” Margaret said. She held out her hand, and Jerry took it. “It’s Dr. Ballard, isn’t it? Peter’s told me about your dig. I hope it’s going well.”

“Margaret is Peter’s wife,” Beatrice said. “Margaret Buck.”

Jerry hoped his surprise didn’t show on his face or in his handshake. “We’re very much in the preliminary stages. And of course it’s a tremendous long shot that we’d find anything.”

“So he said. But still — you may be lucky.” Margaret smiled. “Sometimes one is.”

“We can hope so,” Jerry said. Behind her Bea had a warning look on her face, and so he finished with more than his usual warmth. “I appreciate your good wishes.”

“I hope you’ll come to dinner some night,” Margaret said. “And Dr. Radke, of course, if you think he’d be willing.”

Jerry couldn’t help flinching a little at that — he knew perfectly well what she was worried about, and felt a little guilty for having stayed so determinedly off politics with Willi. “I’d be delighted,” he said, and felt like crossing his fingers like a child. “And I’m sure Dr. Radke would be, too.”

Both she and Bea gave him a look that suggested they had heard the evasion, but appreciated the effort. “We’ll have to find a suitable evening,” Margaret said.