Faerie Tale. Raymond E. Feist

in the afternoon, local time. The boys loved the idea of being able to point the dish at different satellites and get signals from all over the world, but most especially the superstation baseball broadcasts from Atlanta, New York and Chicago. Sean grabbed his pole from where it leaned against the wall and happily said, ‘Padres are ahead by four.’

      Patrick shook his head in disgust. ‘Sandberg booted one. Two unearned runs in the first!’ He had maintained his allegiance to the Angels, but had decided to be a Cubs fan in the National League. Sean was taking double delight that his favourite team was on the verge of sweeping a three-game series with the Cubbies to the consternation of his brother.

      Phil opened the front door and was confronted by Hemingway, who had chosen the middle of the doorway to lie. The cat opened his eyes and regarded three of the people whom he tolerated in his house. Phil looked down and, when it was apparent the old torn wasn’t about to move, stepped over him.

      As Sean closed the door behind his brother, he said, ‘Wish us luck, Ernie. Maybe we’ll catch you a fish.’

      The cat’s expression showed a less than optimistic attitude towards that outcome.

      Gloria heard them leave and smiled to herself. She put the manuscript down on the bed beside her and thought about the chapter she had just finished. Phil’s work was good, but the narrative wandered about at this point of the story. She knew that Phil would catch it and tighten it up when he rewrote. But she also knew he’d expect her to point it out to him.

      When she heard the car start up, she picked up the phone beside the bed and dialled. It was answered on the second ring. ‘Aggie?’ The voice at the other end answered. ‘Tell Jack and Gabbie now.’

      She hung up, a secret, conspiratorial smile on her face. Jumping up from the bed, she padded across the floor on bare feet and headed down the stairs. Reaching the landing, she glanced into the den and stepped back. Gary Thieus was in the fireplace.

      Mark Blackman stood with his back to the door, looking over Gary’s shoulder while the younger man investigated something in the rear wall. Gloria entered and said, ‘I don’t think you’ll find a lot of books in there, guys.’

      Mark turned, seemingly unsurprised by her entrance. ‘Look here.’ He pointed, but she saw only an empty shelf.

      ‘The depth of the bookcase next to the fireplace doesn’t match all the others. There’s some unaccounted-for space behind the shelves.’

      From inside the fireplace, Gary said, ‘Got something.’

      Gary came out of the fireplace and passed a key over. ‘A lot of these old houses have little hidey-holes, like behind bricks in fireplaces or under false floorboards, and secret basements. Sometimes two or three different ones in the same house. There’s a little hollow on the side of the hearth, covered by a false stone.’

      She took the key, noticing it was covered in soot, and said, ‘What is it?’

      Mark said, ‘I don’t know. Have you a door that you can’t unlock?’

      Gloria said, ‘No, unless there’s something in the basement I’ve missed. I haven’t spent a lot of time down there.’ She absently tapped her cheek with the key, leaving a small smudge. ‘Mark, just what are you after?’

      Blackman said, ‘I’m not sure. If I were, I’d know better how to go about finding it.’ He pointed at Gloria’s cheek and the key.

      ‘That doesn’t make a lot of sense,’ she said, wiping away the spot of soot.

      Mark moved round to lean back against Phil’s desk while Gary sat on a stack of books. ‘Gloria, have you read any of my books?’

      ‘No,’ she said without embarrassment.

      ‘That’s not surprising. Most of them are still in print, but they tend to be in libraries or in the shelves of some pretty strange little stores – you know, next to the books by people who’ve been to Venus in flying saucers or know where Atlantis is. Most of my work is devoted to finding the underlying truth in myth and legend, especially in the area of the occult and in magic. If there’s a real story behind a myth, I want to find out about it. I wrote a long work devoted to the idea that the mystic visions of peyote rites were actually deep racial memories induced by the hallucinogens in peyote. My theory is that the Native American cultures in the Southwest had a different psychological set from European ones, which let those “primitive” people reach places in their genetic memory, places most “civilized” people don’t know exist within their heads.’

      Gloria said, ‘Sounds pretty Jungian to me.’

      Mark smiled and Gary grinned. ‘It’s very Jungian,’ said Gary.

      ‘But what’s that got to do with your digging around in my fireplace?’

      ‘Look, I don’t like to talk about my work before I show it to my editor. Only Gary knows what we’re doing, but you do deserve an explanation. But believe me when I say we’re up to nothing nefarious. It’s just I didn’t want to talk about my current work.’ He paused. ‘Remember at Aggie’s, I told you I was after information about Fredrick Kessler?’ She indicated she did. ‘He’s one of a few men I’ve been able to track who were involved, somehow, in some pretty strange occurrences that I’m interested in.’

      ‘Like what?’

      Mark said, ‘Like a lot of things I’m still trying to figure out. But what I know so far is that just after the turn of the century in what is now southern Germany – Bavaria, and parts of Württemberg – there was a sudden return to more primitive attitudes, as if the peasantry were going back to the beliefs of their ancestors of centuries earlier, superficially Christian, but only a Christian patina over a deep, abiding pagan belief system. And doing it in droves. Tales of magic and sorcery ran rampant.’

      Gloria said, ‘Great. Now you’re telling me Old Man Kessler’s father hung out with pagan priests?’

      ‘No,’ corrected Mark. ‘I’m telling you Old Man Kessler’s father was a mystery man, known beyond what his status as a minor merchant entitled him, at a time when all hell was breaking loose in southern Germany among the peasantry. There were a full half-dozen references to Fredrick Kessler and some other people whom he was known to associate with. But the maddening thing is … I’m looking at a black box. Something’s in there, I just don’t know what.’ He crossed his arms and obvious frustration showed on his face. ‘Something odd, and pretty mysterious, happened eighty, eighty-five years ago in southern Germany, and it was very important, but just exactly what it was is not yet clear. And Fredrick Kessler was involved. I wanted to talk to the son, but he was already in Europe when I got here, last year. I tried getting permission from his lawyer to poke around, but he wouldn’t allow it. So I snuck out here and checked out the grounds. I didn’t break into the house. But the lawyer got wind of it somehow and threatened to call the sheriff if I set foot on the property again. So I spent some time doing whatever research I could in the local newspaper morgue and the area libraries and even interviewed people who knew the elder Kessler – though there were only a few of them. When Herman died I was down in Washington, checking old banking records. By the time I got back, you and Phil had made an offer on the house.