Blackbriar Read online

  “Sorry I can’t come with you,” said Mr. Creech through the window, “but you can see how busy I am here at the garage. I don’t think you’ll have much trouble finding it. Just stay on this road, take the right fork, go about ten miles till you come to the Black Swan Inn. Right across the road you’ll see a little dirt lane going up the hill. When it ends, go through the gate you’ll see, across the field, through the next gate, and then into the forest. There’s a track through the trees you can follow. In a few miles you’ll be there.”

  At first they stalled frequently, until Philippa got used to the gears. The car wheezed, and the wind tore violently at the canvas, which billowed around them, penetrating into all the chinks so that it was no warmer than being outside. For the first few miles the road they were on seemed to be below the fields around it. On either side there was a high mound, covered with bushes, which they could not see over. Suddenly Philippa pulled over to the side of the road, up to a small gate.

  “This isn’t the Black Swan,” Danny said.

  “No, but I think it’s the farmhouse where Mrs. Creech told me she gets those divine eggs we had for breakfast.” They left Islington in the car and went through the gate, up a few stone steps, and found themselves in a small garden, full of green plants covered by cheesecloth. The plump old woman who answered the door babbled happily and sold them two dozen eggs and some milk. Danny walked around to the back and saw a beautiful little greenhouse. Behind the house was a large barn, from which came the brittle, demented cackling of hundreds of chickens cooped up together.

  Soon Philippa shouted for him and they returned to the car. Around a bend in the road a small forest sprang up. The trees stood above them, their exposed roots twisting and clutching down the mound of earth, almost to the road. Just as suddenly, the forest disappeared, the mound sank away, and they were driving down the center of a flat, almost tree-less valley, exposed to the wind and the hills towering around them. One hill loomed closer than the rest, its top covered with strange twisted bushes that seemed almost black. “Blackbriar,” Philippa said softly.

  The Black Swan was a large white house at one end of a small green. Across from it a dirt road wound steeply up the hillside. Philippa turned sharply, and Lil began to pull herself up the slope. Danny looked back and saw the road, the inn, and the cows grazing on the green grow smaller and smaller. Just before the view was hidden by trees he caught a glimpse of a gaunt, gray mansion halfway up the hill.

  The road became steeper and less distinct. When it reached the top it turned into a small grove of trees, and ended at a rusty gate. Beyond the gate was a rolling field, scattered with tiny round bumps. Danny hopped out and held the gate open, closing it after the car had gone through. When he climbed back in, his city shoes were covered with dripping mud.

  The canvas flapped even more as they started across the field. The car swerved and tilted each time they went over a bump. Islington groaned uncomfortably and dug into Danny’s legs with his claws. In the distance was another gate, which Philippa headed for as directly as she could. All around them, beyond the field, they could see only other hilltops. All at once Danny began to realize how isolated they were.

  Beyond the second gate was the forest. There was something of a track here, but it was more like a row of deep ruts winding among the trees. The car constantly seemed about to tip over, as Philippa twisted and turned the wheel, slipping with a bounce from one rut into another, trying to avoid thick roots and dead branches that hung across the path. Islington howled and clung to Danny with claws like needles. Crockery and milk bottles rattled, egg cartons and heavy canvas bags slid around in the back. Philippa sat very straight, her hands clutching the wheel, a cigarette clenched in her lips. Danny’s door kept swinging open, and he tried to hang on to the back of the seat, to the roof, but there was nothing he could really grab. The car slipped under a low branch which scraped heavily against the canvas. Looking over at Philippa, who was concentrating so intensely, Danny tried to keep from falling out of the car, to keep a hold on Islington without getting his eyes scratched out. He heard a milk bottle crash to the floor just as a canvas bag landed on a carton of eggs. He began to laugh. At first it was only a chuckle, but before he knew it he was out of control, rolling around in the seat, clutching his sides. Philippa was shocked for a second, and then began to laugh herself, which did not improve her driving.

  They lumbered through the dense forest in the little battered car, narrowly missing every tree in their way. The grunting of the motor and their hysterical laughter echoed through the deep silence. They did not stop laughing until, around a curve, they found themselves in a wide clearing. Their new home stood before them.

  BLACKBRIAR

  5

  Stark and gray, the old house rose from the ground as if it had grown there.

  The car came to a sudden stop and the motor died. Philippa and Danny stepped slowly out. The only sounds were a few lonely bird calls, and the wind.

  It was not a large house. The nubbly flint walls were two stories high, broken by only a few narrow windows. The pointed roof was of faded red tiles, covered by a yellowish lichen, and extended for a foot beyond the walls. There were tiles missing in places, and some of the bricks in the two chimneys were gone. It was desolate, it was lonely, it was almost forbidding. Yet it did not seem derelict. There was a feeling of life about the place, as if it had not been left for centuries to crumble and decay. Something, Danny felt, was waiting there; and suddenly he had the uncanny sensation that it was waiting for him.

  He tried to shake these thoughts away as they walked around the house. It was rectangular in shape. The long side facing over the hill, down through slender scattered trees to hills below, had a few windows. The other long side, with the doorway, faced into a dense pine woods and had no windows at all. Over the doorway was a lopsided arbor made of twisted tree branches, covered with twining brown vines. Philippa took a large key out of her handbag and fitted it into the rusty lock. Neither of them said a word.

  The key fit beautifully and the door swung open, squeaking. Cautiously they stepped inside, into a short, narrow passageway only about six feet long. They followed it to the right, into a large room. It was so dark inside that at first they could hardly see a thing. But as their eyes adjusted to the darkness, the room began to take shape around them. They could make out a great stone fireplace against the left wall, with a mantel made of a rough-hewn log. There was a spinning wheel in one corner, and a bookcase built into a wall. In front of the fireplace were two heavy, sagging chairs and a round wooden table. On the other side of the fireplace, behind a door, was a very steep, narrow, winding stairway. And next to this was another door, thick and heavy and ancient. Black iron hinges in strange curving shapes held it to the wall. Danny was fascinated. There seemed to be words carved into the door, but it was too dark to see what they were. Cobwebs, naturally, were everywhere.

  Philippa prodded one of the chairs. “Damp,” she said. “What this place needs is a good airing.” She stepped over to a window, rubbed some dust off the mottled pane with one finger, and pushed it open. Light poured into the room, showing them how dusty the windows were. When they were all opened Danny went back to the ancient door. The carvings were now perfectly clear. “Hey, look at this!” he called. “Come over here!”

  Philippa peered over Danny’s shoulder. Roughly but deeply carved into the door in an archaic, almost gothic, hand was a list of names. After each name was a date. “Look,” he said, reading the names with difficulty, “‘Euen Bradley—2 December 1665. Lemuel Greaves—5 December 1665. Patience Falk—20 December 1665. Adam Burnside—2 January 1666. Anne Ordway—5 January 1666 . . .’ It’s funny, the dates are all so close together, and they go chronologically. What could it mean? And at the bottom, there’s one name without a date at all. Mary Peachy. I wonder what it means?”

  Philippa turned away. “Let’s go look at the rest of the house,” she said. “We’ve got a lot to do today.”

>   Danny pulled at the iron handle on the door. It scraped slowly open. A gust of cold, moist air blew across his face. Crumbling stone steps led down into impenetrable darkness.

  “Come and look at the kitchen,” Philippa called. Her voice sounded hollow and distant. Danny pushed the door closed and hurried past the fireplace, through the little passageway and into the kitchen, which was to the left of the front door.

  It was a narrow room, but compact and well arranged. The wooden sink was just below the window. Against one wall was a low shelf, which could be used as a working surface, with other shelves below it. Filling the right side of the room was a big black coal stove. Philippa was crouching before it, her head in the oven. When she emerged there was a black smudge on her forehead. “It looks like it’s in working order,” she said. “I wonder if there’s any coal around?” She stood up. “How do you like the sink? I can look out on the hillside while I’m washing the dishes. Or you can.”

  Past the kitchen was a dining room with a dark red tile floor and a small fireplace. The only furniture was a large oval wooden table with four chairs around it. The chairs were ornately carved with figures of strange beasts, crouching and eating each other.

  Another winding stairway led up from this room. They followed it to a small whitewashed bedroom, which led to a larger bedroom, which in turn led to the largest bedroom of all, at the top of the stairway from the living room. The fireplace here was quite large, and there were windows on two walls. Philippa sank down on the lofty iron bed. “This mattress is damp,” she said. “It’s a good thing there’s sun today. We can drag all these things out and let them get dry.”

  She looked at Danny, who was leaning against the fireplace. “Well, what do you think?”

  “I like the door with all those names carved on it,” he said. “I wonder if it’s really as old as the dates say?”

  “But what about the house? Don’t you have any feelings about it at all?”

  Danny did feel a certain muted excitement, tinged with a pleasurable fear, about living in a place that was so strange and old. But, trying to sound bored, he said, “I suppose it’s all right. I just wonder what we’re going to do here all the time.”

  “Oh,” she said, tossing her head impatiently, “why do you have to be so damned . . . bloody-minded! Can’t you see what this place is? Why, it’s a perfectly unspoiled, natural, unique . . . country cottage! Places like this just don’t exist any more. It’s exactly what I’ve always dreamed of.” Her voice switched from anger to eagerness. “And I already have so many ideas about what we can do with it. This house is crying out for somebody to pull it back into shape. Why—”

  Downstairs there was a sudden, rapid scuffling. Philippa almost jumped from the bed. “What was that?”

  “Islington?” Danny suggested.

  “I made sure he was locked in the car.” She looked about nervously. Outside the window there were more trees than Danny had ever seen in his life. It was so cold in the room that he could see his breath.

  “Why were all those people so secretive . . . ?” Philippa asked softly. They watched each other for a moment, warily. Then, quickly, Philippa stood up, briskly brushing her tweed skirt. “It must have been a mouse,” she said. “We’ve got to let that poor cat out of the car. And we’re wasting precious time just sitting here. If we don’t get organized before dark, we’ll be in a real muddle.”

  They dragged down the mattresses from the biggest bedroom and the smallest one and set them out in the sun, along with the living room chairs. With Islington jumping at their heels they carried things in from the car. At first the cat would not enter the house, but waited at the doorway, swinging his tail about nervously and gazing inside. Finally, his nose twitching, he stuck in his head, testing the floor with one paw. When he entered, his back arched for a moment and the fur on his tail stiffened. His head swung back and forth rapidly. “Now why is he acting so strangely?” Philippa asked, pausing with a box of crockery in her arms.

  “Aren’t cats always cautious like that?” Danny grunted as he heaved a canvas bag full of blankets over to the stairs.

  Philippa watched him as he set it down. “Why don’t you take the flashlight and go see what’s behind that old door,” she said, “since it’s the only thing you like about the house.”

  “By myself?” he said quickly, without thinking.

  “Islington will go with you. I’ve got to put all these dishes away.”

  But when, with flashlight in hand, Danny pulled open the heavy door, the cold musty air touched Islington too. He spun away as if he had been hit, his back went up again, he growled and spat and dashed out of the house. Danny switched on the flashlight, and the first thing it brought to light was a pump, standing on the small landing where the stone steps turned. “Hey! A pump!” he shouted.

  “Super!” Philippa called from the kitchen. “That must mean there’s an underground well. The pump probably brings water up from it to the sink. What luxury!”

  He continued slowly down the steps. The air felt heavy and damp, and he could hear water dripping. He began to be afraid. Fear more intense than he had ever known seemed to seep into him with the moist air and the darkness. When he reached the last step he could barely make himself step down onto the stone floor. He flashed the light quickly over the walls, constantly turning to look behind. There were a few rusty bedsprings and crumbling pieces of furniture, some strange, blunt tools hanging on hooks, and in one corner a dusty black pile of coal.

  Upstairs, the cellar door slammed shut with a crash. Suddenly his heart was pounding furiously. As quickly as he could he stumbled up the stairs backwards, probing the darkness with the light. But when he reached the top the door would not open. He began to bang on it with his fist, turning around constantly to shine the light back down the stairs. “Hey!” he cried. “Get me out of here! Let me out!”

  He heard Philippa’s quick steps, then the sound of the latch. At last the door swung open. Her face was full of alarm. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” he said, trying to regain his composure. He glared at Islington, who was crouching between Philippa’s feet. “The door slammed by itself. I guess it must lock from the outside.”

  “But what’s down there?”

  “Oh, just a cellar. There’s a big pile of coal in it.”

  “How marvelous! Would you be a darling and bring some to me? I’d really like to get the stove started, it might be a big job. Oh, and after that, why don’t you try pumping for a bit. We’ve got to find out if that pump brings water up to the sink faucet; nothing comes out when I turn it on now. And I’m dying for a cup of tea.”

  Danny’s ingrained response to Philippa’s requests was stronger than his fear. He realized that she was going to ask him to go down there frequently, and decided that he might as well get used to it from the beginning. This time he dashed down the steps, scooped up the coal, and dashed back up in less than a minute. But fear hung in the basement like cobwebs, and even in that brief time it penetrated to his bones.

  On the landing he felt a bit more comfortable. Some light reached it from the living room, and he left the flashlight on while he pumped with his back to the wall. He was limp and panting after only thirty strokes. Just when his arms seemed about to fall off, he heard Philippa shriek, “Water! Water!” from the kitchen, and stopped pumping immediately. That will have to be enough to last until tomorrow, he told himself.

  While Philippa banged and poked at the coal stove, Danny dragged in the mattresses and chairs and made up the beds. When he came back down, the stove was humming and crackling and the kitchen was filling with warmth. The water took a while to boil, but soon they were standing with steaming mugs in their hands, taking brief sips of scalding tea.

  “Well, now that we’re a little bit organized I feel much better,” Philippa said. “But I really can’t rest until I get rid of some of this dust and cobwebs.”

  Danny was looking out the window. “Can’t we take a break
and go outside? I’d like to see what it’s like around here before it gets dark.”

  “You go, darling. Take a little walk. I really couldn’t enjoy it with the place in this condition, and you wouldn’t be much help dusting anyway. But don’t stay away too long. You’d never find your way back in the dark.”

  In the clearing there were a few thick trees. At the opposite end from the track on which they had come was another rusting gate. Danny paused there and turned back to look at the house. Under the vastness of the sky, which had become heavy and overcast, the house seemed small and defenseless. Yet there it belonged. It fit into the landscape like another tree, or part of the hillside. It was hard to believe it had been built at all, that it hadn’t always been there.

  From the gate a path led through a small thicket of pine trees. As he entered he heard a rustling in the underbrush, and what sounded like a strange, choked gasp. He spun around, but could see nothing unusual. It must be some kind of bird, he told himself. But he began walking faster.

  The path soon led out of the trees and ended at a wide, grassy track. On the right was a thick forest, and on the left scrub bushes and small twisted trees tumbled down the hillside. Danny realized that this track led right along the top of the long, narrow hill. As he walked he could see occasional pathways leading into the forest. On the other side he knew he should be able to see a view, but he couldn’t see over the tops of the few trees and the thick undergrowth. Yet the track was so wide that he felt free and exposed to the sky. The wind made a sound like the sea in the treetops. It almost seemed to be alive.

  He reached a place where the track turned, and on the left seemed to hang over the edge of the ridge. Far below him he saw the Black Swan, and the road they had come on looked like a thin silver band. Rolling fields faded away into a thick mist, and the farthest things he could see were a few vague pinpoints of light. The wind hovered around him, and the noise of the trees, and distant sounds that he could not identify.