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  The Land Beyond Summer is posted for entertainment purposes only and no part of it may be crossposted to any other datafile base, conference, news group, email list, or website without written permission of Pulpless.Comtm.

  Copyright © 1996 by Brad Linaweaver. All rights reserved.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CROSSED FINGERS

  Fay didn’t think Anne Jeffries would be coming back after the little girl ran screaming into the woods. Having recently celebrated her thirteenth birthday, Fay felt a lot more mature than nine year old Anne; but she hadn’t been patronizing about their friendship and regretted her departure. There weren’t many friends out here in the country, and after Anne told her story, even fewer people would care to visit the Gurney family.

  “Not again,” came the voice of her brother, Clive. He must have discovered the problem. Older brothers probably couldn’t help being a pest but lately he had shown a resourcefulness that was a pleasant surprise to her. Their shared problem was bringing them closer together.

  The latest example of why the Gurney house was becoming a place to avoid was making noise in the old nursery. Fay joined Clive in the doorway and stared at the yellow, peeling wallpaper, covered with fading pictures of white lambs and pink pigs. The pictures were moving. And the pigs were making squealing sounds.

  Anne must have wandered into the nursery just in time for the unscheduled performance. She hadn’t been around a week earlier for the driveway when it changed colors from white to green. And she missed the floating telephone. But the overactive wallpaper had done the trick. The whole summer had been like this.

  “What’s going on?” It was Dad’s voice booming down the hall. Fay caught her brother’s unhappy expression. Calming Mom and Dad down after the last one had been hard enough without having to go through it again so soon. Clive sagged under the weight of his anticipations, and seemed a lot older than his fifteen years. But when he was worried, he seemed more handsome to Fay, as though his face were meant for frowns with its square shape.

  Dad appeared in the mirror hanging in the hallway that led to the nursery. Fay saw him framed in that space, with her own reflection in the lower right corner of the glass. He was still a handsome man, although slightly balding and with a middle aged paunch. She was far more critical of her own appearance. She had long auburn hair, a freckled face and big glasses that she positively hated. Fay was convinced that she was the ugly duckling of the family and that she would never grow into even a fraction of her mother’s natural beauty. As Dad moved out of frame by walking down the hall, she felt guilty that she was sqaundering time on such idle reflections in the midst of the latest crisis. But she was getting awfully tired of these intrusions of the bizarre into her world … and they were coming more frequently.

  Dad was breathing heavily. His face was suddenly as red as Fay’s, but she was suffering from a slight sunburn. Dad hadn’t been taking any sun lately. He was just mad. This was not a good sign when he hadn’t seen the wallpaper yet. But Fay remembered that a number of bills and late notices had come in yesterday’s mail. Dad had been more upset than usual about the recession and dishonest business partners; and Mom had just been upset. Clive had started answering the phone to screen the calls for creditors but his skill at diverting these dunning calls merely provided Mom and Dad with another subject for argument. They weren’t comfortable with the example they were setting for their children.

  And yet there was nothing in their financial difficulties that thousands, millions, of other families didn’t also have to face. What made their burden so wearing was the added frustration of never knowing when the laws of nature would be thwarted, turned upside down, or just plain ignored for the sole purpose, it seemed, of giving them a hard time. Fay could take it. Clive could take it. But the way Dad stood in the doorway, trembling, his hands clenching and unclenching themselves into slowly turning fists, suggested that he might be reaching his limit.

  “It’s a song,” he croaked. “Listen.” The squealing pigs were indeed becoming rhythmic, and a low bawing sound was being added, no doubt the lamb accompaniment.

  “Old MacDonald Had a Farm!” announced Clive, a little too happy with himself under the circumstances and blissfully unaware of his father’s murderous expression.

  Adding to the instability of the situation, Mom suddenly appeared behind her husbnd. Fay was shocked to see how tired she looked. She’d been dragging for weeks now but her appearance had deteriorated dramatically since last night. “Honey,” she said, peering intently at the back of Dad’s neck, and there was no sweetness in her voice. “It’s not happening again … is it?”

  Fay wished she’d noticed the danger sign of Clive’s mouth opening sooner than she did, but she just didn’t. One of his worst faults from her point of view was his inability to recognize when he was on thin ice. “It’s just like Fay and I told you,” he told them, “we’re under attack by…”

  “Shut up!” said Dad in the coldest voice Clive had ever heard. He shut up. Then Dad went over to the nearest portion of crazily writhing wallpaper, extracted a pocketknife and peeled off a section. The maneuver was easily accomplished because of the age and brittleness of the paper. He held the piece between two fingers, lifted it to his ear and listened. Motion eerily swam across the fragment.

  Then Dad did something every bit as careless as if he’d been Clive. He passed the section of wallpaper to Mom. She held it as if it were some kind of insect that might bite her. No one said a word. ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm’ continued being screamed, grunted and bleated out from the wall, and from the palm of her hand, until she sobbed and threw the paper from her. “I’m going insane!” she screamed and ran from the room. Dad was right behind her, a helpless look on his face.

  “Why is Grandfather doing this to us?” asked Fay in a small voice.

  “He never did things like this when he was alive,” said Clive.

  “Yes,” agreed Fay. “He’s worse than ever.” ***

  They were talking about Grandfather Donald who had never approved of his daughter marrying someone who didn’t make a lot of money. For some curious reason, Mom’s father had never reconciled himself to the realities of the modern world, and the requirement of two incomes for a modest family to just squeak by. His theory was that savings could be put aside from any income, no matter how meager; and that children shouldn’t be used as an excuse for spending money. The irony was that he had helped inculcate in his daughter a whole set of middle class assumptions about appearance and hygiene and health, and then criticized her expenditures in this very area as wanton luxury.

  Mom talked a lot about having nothing more to do with her father, especially after Grandmother died … but Dad never believed her sincerity. Russell and Claire Gurney were having more financial problems every year. They felt they were in no position to antagonize the wealthiest individual on either side of the family. And Grandfather was never above using his money as a stick with which to coerce the pretense of filial affection.

  Mom and Dad had insisted on owning their own home. They’d seen too many of their friends who tried to rear children in apartments find more spacious accommodations in divorce court. They also believed it was good for children to grow up in the country. Their mistake was moving in a house on which Grandfather owned the mortgage. The old man had a knack for putting the best possible face on any deal. He promised them that rental prices would always be more of a problem than a commuter’s gasoline prices; and he assured them better than market terms on the grounds of “keeping the house in the family.” They fell for it. So Russell and Claire, with their newborn baby Clive, moved in.

  Adding to family togetherness was that the house was at one end of a large stretch of woods … and Grandfath
er had a summer cabin at the other end. This proved to be a most unfortunate proximity. The cabin was on Pine Lake and Clive and Fay liked to go swimming there. Most of the time Grandfather was in town but they never knew when he might show up, a consummation devoutly to be avoided.

  Dad’s parents had been dead a long time, so Fay and Clive had known only one set of Grandparents. There was much to like about Grandmother Joyce, but she could only offer them so much of her time as she was preoccupied with cancer, sliding in and out of remission as a flame hisses on and off, uncertain whether or not to burn. When she was feeling up to it, she was their idea of a perfect grandmother, spoiling them at every turn. But half the time, Grandfather would counter her kindnesses with petty nastiness he dredged up from the sour regions of the soul. It was if he kept a little bit of poison to sprinkle on every pleasure in the world.

  Then one day, exactly one year before the wallpaper sang, Grandfather summoned Fay and Clive to spend the weekend with him, alone, at his cabin. Mom didn’t want them to go. Dad said he was sure it would be all right, but Fay didn’t tell anyone what she had heard her father say on the phone. Apparently, Grandfather Donald was willing to offer financial aid to his son-in-law, but only if the kids spent extra time with him.

  As they took their favorite path through the woods, Clive became particularly exasperating. Fay was wearing a red shirt. Clive had a severe attack of wit. It was bad enough going to see Grandfather Donald without listening to references about “Little Red Riding Hood”! She had to tell Clive to stop it several times before he got the message.

  Grandfather was waiting for them on his wooden dock. In a way, they had been surprised to see how well he maintained it, the only dock on Pine Lake. He used it so rarely. But then everything he owned was viewed in terms of an investment. For them, he was simply providing a good diving platform.

  The first time Clive had seen a picture of Charles DeGaulle in a textbook, he’d thought he was seeing a picture of Grandfather who had physical traits in common with the French general and president — both were tall and gaunt, and had the same high cheekbones and distinctive nose. Grandfather was also balding, and this increased the similarity to the picture. Clive didn’t mind Mom being tall like Grandfather, or having his cheekbones, but he was grateful that there the similarity ended. Mother’s features were soft as her father’s were hard.

  Without saying a word, Grandfather pointed at the little wooden dinghy tied to the post. Clive exchanged glances with Fay, and he could tell she was no happier than he about getting into the boat. Having come this far, it seemed the only thing to do.

  Grandfather sat in the middle of the boat, facing them, and lifted the wooden oars. The only part of the boat that was metal were the two oarlocks and the wood scraped against them with a kathunk sound as he put the oars into the water. He rowed to the middle of the lake, leaning forward and then backward as he rowed — his posture rigidly straight — with a machine-like precision. Given his advanced years, there was hardly any change in his breathing. He’d kept himself in good shape.

  Clive tried smiling at him. He looked right at his grandson but his expression remained impassive. Finally, he stopped rowing and pulled the oars in. Still there was silence, except for the plop-plop-plop that came from the dripping oars. The boat slowly turned in the center of the round lake, as if the needle on a compass seeking true north.

  These were three very stubborn people. At times like this it was as if Fay and Clive could read each other’s thoughts. Grandfather had brought them here so he would have to make the next move. Patience was rewarded. “You’re not very polite,” he said at last.

  “Huh?” was Clive’s considered response. Fay elected to withhold comment.

  “You haven’t even said hello to me,” was what the old man said.

  Fay began to sputter her response, and at length calmed down sufficiently to say, “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I’ve always been a good icebreaker,” said Grandfather, “if I have a titanic reason.” Had he made a joke? If so, he showed no sign of recognition but instead berated his audience. “You’re not to blame for the way you were reared,” he said as though he were conferring a compliment.

  For some time now, Clive had noticed that Grandfather was incapable of seeing the good in anything. Clive had also noticed the family’s increasing load of debt and felt that he should do something about it if possible. But what could he do? His few odd jobs only added up to a nice gesture. There’s nothing worse than feeling equally helpless and responsible. Here on this lake, at this moment, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could bring Grandfather around to a more reasonable attitude.

  “This is so beautiful here,” said Clive. “You must find it very restful. Those are…” — he groped for the right word — “really nice trees.” He grinned again.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said their elder. “When I look at those trees, I see all the money I could make if only they were mine. Chop ‘em down, I say.”

  Clive let his smile fade. This was going nowhere fast. Fay made a little noise that sounded like urp! Grandfather got on with the serious business of harassment: “You don’t have many friends, do you children?” he asked, and there was nothing remotely friendly about the inquiry.

  Not wanting to hog all the conversation, Clive waited for Fay to take the lead. She hated to be called a child. But the sight of her was all he needed to realize that she was too angry to speak. But if looks could kill…. Grandfather hadn’t approved of a mutual friend of Clive and Fay’s, a Japanese boy named Kenny who had had a splendid turtle collection. Grandfather had visited one weekend when they were all together. Although he hadn’t said anything openly racist, the tenor of his remarks left no doubt that Kenny bothered him. There was one Pearl Harbor joke too many.

  “We do all right,” said Clive. “We’d probably have more friends if we didn’t live so far out.”

  Grandfather started whistling through his teeth. When he grew tired of torturing their ears, he said, “Excuses, excuses. The two of you spend too much time together for a brother and sister. Why, an unbiased observer might think you were friends. Well, I’ll have to make do with the material at hand.”

  No one spoke for several minutes. They just sat in the boat, staring at one another. Clive’s mouth was dry and he was having trouble swallowing. Fay wanted to cry but held it in. Finally, the old man got to the point: “I wanted you with me this weekend for a reason. My time on earth is drawing to a close. I see that you’re confused and so I’ll endeavor to explain.”

  “Are you sick?” asked Fay, finally breaking her silence. She didn’t feel any concern but tried to make herself sound as though she did.

  His answer was anything but expected: “No, I am in the prime of my strength. I am leaving this world for another, and in so doing, my body will remain behind.”

  Clive turned to Fay. Fay turned to Clive. Telepathy was not required for a clear reading of each other’s thoughts. Grandfather had obviously flipped his lid/wasn’t playing with a full deck/was one brick short of a load. All these years of being mean had finally caught up with him.

  He watched them carefully the whole time and was prepared. “You think I’m crazy,” he said. “I’d be concerned if you didn’t. I’d worry about my contributions to the gene pool if you were so credulous as to believe what I’ve said without proof.”

  “Oh, no, Grandad,” Clive began, making another attempt at diplomacy. “We believe…”

  “Shut up, Clive. Observe the example of your sister and say less. The next time you speak, I remind you to address me as Grandfather. Now, you both think I’m crazy and will continue to do so for some time yet as there will be no proof of my powers until after my death. I will be leaving you a special legacy. Your parents don’t deserve it. Come to think of it, neither do you … but you’re young and there’s still time for training.”

  Clive realized the wisdom of Grandfather’s having brought them to the c
enter of the lake. If he meant to rave, they might depart more easily on land. As it was, Fay was the better swimmer although Clive could make it to shore. The problem was that their demented forebear would simply row after them.

  “You shouldn’t talk about Mom and Dad that way,” said Fay, coldly. Clive was proud of her.

  Grandfather became worse: “My daughter hasn’t a brain in her head,” he insisted. “If she’d been a better daughter, I’d never have let her marry a loser like your father. She fell in love with him for the same reason you once believed the stories in Sunday School.”

  “That’s not fair,” said Clive, not exactly clear what Sunday School had to do with it, but sure that when Grandfather wasn’t being crazy, he was just intolerable.

  “Silence!” commanded Grandfather in a terrible voice. It was as if thunder had come out of the sky. “Children are to be seen and not heard!” More proof the old man had gone off the deep end … except that despite his protestations regarding special powers not to be revealed until after death, he could be auditioning for a magic act at this moment. Fay was tall for her age, taking after her mother, and Clive was well proportioned and a hair taller than his sister. Despite their age and sizes, neither resisted Grandfather’s command, who continued: “I’ll say when next you may speak, and not a word from either of you before then!”

  Clive felt something new, something cold. It was fear. Grandfather’s ice-blue eyes seemed to chill the air around his head even though it was a warm summer day. “Know this,” he said. “I am more than a businessman. I am more than a politician. The measly amounts of money and power I have accumulated in this pathetic life enabled me to prepare for what is to come. I have studied and I am ready. It is by magic that all means of influence are checked or grow. I have the opportunity of extending my life for centuries in this paltry world, and becoming the greatest wizard of our times. Yet I reject this possibility as beneath contempt. I will have a far greater prize.