Girl in Landscape (23 page)

“Efram was right, Clement. We should have been more careful.”

Clement squinted. “He’s hurt.”

“
It
,” said Doug Grant.

Clement looked at Doug Grant, puzzled.

“I caught it with your boy, Marsh,” said Doug Grant urgently. “Just like Efram said. Your boy and Martha Kincaid.”

“You
caught
it?” said Clement, dazedly. “I don’t understand.”

“My brother—” started Doug Grant.

“Efram Nugent is a good man,” said the Archbuilder quietly. Nobody paid attention.

“We need to do something,” said Joe Kincaid. “We need to talk.”

Clement shook his head. “Talk about what? We don’t seem to get very much done around here with talk.” He blinked again. “You’ve hurt this Archbuilder, Joe.”

“Mr. Marsh, listen—” said Wa.

“No, no,” said Clement. He shook his head again. “You should go home. I’ve learned about this place. Everything takes care of itself. The women—Julie Concorse and what’s her name?—I was wrong when I told Efram about their baby not taking the pills. They were right. There’s room here for everyone. We should leave one another alone. You’re making the same mistake, Joe. A mistake I for one am done making.” Pella could see his impatience to be back inside, tinkering with his kitchen inventions, tending to his potatoes. The men were invisible to him, she knew.

“Listen, Clement. The Archbuilder molested my girl.”

“What?” said Clement. “That’s ridiculous. No, no, you can’t be serious. Why would it want—”

“I talked to her.”

“We need authority, Mr. Marsh,” said Wa.

Clement stepped out of the doorway. Nudging Wa aside, he took Hiding Kneel’s hands in his, as if courting the Archbuilder. “This is very important,” he said. “Don’t let them do this to you. This is your place—”

Joe Kincaid pushed Clement away, back toward the door. At the same time Doug Grant yanked the Archbuilder’s arm again, pulling its hand free of Clement’s clasp.

“That’s enough,” said Joe. “This isn’t about what’s
being done to
Archbuilders
. If you can’t see that—I’ll tell you one thing: You’d better keep your kid away from Martha, Clement. You’d better talk to David.”

Clement stood holding his shoulder where Joe Kincaid had shoved him, his mouth open.

“I told you we should have gone to Efram,” said Doug Grant.

Pella rushed up onto the porch, and stepped between Joe Kincaid and her father. “Go, then,” she said to Doug and Joe. “Leave him alone.”

“Pella,” said Clement. His voice was empty.

“Go inside,” she said, and pushed Clement herself. He went in, and she closed the door. She turned and faced the men. Wa was already dragging Hiding Kneel away from the porch.

“Go to Efram, you jerks,” she said. “Leave Clement alone. He didn’t do anything. Neither did David.”

“What do you know, Pella Marsh?” said Doug Grant. He vibrated in his place on the porch, his voice trembling, his upper lip shiny with perspiration, but he didn’t move toward her.

“More than you.” She leaned against the door.

Joe Kincaid looked at Pella as though it were him instead of Hiding Kneel who’d been beaten and dragged in the dust. He motioned absently at Doug to follow Wa, to leave the house, without taking his numb eyes off Pella. She stared back.

“This is about Martha,” he said softly.

“I don’t care,” said Pella. “Go away.” She knew they’d take the Archbuilder, but she couldn’t help that.
They were taking Hiding Kneel with them no matter what she said.

Joe turned and the strange unhappy group formed again at the foot of the porch, the three men surrounding Hiding Kneel. They slouched off in the direction of Efram’s, Doug Grant the only one with any evident vitality. Doug was spring-loaded, imbalanced. He limped from sheer agitation, one leg moving faster than the other. Pella stood there with her back against the door, watching until they were out of sight.

Did she only imagine that she felt Clement’s presence on the other side of the door, listening? More likely he wouldn’t even seem to understand what Pella was talking about, if she later mentioned the visit to their house. She wouldn’t mention it. She wouldn’t bother. She gave the four another minute to get ahead, then started for Efram’s along a back path.

They stuffed Hiding Kneel into Efram’s ancient shed, and Doug Grant snapped shut the rusted padlock. Pella knelt behind an empty planter at Efram’s gate, watching from a distance. They hadn’t seen her. The sun was nearly below the horizon now, hidden in a band of clouds. The yard glowed everywhere with orange light, and as Pella peered around the edge of the planter the men and the shed were jerky black figures vibrating in the glow.

“Efram’s coming back,” Doug said agitatedly. “He’ll know what to do.”

“Let’s wait in the house,” said E. G. Wa.

“Can’t,” said Doug Grant. “I’m not allowed.”

“Crap, Doug,” said Wa.

“I can’t help it,” said Doug Grant. “That’s what Efram said.”

Joe Kincaid stood to one side. He looked like he might sink into the ground under the weight of his own despair, the pressure of his crimes, his failures.

His accomplices rattled on, oblivious.

“I’ve known Efram a hell of a lot longer than you, Doug,” said Wa. “I’ve
been
in his house.”

“Well,” said Doug Grant, slanting his jaw back and forth.

Joe Kincaid finally raised his hand to silence them. “I have to go,” he said. “My daughter—my family.”

Doug Grant slapped him on the shoulder. “You go. We’ll keep the Archbuilder. Don’t worry.”

Wa nodded. Joe Kincaid turned and started for the gate. Pella shrank deeper into the shadow of the planter, but she couldn’t hide. She was girl-sized, human. As Joe Kincaid opened the gate he saw her. Their eyes met for a moment, and he nodded, his expression dark, then went past without speaking.

It was as though he wanted Pella to be his own departed conscience.

Then he was gone. Pella looked around the side of the planter. Doug Grant and E. G. Wa had gone into Efram’s house, leaving the padlocked shed alone.

Pella worked her way around the back of Efram’s farm until she could climb the fence without being spotted. She wished she could flit into a deer body, and
creep through Efram’s compound unseen. Here at last was a purpose.

She might still be able, if she tried. She felt the gift was still with her, buried. But there wasn’t anywhere to hide and sleep. Not out in the open, so close to Efram’s, not with Doug Grant and Wa and soon Efram himself around. Anyway, she needed to be able to talk to Hiding Kneel, to find out what really happened.

The shed was shabby, made of scraps. Pella wondered if it could be brought down as easily as Hugh Merrow’s house. But that had taken fire. She put her hands and weight against it. It felt solid, planted. Possibly Efram’s farm was the place where human buildings grew into the ground, knitted together with the Planet, and became permanent. The shed door was open an inch, despite the lock. It was too dark inside for her to see. She knelt down by the corner of the door. She imagined she could smell the hurt Archbuilder, a sour smell.

“Hiding Kneel?” she whispered. The words were odd in her mouth. She’d never before called an Archbuilder by its name. She said the name again, a bit louder.

“Is that Pella Marsh?” said Hiding Kneel from inside, too loudly.

“Yes. Be quiet.”

“I’ve been abducted, Pella Marsh.”

“I saw.”

“Joe Kincaid is a good man.”

“Well, I guess. So what’s he got against you?”

“Very poor information,” said Kneel, sighing. For
the first time the Archbuilder’s voice seemed apprehensive.

“Information?” said Pella. Looking up, she saw two figures at Efram’s rear window. She drew herself around the corner of the shed, out of sight of the window.

“Morris Grant and myself,” said Kneel. “We shared a lesson in observation—”

“I don’t think they care what you were doing with Morris,” said Pella, frantic with impatience. “Joe and Doug were talking about Martha and my brother, something happened—”

“Doug Grant is a good man.”

“Not everyone is a good man, Hiding Kneel,” said Pella, exasperated. She had to understand what happened. Why was the Archbuilder talking about Morris Grant?

What was a
lesson in observation?

There was only silence from inside the shed. Pella imagined the Archbuilder lying in the dark bleeding—or oozing—to death, proclaiming the goodness of various men to the very last breath.

“Hiding Kneel—” she started, then stopped. She heard a crunching of heavy footsteps nearby, turned her head to see. The house was still. She looked back.

Efram was standing over her, hands on his hips.

“Miss Marsh,” he said.

She stared up at him, from a vantage so low that she might as well have been a household deer. She felt as voiceless.

“There’s a front door to my house,” he said. “You’re welcome to use it when you visit.”

“Doug said you weren’t here.”

“Well I am.”

“They’re in your house,” she said dumbly.

He reached down. Helplessly, she took his hand. His clasp was gentle for a moment, then he jerked her to her feet by her arm. She almost stumbled against him. To avoid it she staggered back against the shed door. He dragged her away from the shed.

“I don’t need you to tell me who’s in my house,” he said.

“What about Hiding Kneel?” she said, defiantly, finding her real voice, her face hot. “You know about that?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he pulled her past the house, toward the gate. His hand was dry and firm, and huge. In its grasp hers felt like something raw and newborn, all moist and soft. Pella broke into a skipping run to keep from being dragged. A pair of household deer scrambled out of their path. As fast as Efram walked, he seemed deeply unhurried, unafraid. Only a little distracted, as if reminded of some greater purpose, something mislaid.

He took her through the gate before letting go of her hand. Even then he strode on without turning to see that she was following. She did follow. The glow of the sky behind them reflected on far-off spires and hillsides. Elsewhere the valley was succumbing to the heavy, silent evening. Efram slowed enough that she could keep up with him without feeling hurried, childish. In a minutethey
were out of sight of his farm or any of the other homesteads, in an open, dishlike portion of the valley, like the one where she’d first seen him, coming over a hill. And there he stopped. The light around them was perfectly equal, casting no shadows, dimming steadily. She felt she couldn’t stand to be near him if it were dark. If it were night.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” said Efram. “Something about an Archbuilder?”

“The one in your shed,” said Pella. Her voice wavered. “You know about it.”

“That’s right,” said Efram. “I was already home when the four of you turned up.”

“I wasn’t with them.”

“My apologies,” he said, grinning. “Creeping along behind, I should have said.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Find out what happened.” He stood towering, his arms crossed, smirking at her.

“From Doug Grant?”

“If that’s who knows.” He made it sound as orderly as that, another piece of business in the world that only he knew how to carry off sensibly.

“He doesn’t know anything. He’s just trying to be like you.”

“Is that right. What about you? Who are you trying to be like?”

“Fuck you,” she said. The flush of blood went through her whole body now.

“Go home, Pella Marsh.” He raised his heavy arm
like a banner and gestured in the direction of Clement’s potato-filled house.

“I can go where I want.”

“Fair enough. So where do you want to go?”

She hated his confident, empty questions. She wanted to attack him, to butt her head against his stomach and push him into the dust. She wanted to feel her weight beat against him. Then, distantly, she thought again of Hiding Kneel. In the shed, in the dark. That was how she would end, she thought.

It had grown dark enough that Efram was a faceless shape in front of her now, a part of the horizon, a craggy ruin. She could no more bring him down with her to the ground than topple the ragged monoliths in the distance, or shake apart the shed that imprisoned the Archbuilder. She felt herself throb like a tiny nerve or spark, a thing that coursed harmlessly over the surface of the world.

Without speaking she turned and ran.

She’d never approached the Grants’ house except as a deer. It looked the same as the others, but to Pella, seeing it under the pall of her awareness of the family, it was a gothic castle, a house in a nightmare. She shook off her fear and went to the door.

It was a while before Laney Grant answered the knock. Her face was already red and furious when she opened the door. She looked down at Pella and turned to Snider Grant, who stood a few feet behind her.

“It’s the Marsh girl,” she said to her husband.

“Doug’s not here,” said Snider Grant angrily, without coming closer to the door.

“I know where Doug is,” she said. “I want to see Morris.”

“You ought to stay away from Doug,” said Snider Grant, ignoring her, mashing his words gracelessly in his mouth. “He’s bad trouble. He’ll get
you
in trouble.”

“Morris isn’t here either,” said Laney Grant. Her weary eyes flickered past Pella, into the dark valley, as if she feared Pella might be the advance scout for some ambush of the house.

“Neither of them stay here,” said Snider. “Neither of them, anymore. I don’t know where they go. Ask Efram Nugent.”

“You haven’t seen him?” said Pella.

“You heard him,” said Laney. “They don’t stay here.” Morris appeared to be a bare afterthought to Doug, impossible to consider singly.

“Go on,” grunted Snider Grant, turning away from the doorway. His wife nodded at Pella and closed the door.

Bruce Kincaid found her on the path back toward her house. He surprised her, coming out of the shadows. She felt her heart beating all the way to her fingertips, her toes, as she ran.

“What are you hiding for?” she said angrily.

“I snuck away,” he said. “I had to talk to you.”