The Mysteries (21 page)

“To find my way back.”

“Why?” Her story made no sense to me. The bare bones of something inexplicable that had happened to her as a child and haunted her all her life. Well, I could understand about that, but why did she think she could go back? Why did she want to?

Later, when I read about historical people's visits to the Otherworld, I found them full of the details that her story had lacked: palaces of silver and gold, trees hung with fruit and flowers, the commonplace countryside transformed into an elaborate pleasure garden full of people feasting and dancing. All those lame, clichéd, hopeless attempts to express the inexpressible, to describe the land of the heart's desire—and yet, really, they made no more, or less, sense than Fred's obsessive yearning for a place she'd never seen.

“Why?” I asked again.

She shut her eyes and shook her head impatiently. “If you don't understand, I can't explain. If I said I'd fallen in love, would you ask
why
?”

“I wouldn't ask why you'd fallen in love, but I would point out that you'd be crazy to marry a serial wife-beater.”

She scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“Why do people have to be rescued from Fairyland? Does anyone who goes there want to stay?”

“Yes. Lots. You only hear about the ones who
want
to come back; the ones who are kidnapped, not the ones who go willingly.”

“You mean, the people who disappear and are never heard from again are happy? That's wishful thinking.”

“It's not. Anyway, sometimes they do come back, then wish they hadn't. What about Elidurus? Even as an old man, and a priest, he used to weep when he thought about the magical country he'd used to visit but could never find again. What about Gitto Bach, Johnny Williamson, Anne Jeffries, the boy of Leith—there's plenty of evidence that people have been able to come and go as they pleased. Sometimes people were ‘rescued' when they didn't want to be—dragged back into our world by well-meaning friends—and after that, they were never happy; they pined away and died. They wanted to go and they were happy to stay.”

“Amy may have gone willingly, but now she's desperate to come back.”

Fred shrugged. “Well, it doesn't suit everyone. Like I said—”

“What makes you so sure it would suit you?”

“I just am.”

“And if you're wrong?”

She shook her head, took a breath. “I'm not coming back. There's nothing left for me here.”

I felt a chill. However she dressed it up, she was talking about suicide.

“You can't know—”

She stopped me. “I'm an adult, all right? It might not be your choice, but it's mine. I know what I'm doing. I know what I want.”

“Amy probably thought the same thing.”

“Amy didn't think,” she said sharply. “She got seduced. And then she started to miss shopping, and watching TV and eating chips and driving a car and doing the same dull things every day, and every tedious thing about the modern world that I wouldn't miss at all.”

“Why did you run away the first time, then? You had a chance and you didn't take it. You were scared to go into the tunnel. Don't you think maybe there was a reason for that?”

“I was too young. I didn't know then what I know now.”

“How long have you been trying?”

“I came to Aberfoyle in June. I didn't think it would be so hard. I never dreamed it would take so long.” She fell silent, looking down at her empty teacup. “Halloween's my last chance. If it doesn't happen then, it never will. I'll know they don't want me.”

I was uncomfortably aware of the depths of misery beneath her stillness. I knew I had to help her because there was no one else.

“Will you help me?” I asked.

She gave me a wary look.

“From what you say, I'm only going to have one chance of rescuing Amy. So I have to get it right. You're the expert on the subject—you can help me.”

“Do just what she told you. Grab hold of her, and hold on tight, and don't let go until it's morning—when the first cock crows, or when you see the first rays of the sun, whatever. And as soon as morning comes, cover her with your coat. You'd probably do that instinctively anyway—she'll probably be naked.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I know you probably think I'm a useless wimp, but I think I can manage to hang on to a naked woman—all night, if necessary.”

So that was how Fred became my project. I was determined to save her.

My excuse for spending so much time with her was that I needed help that only she could give. We had long discussions about the folklore of fairies, and she gave me books to read: Kirk's, of course, and Evans-Wentz;
British Fairy Origins
by Lewis Spence, and Katharine Briggs's wonderful
An Encyclopedia of Fairies
. I still couldn't take it seriously as she did—to me, it was myth and delusion—but, like someone wanting to get involved in a role-playing game, or becoming an expert in the trivia of
The Lord of the Rings,
I absorbed all she could teach me. Maybe it softened me up and made me more open to belief, opening cracks in my surface rationalism—I don't know.

Although she didn't complain about it, Fred wasn't just living on a budget, she was surviving on next to nothing. What had seemed like plenty to live on at the end of June had all but vanished by the end of August, and although the couple who were renting her the caravan (what I would have called a trailer) had been willing to give her a discounted rate for October, they still insisted on having the money up front. I'm not saying that without me she would have starved to death, but I made sure she had two good meals a day.

To make my charity easier to stomach, I pretended this was an all-expenses-paid job and carefully collected every receipt.

Fred was not someone I would have chosen to spend a lot of time with under other circumstances. I wasn't attracted to her, and she was too odd and prickly for an enjoyable friendship. Yet I felt responsible for her. I was possibly the only person in the world who knew she was in trouble; like it or not, that meant I had to save her.

I only wished I knew how.

I was curious about what had made her give up on this world and pin all her hopes on Fairyland, but she wouldn't explain. Occasionally something personal would slip out—like the fact that she had two brothers—but if I pursued it, asking their names, for example, she clammed up.

“I don't want to talk about myself. I've left the past behind. It's over. Don't ask me again.”

One evening, over dinner in what she referred to as “the posh restaurant,” I asked Fred to go to Edinburgh with me the next day.

Alarm flared in her eyes. “What for?”

“To look for Amy. Thought I might put some flyers up, maybe visit the American consulate to see if they've got any suggestions.”

“But why do you need me along?”

“I don't need you; I just thought you might like the chance to get away, do something different. You wouldn't have to go around with me all day—you could go to a movie, or a gallery, or see the sights . . .” I shrugged. “Actually, I want to see the sights myself. Maybe we should stay overnight.”

She shook her head, gazing at me tenderly. “Oh, Ian. You're very sweet. And kind. And I do like you. But—”

“I didn't mean it like that,” I said quickly. “You can have your own room. I'm on expenses, remember?”

“You're very sweet,” she said again. “But I'm not going to change my mind. It doesn't matter how slowly you take it . . . it's not you; it's me. I just don't want a relationship with anyone.”

“Neither do I.”

She smiled, obviously disbelieving. “Yeah? Why do you spend so much time with me, then?”

“Because I need your help to find Amy. And you
have
been very helpful; without you—”

“Oh, give it a rest, Ian! You think it's all nonsense. You saw her with your own eyes, and still you're going to check the homeless shelters in Edinburgh?”

I shrugged. “I'm going to be on Doon Hill on Halloween, don't worry. But until then, well, I'm not putting all my eggs in one basket.”

“Eggs being faith and baskets belief systems?”

“Something like that.”

In the end, Fred did go with me to Edinburgh. We spent two nights, in separate rooms, in a modestly priced guest house, ate Indian and Chinese meals, and visited the castle together. On my own, I visited a homeless shelter, the American consulate, and the university campus, talked to lots of people, and took out an ad in
The Big Issue.
All this meant I had something to report back to Mrs. Schneider, something to disguise the fact that I was still no closer to finding her daughter.

A week later, again accompanied by Fred, I did similar things in Glasgow.

As the weeks passed, we fell into certain routines, to all appearances a regular couple, although we weren't intimate, and I still knew very little about her.

And then it was Halloween.

The day was cold, but blessedly dry. I piled on my warmest clothes—I'd need layers if I was going to give Amy my coat—then went out for a daylight reconnoiter of Doon Hill.

At the summit, a familiar figure waited for me, standing in the center of the grove of trees decked with strips of cloth.

“I don't suppose we'll have it to ourselves tonight,” she said gloomily.

“Kids?” I guessed. “All dressed up like ghosts and fairies?”

She shrugged. “Wiccans. Witches. Pagans of all sorts. Come to pay their respects to the Reverend.” She finished with a bow toward the big pine tree in which, according to one legend, the spirit of the Rev. Robert Kirk was lodged. “Better if it was a rainy night.”

“Speak for yourself! I'd rather not spend the night out in the rain.” I looked around. “I'm going to have a wander. Meet at the café for lunch?”

We went our separate ways. I made my way to what I thought was the spot where I'd encountered Amy, or her apparition, more than a month earlier, but I couldn't be certain. At some point, probably while I was away in Edinburgh, the bender and its contents had been removed—whether by the police, the local council, or scavenging kids, I had no idea. Maybe it had even been Amy herself.

I couldn't find anything suspicious, and after making notes of a few landmarks and familiarizing myself with the area, I admitted there was nothing more I could do and walked back down to the village. I was early for my meeting with Fred, but so was she.

“Just tea,” she said. “I'm not hungry.”

“You should eat,” I said, knowing she wouldn't have had breakfast.

But she shook her head. “Maybe later.”

At least she drank her tea with enough sugar to power an entire classroom of five-year-olds. I ordered a bacon roll and a cup of coffee.

“What time shall we go up the hill?” I asked. The clocks had gone back a few days earlier, and I hadn't adjusted yet to just how early night was falling.

Fred didn't answer, concentrating on stirring her tea.

“What's the matter?”

“I have to go by myself,” she said. “It won't work if you're there. I have to be on my own.”

“That's real likely, if the tree decorators are out in force tonight.”

“I can't help it if they come.”

“You can't help if I come, either,” I said, annoyed. “You know I have to be there, for Amy.”

“Fine. I'll go on the other side of the hill, well away from the path.”

I couldn't think of anything to say to that. She sipped her tea, eyes down. As the silence went on, I felt unaccountably sad, as if we were a couple breaking up. “Any last-minute advice?” I asked, trying to sound normal. “Maybe we should have a pop quiz.”

“You know what to do,” she said quietly. “Even if you don't believe, just do it.”

“And if she doesn't come?”

Fred shrugged and finished her tea. Then she got up.

“Hey, don't go!”

She heard the alarm in my voice.

“It's too early,” I added, trying to cover.

She shook her head and put her jacket on. “We might as well say good-bye now.”

“Not yet—can't we talk?” I knew at that moment, with absolute certainty, that I had not saved her and that I could not. I had missed my opportunity if, indeed, I'd ever had it.

“No,” she said. “It's too late, Ian. I won't see you on the hill. Let's say good-bye now.” As she spoke, she came around the table, leaned over, and kissed me, for the first and last time. It was only a fleeting touch, but firmly on the lips. Before I could respond, she'd pulled back and was winding the dark green scarf, which I'd bought for her in Glasgow, around her neck. “Good luck,” she added, with a brief, wavering smile; and then she was gone.

I didn't go after her.

I lingered over another cup of coffee and a sweet roll, then wandered around Aberfoyle, killing time until, a little after four, it seemed near enough to twilight to venture up Doon Hill once more.

I'd told Mrs. MacDonald that I'd be away for the night, possibly for a few days—she was used to my comings and goings by now. I'd packed a small bag and locked it in the trunk of the rental car, which I left in the public car park in Aberfoyle.

Before it was fully dark, I was settled in the woods on my newly purchased “car rug,” with a flask of hot coffee close at hand. Despite Fred's predictions, I saw no sign of any other visitors to the hill; no wiccans or pagans, not even any guisers. Mrs. MacDonald had told me that “trick-or-treating” was not a local custom; rather, Scottish children went “guising”—dressed up in costume and carrying lanterns made from hollowed-out turnips.

Occasionally, as the night grew deeper, I caught sight of flashes of light here and there in the woods. From farther down the hill there were shouts, cries, laughter, and the barking of dogs. I heard rustling in the undergrowth around me, but no one came near. The moon rose slowly, majestically, three-quarters full and shining brightly in the clear sky. Gradually the sounds of people and dogs grew more distant and infrequent.

By eleven-thirty I had finished the entire flask of coffee and relieved myself more than once. To stave off worried thoughts and pass the time, I recited every poem I had ever learned at school, as well as a number of scatological limericks and various advertising jingles before getting into old television theme songs. Occasionally I got up and stomped my feet to make sure I could still feel them, or ran in place, or marched about flapping my arms. It began to get very cold. I couldn't decide whether hypothermia or boredom would do me in first.