Usher's Passing

- NEW -

The voice was as smooth as black velvet. It reached him in his sleep, probing delicately into his mind.

- come home -

He turned restlessly on his cot, entwined in the thin blanket.

- come home -

The Lodge oozed light that shimmered in gilded streaks on the lake's surface. The night was warm, scented with roses from the gardens. New was standing on the lakeshore, at the entrance to the bridge, and he watched the figures moving back and forth past the glowing windows. On the night breeze came a whisper of music - a full orchestra, playing, of all things, the kind of jumpy hoedown tune his pa had liked to listen to on the Asheville radio station.

- come home -

New cocked his head to one side. The music faded in and out. The Lodge was calling him. The beautiful, magical, fantastic Lodge wanted him, needed him. He blinked, trying to remember what his ma said about Usher's Lodge. Something bad, but now he couldn't remember exactly what it was, and the thought drifted off like the notes of music and the lights on the water.

Hooves clattered on stone. A coach led by four white horses was coming across the bridge. Its driver wore a long black coat and a top hat, and he flicked a whip over the horses to keep their pace crisp. When the coach drew closer to New, the driver smiled.

"Good evening," the man said. He wore white gloves, and there was a feather in the band of his hat. "You're expected, Master Newlan."

"I'm . . . expected . . . ?" He was asleep, he knew, in the cabin on Briartop Mountain. But everything looked so real; he touched the bridge's stone and felt its roughness beneath his lingers. The coachman was watching him like an old friend.

New realized he was still wearing what he'd gone to bed in: his long woolen underwear and one of his pa's flannel shirts.

The coachman said patiently, "The landlord expects you, Master Newlan. He wants to welcome you home personally."

New shook his head. "I . . . don't understand."

"Climb in," the coachman said. "We're celebrating your homecoming - at long last."

"But . . . the Lodge isn't my home. I . . . live on Briartop Mountain. In a cabin, with my ma. I'm the man of the house."

"We know all that. It isn't important." He motioned with the handle of his whip toward the Lodge. "That can be your new home, if you like. You don't have to live on the mountain anymore. The landlord wants you to be comfortable, and to have everything you desire."

"The . . . landlord? Who's that?"

"The landlord," he repeated. His smile never faltered. "Oh, you know who the landlord is, Master Newlan. Come on now, he's waiting. Won't you join us?" The coach's door clicked open. Within were red satin seats and padding.

New approached the coach and ran his fingers over the ebony-painted wood. A sheen of dew came off. I'm asleep! he thought. This is only a dream! He looked back at the dark mass of Briartop, then at the glowing Lodge.

"Would you like to drive?" the coachman asked. "Come on, then. I'll help you up. The horses are easily handled."

He hesitated. Something evil lived alone in the Lodge, his ma had said. Something all alone, waiting in the dark. He remembered the Mountain King, and the old man's warning to stay away from the Lodge. But the Lodge wasn't dark now, and this was a dream. He was asleep in his bed, and safe. The coachman stretched out his hand. "Let me help you up."

What was inside that massive house? New wondered. Wouldn't it be all right to enter it in his dream? Just to see what it looked like inside?

The orchestral music swelled and faded. "That's right," the coachman said, though New didn't remember speaking.

New slowly reached up and grasped the man's hand. The coachman smoothly pulled him up, slid over, and gave him the reins. "The landlord's going to be pleased, Master Newlan. You'll see."

"Giddap," New said, and flicked the reins. The horses trotted forward and maneuvered to turn the coach around. They started over the bridge, their hooves clopping on the stones. The coachman put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Before New, the bridge began to telescope outward, to lengthen so that the Lodge receded in the distance. They had a long way to travel, maybe a couple of miles or more, before they would reach the front door. But that was all right, New decided. This was a dream, and he was safe on Briartop Mountain. The coachman's hand was reassuring on his shoulder. The Lodge isn't evil, New thought. It's a beautiful palace, full of light and life. His mother had probably lied to him about the Lodge, and that crazy old man on top of the mountain didn't have a lick of sense in his head. How could the Lodge be evil? he asked himself. It's a beautiful, magical place, and if I want to, I can live there -

"Forever," the coachman said, and smiled.

The horses' hooves made a rhythmic, soothing cadence on the stones. The long, long bridge continued to telescope, and at the end of it was the brilliantly lighted Lodge, waiting for him, needing him.

"Faster," the coachman urged.

The horses picked up speed. New grinned, the wind whistling past his ears.

And as if from a great distance, he heard someone shout, No!

New blinked. A freezing chill had suddenly passed over him.

The coachman's whip snapped. "Faster," he said. "Faster!"

New was listening. Something was wrong; he was trembling, and something was wrong. The horses were going too fast, the coachman's hand was gripped hard into the meat of his shoulder, and then a voice ripped through his mind with a power so intense it seemed to strike him square in the forehead -

NO!

New was jolted hard, his head snapping backward. The horses reared, straining against their traces - and then they distorted, changed, whirled away like smoke. Beside him, the coachman fragmented into pieces like dark wasps that snapped around his head before they, too, vanished into threads of mist. The coach itself altered shape - and in the next instant New was sitting inside the pickup truck, with his hands on the wheel. The engine was running, and the lights were on. New, wearing only what he'd gone to bed in, was totally disoriented; when he looked over his shoulder he saw that he'd driven the truck about fifty yards from the house.

The Mountain King, his single eye like a blazing emerald, hobbled into the range of the lights. He thrust his cane forward like a sword, and though the old man's mouth didn't move, New could hear the voice in his mind: No! You won't go! I won't let you go down there!

The engine was racing. New realized his foot was still pressed to the accelerator, yet the truck wasn't moving. He took his foot off; the truck shivered violently, and the engine rattled dead.

"New?" It was his mother, calling from the house. Then, her voice panic-stricken: "New, come back!" She began running toward the truck, fighting against a blast of cold wind.

The Mountain King stood firm, his coat billowing. The veins were standing out in his thin neck, and his eye was fixed on New with fierce determination.

Oh, Lord, New thought, I would've kept on driving, right down the mountain to the Lodge. It wasn't a dream . . . wasn't a dream at all . . .

He opened the door and started to get out of the truck.

And a black, huge shape leaped into the light, attacking the Mountain King from his blind side.

New shouted, "Look out!" But he was too late. The old man sensed movement and tried to whirl around, but the black panther was on him, clawing into his shoulders and slamming him to the ground. The cane spun past New and landed in the dirt. Greediguts bit into the back of the Mountain King's neck, the monster's eyes shining like moons in the headlights.

New leaped out of the truck. The old man was screaming as Greediguts flayed the flesh off his back. Rubies of blood sprayed up into the air. New looked for a weapon - a stick, a rock, anything! - and saw the gnarled cane lying a few feet away. He picked it up, and as his hand closed around it, an electric tingle coursed up his forearm. He ran toward the panther. It released the Mountain King and started to rise on its hind legs, the rattles on its serpentine tail chirring a warning.

New feinted. Greediguts swiped at him, missed. New leaped to one side and struck Greediguts across the triangular skull with all his strength.

There was a crack! that made his eardrums pop, and blue flame burst from the tip of the walking stick. New was knocked flat. The stench of charred hide reached him. Greediguts was spinning in a circle, snapping and clawing at empty air. Where the cane had struck, the animal's skin was burned raw red.

The stick had scorched New's hands. Flickers of blue flame danced up and down its length. Before New could recover and strike at the panther again, Greediguts leaped into the foliage. New heard it crashing away - and then it was gone.

As Myra reached her son, New was bending over the Mountain King. The old man's back and shoulders were mangled, the flesh peeled away to the bone. Deep tooth marks scored the back of his neck, and were bleeding profusely. "God Almighty!" Myra cried out when she saw the wounds.

The old man moaned. Myra couldn't believe that anything so torn up could still be alive. "Ma," New said urgently, "we've got to help him! He'll die if we don't!"

"Nothin' we can do. He's finished. Listen to him, he cain't hardly breathe!" She was looking around, terrified of the panther's return, and backing away from the old man.

"There's a clinic in Foxton," New said. "The doctors can do somethin' for him!"

She shook her head. "He's through. Ain't nobody can live, tore up like that."

New rose to his full height. "Help me put him in the back of the truck."

"No! I ain't touchin' him!"

"Ma," he said firmly. He wanted her to stop moving away, before she broke and ran. "Stop." He'd said it so sharply he flinched at the sound of his own voice.

Myra obeyed. She stood motionlessly, her mouth half open, her eyes beginning to glaze over. She looked like a statue, only her brown hair moving, blowing around her shoulders.

"You're gonna help me put him in the back of the truck." New unhinged the tailgate and let it drop open. "Pick up his arms, and I'll get his legs."

Still she hesitated.

"Do it," he said, and again he heard - and felt - the icy force in his voice.

Myra lifted the Mountain King's upper body as New held his legs. He weighed about as much as a good-sized fireplace log. Together they got him in the back of the truck. Myra, who seemed to be lost in some kind of a trance, stared at the blood on her hands.

"We need some blankets for him, Ma. Would you get a couple from the house?"

She blinked, wiped her hands on her thighs, and shook her head. "No . . . blankets. Not gonna . . . get my good blankets all . . . bloody."

"Go get 'em," New told her. "Hurry!" His green eyes were fierce. Myra started to speak again - but the words froze in her throat. Blankets, she thought. Blankets got to get blankets. It suddenly seemed to her that fetching blankets from the cabin to cover the old man was the reason for her entire life. She could think of nothing but the blankets; nothing mattered in the world but bringing them from the house.

"Run," New told her.

She ran.

New rubbed a throbbing spot at his left temple, just above the ear. His entire body felt bruised and stretched. He had formed in his mind an image of his mother doing what he'd told her, just as he'd formed the glowing blue wall of stones that had protected him from Greediguts. She had obeyed his mental commands with just a quicksilver flicker of hesitation. This was a different element of the magic that had begun with the knife in the thorns, New realized. He had commanded her with his mind, and it had been easy - as easy as shouting boo! at a squirrel and knowing it would flee.

Whatever the magic was inside him - witchcraft, black or white - it was getting stronger.

The panther might've torn the old man's head off if he hadn't attacked with the stick. New thought. He held the stick up, examining it. There was the smell of brimstone about it. What kind of walking stick was it that looked like an old dead limb by the side of the road, but could spit fire?

Magic. There was magic in him, and in the Mountain King, too. There was magic of a different nature in Greediguts and the Pumpkin Man - and yes, in the Lodge as well. His dream had been so real; if it had been uninterrupted, might he have driven the pickup truck - like a black coach crossing a long bridge -  right down to the Lodge?

The Mountain King stirred. "New," he whispered hoarsely. He struggled to form words, his gashed face lying in a pool of blood. "Don't... let it win . . ." His voice trailed weakly off, and his single eye stared vacantly.

Myra was coming, running with three thin blankets in her arms.

The silken voice crept into his mind, from nowhere and everywhere, and it sounded stronger than ever before, more confident, more darkly eager:

- come home -

Something in the Lodge, he knew, was trying to command him - just as he had so easily made his mother go for the blankets.

- come home -

He took them from her and quickly spread them across the old man's body. Her task done, she was breaking free again; she stepped back dazedly, as New slipped the stick in beside the old man and slammed the tailgate shut.

"Get in the truck, Ma. I'll drive us down."

"He's . . . finished, New. Ain't no . . . reason to . . ."

"Get in the truck."

Wordlessly, she did as he told her. As New slid under the wheel, Myra stared fixedly ahead, her arms wrapped around herself for warmth. New started the engine and put the truck in gear.

- New -

The voice shimmered and echoed through his head. He didn't know how much longer he could withstand its seductive pull. But one thing he did know: he was uncovering within himself layers of power, each stronger than the one before. Now, lifting the knife seemed like child's play to him. He was finding out that he could do things he'd never dreamed of before - and he liked the feeling. He liked it very, very much.

As they drove down Briartop, New glanced at his mother and thought very hard of making her fold her hands in her lap, just to see if she would. Her arms twitched.

When he looked at her again, she'd done what he wanted.

Except that her hands were folded as if in prayer. Her face was a blank mask but for her eyes - glittering, sunken, and very scared.