REMNANTS OF DARKNESS, by Eldrice
Reader Review Response:No, Bran and Jane don't remember anything. They probably won't either. But this is not to say that they won't be told some things, or figure them out on their own. . .
Standard Disclaimers Apply. Susan Cooper owns everything. I am merely left with the meager dregs of my own imagination . . .
Chapter Four: An Unexpected Visit
"The penalty for laughing in a courtroom is six months in jail – if it weren't for this penalty, the jury would never hear the evidence."
- The late, great Bob Hope
Despite the previous night's late hours, Peter woke early the next morning. There was a horrible feeling of nausea in his stomach; it was the churning that had jerked him so precipitately out of sleep. He groaned and clapped his arms across his belly, trying to settle the roaring with deep, calming breaths. After a few minutes the pain started to recede, and he relaxed from his cramped position and began to breathe normally. Shaking his head the clear the dizziness, he swung his feet over and placed them tentatively on the floor. He stood up slowly. One step. Two steps. And then his face turned green, and the world spun, and he sprinted to the bathroom in the hall, bent his head over the toilet, and vomited.
He was staring grimly at his pale face in the mirror, trying to remember something of the nightmares he had had the night before, when he heard a low moan drifting down the hall.
"Annie," he whispered.
When he entered his sister's room, her small body was tensed on her bed, her tiny hands grasping sheets that she had pulled up tightly to her chin. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and she didn't see him enter.
"Annie?" he asked, sitting gingerly on her bed. Another small whimper escaped her. "Are you ok?"
She opened blurry blue eyes and stared at him vaguely. "Oh Peter," she whispered. "I do feel awful."
"Are you nauseous?" He lifted a strand of hair gently from her forehead and frowned at her in concern.
A silent, feeble nod.
"I was too."
"What is it?"
"I don't know, but throwing up made me feel better."
Annie's already peaked face went zombie white.
"Don't worry," Peter said hurriedly. "It's probably just something we ate."
"I want Mummy, Peter."
So Peter got up and made his way gently downstairs, still careful of his own guts. The giant clock in the hall chimed eight o'clock. His mother was usually up by now and in the kitchen, listening to NPR and fixing herself some coffee. His dad would be seated at the table, sketching some new design on a scrap of paper or checking accounts and cursing in annoyance, nodding absently while his journalist wife exclaimed over the day's news.
"Da? Mum?" Peter called out.
But there was no one in the kitchen, although the neglected teakettle whistled shrilly on the stove.
Frowning, Peter walked over and turned down the flame. It was strange for his parents to be so careless. But as the whistling died down, another noise rose to take its place: the low, muted sound of voices coming from the front yard. That was odd. Who would stop by so early on a Saturday morning?
Despite the nausea that still roared at him from a distance, he was ravenously hungry and reached into a cupboard to snag a fruit bar. He ripped the foil open and tore off a bite, walking out of the kitchen towards the front yard in search of the voices. He was just about to round the hallway corner into the living room when a photograph on the wall caught his eye, and he stopped in mid-stride to look at it closer.
He had never really studied the picture before, although it was one of those things his parents proudly displayed to friends who asked to be shown through the house. It was just that it had always been there, something that need never be questioned or analyzed, because it simply existed the same way that one's stuffier great-aunt's existed: revered and ever-present, but hardly meriting enthusiasm. Bt now, after last night's overheard conversation, Peter felt a rising curiosity about stories the picture might have to tell.
Five children were standing with their arms around each other, smiling politely and self-consciously for the unseen photographer. They were on a seaside dock, with the Welsh sun glistening on the water behind them. Sailors and fishermen walked in the background, and sailboats bobbed in the water along the wharf.
Peter studied one of the faces smiling out at him from the frame. Jane Drew at thirteen had been a very pretty girl, with long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and a wide, toothy grin. She was standing besides a tall boy in whose reserved features Peter could just make out his Uncle Simon. And there was no mistaking the white-blonde kid smiling enthusiastically in the front as anyone other than his Uncle Barney.
It was easy to tell who his father was. Even with the picture's faded color, the pure white hair shone like a beacon, and he knew well the proud grin that flashed from beneath a pair of black sunglasses. That must be Will beside him, almost out of the frame completely, his wary eyes staring at the camera with suspicion. He was stockier than Peter's father, who was slender and straight, and his defensive posture reminded Peter somewhat of a distrustful guard dog. But the gaze – polite, unwavering, analytical – was identical to that which he had leveled at Stan Winslow & Co. the previous day.
Peter suddenly remembered that the invisible photographer had been John Rowlands' wife, and that the picture had been taken just days before she died from a sudden stroke. John Rowlands had been wont to gaze at it wistfully, missing her. He had told Peter once that they were lucky to have it at all and were indebted to his – was it Branwen? Brenda? – for its very existence. Apparently, she had had to wheedle, beg, and coax a reluctant Will Stanton to appear in it at all. John Rowlands would chuckle over the memory, amused that Will Stanton, who could be described as a reserved boy, but never a shy one, had turned out to have such an irrational fear of cameras. But they had it now, and it was the sole existing commemoration of the only summer that Bran Davies, Will Stanton, and all the Drew children had been together at the same time.
A particularly loud shout from the front yard jolted Peter from his reverie. What was going on? It almost sounded like an argument, and that loud voice had surely been his father's. He swiftly gathered his jacket from the closet and ran to the front door, flinging it open and stepping out into the winter morning.
His jaw dropped.
A limousine was parked nonchalantly in front of their house, glistening in the sun like a giant black insect. One of its doors hung open and a briefcase lay abandoned in the snow. But then a loud voice cut through the winter morning and ripped Peter's eyes away from the incredible car parked in their modest little street.
"I'm giving you an OPTION here, Mr. Stanton, Mr. Davies. A chance for settlement. It's up to you whether you take it or not, but I would highly suggest you consider it."
Peter's eye swiftly appraised the group of four people standing at odds in the driveway. Three of them were his parents and Will, and the fourth was a stranger, a tall (but not thin), elderly man who was gesticulating furiously. It was he who had shouted. He had one palm spread out before him, and was jabbing at it with his finger in emphasis. Bran Davies was standing a little ways before the stranger, and Jane and Will were a step behind him, flanking him on either side. His father had one leg flung forward and his arms folded stubbornly across his chest. He was wearing his dark sunglasses and had his head tilted at a prideful angle, which Peter recognized as a bad sign.
Nevertheless, Bran Davies was listening patiently to the stranger's expostulations. It was only the mocking grin on his face that revealed derision and incredulity. Jane's features were a mixture of fretful worry and uncertain disbelief. Will Stanton merely looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be solemnly amused or blankly astonished. The stranger's face was interesting. Despite the loud and abrasive words, his face contained a look of sly brilliance, a cunning intelligence that said that this man, even when he appeared to lose control, maintained complete domination over every situation he found himself in.
Peter inched forward cautiously until he stood just behind his parents and Will. His mother saw him approach and made a swift, cutting movement with her hand ordering him to return inside. Peter ignored her and remained standing where he was.
"I don't CARE what your son says about his 'injuries.' I'm not paying you any damages!" Bran Davies' voice was impatient and curt. He turned to his friend standing behind him. "And don't think you are either, Will Stanton!" Will immediately shut his open mouth. His father faced the stranger again. "You can take me to court in hell before I agree to such nonsense!"
Damn, Peter thought. It's Mr. Winslow.
He felt his cheeks begin to burn self-consciously, especially when he saw Will's nonchalant gaze pass over him, an imperceptible nod the only recognition of his presence. Guilt plummeted into his stomach like an anvil.
"Um, excuse me?" he piped up cautiously, yet firmly.
The debate between his father and Mr. Winslow halted abruptly as both men turned in surprise to see who it was that had spoken. The stranger's eyes focused on Peter, and recognition dawned. He pointed a finger at him. "So it's YOU who caused all this trouble!"
"No, no sir!" Peter said hastily. "But I wanted to apologize anyway, I mean – "
"Do you know who I am, boy?"
"Um, you must be Stan's dad? Look, like I said, I'm sorry about what happened yesterday. It wasn't Will's fault, and – "
"I'm Dick C. Winslow. Senior partner at Gimme, Gimme, Gotcha, and Tuff."
"Well . . . ok," Peter said, blinking at the man. He was massive in the way that politicians are huge, prizefighter shoulders swathed in an expensive wool coat, a leather folder dwarfed by the ham-fisted hand that clenched it. He was older that Peter would have thought and partially balding; fine white hairs lay plastered against pudgy, gleaming, reddish skin. Glasses rode high on a hawkish nose, and one corner of the thin- lipped mouth was turned up in a perpetual smirk. His shoulders hunched forward aggressively. Peter scrunched his nose in distaste; the alcoholic stench of excess after-shave and cologne overwhelmed the crisp, pure smell of new-fallen snow.
"Peter, go back inside," his father said. "Right now. Jane, take him inside."
His mother opened her mouth as if to protest, but then she looked at her son's scared but resolute face, and she remembered the anger-that-was- not-anger sitting in Winslow's eyes. She closed her lips. "Peter, come on," she ordered grimly, and turned around back to the house and went through the front door, leaving it open behind her.
Peter gave one final glance at the three men in the driveway. They all stared at him in waiting expectation. He had no choice. Reluctantly, he turned around and slowly trudged back towards the house in his mother's footsteps.
And then they all heard Jane Davies scream.
No one moved. Bran Davies and Dick Winslow remained at a standoff, Will Stanton several feet behind his friend. Peter was halfway between the group and the open door his mother had vanished through. They all stood still as stone, no one believing they had just heard what they thought they had heard. And then the sobbing began, and Peter could hear it coming from inside. His mother's voice, crying out a grief such as he had never heard before.
Bran was the first one to come to life. "Jenny!" he shouted dreadfully. Oblivious of Winslow's existence, he took off flying up the driveway, his white hair waving in the sun like a banner. Peter remained rooted to the ground as his father sped by him, stunned, fearful, and incapable of movement. Bran catapulted himself up the steps and through the front door, vanishing into the shadows.
Winslow shook his head and seemed to come from a trance. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Get back out here, Davies!" he shouted, jutting his finger towards the ground. "I'm not through talking with you!" He took a giant step towards the house.
"Oh, but I think you are, sir."
Will had gracefully slid directly into Winslow's path. The suited man had been brought up short by the unexpected obstacle, and he glanced down in annoyance at the smaller person blocking his way. His eyes glimmered dangerously.
"You arrogant English prig," he hissed quietly. "You and your friend, thinking you're so much better than everyone else. Thinking you can humiliate my boy the way you did yesterday . . . I know what your kind is like, always preaching the sanctity of weakness. Well, I've seen what weakness can do, and I will not have my son terrorized into becoming a victim." He leaned forward aggressively and jutted his chin into Will Stanton's face.
Mr. Winslow was of Neanderthalic proportions, to be sure. And Will Stanton, solid and stocky though he was, was rather on the short side. Still, he didn't retreat one step from that glaring face so close to his own. He merely gazed, calm and unruffled, into the storming red fury directed down at him. There was even, perhaps, a hint of wistful affection in his glance, as if he were remembering something that had vanished long ago and was regretting its loss.
Peter blinked. And no, there was nothing, nothing . . . threatening . . . in Will's manner. He was simply standing there quietly. It must be his imagination only that told him that Mr. Winslow was closer to mortal danger than he had ever been in his entire life.
But Will's voice was pleasant. "I've apologized, sir. There's nothing more you can want here."
"There must be consequences – "
"For stopping one boy from beating another? Have you seen Peter's face? I think I deserve your thanks, for teaching your son a lesson you've obviously thought too expensive to him give yourself."
Winslow's voice became a low, silky purr. "There must be justice under the law, Mr. Stanton. It is only right."
And now anger flashed from Will Stanton's eyes, sudden and electrifying. "The law! You break the law every day, and then you dare claim its protection?"
Winslow turned suddenly livid. "How dare you accuse me – "
"What do you know of the law," Will spat, ignoring the man's words. The quiet intensity and fury of his voice halted Winslow's tirade. The balding man gazed in silent contempt at the compact Brit standing immovable before him.
"What do you know of the law?" Will repeated, quieter this time, but no less intense. "What do you know of the forces that bind men and women together, of the power that makes the leaves burst forth each spring? You sit in your office all day long, making money, telling yourself that you're doing the law's bidding. You devise ways to legally line the pockets of CEO's with unearned wealth that should be buying food for the children of the single mother who slaves away on the production line. Meanwhile, you haven't seen a sunrise in years except through the tinted windows of a limousine, and the air you breathe is sterile and dead. Your son amuses himself by tormenting others. And you think you know the law? Oh, how much there is that you've forgotten, Richard Winslow."
Winslow sneered. "If you can do nothing more than spout elementary liberalisms at me, Mr. Stanton, I would kindly request that you get out of my way."
Will Stanton closed his eyes. A single breath heaved in and out of his lungs. And then he opened his eyes, and they were perfectly clear and free from anger. Peter thought that they had never seemed so bright before, like the steely blue-grey of storm clouds in sunlight. Will stared at Winslow for several long seconds. Peter, watching Will's face, didn't see the way all emotion slowly drained from Winslow's red features, leaving them limp and rubbery like a deflated balloon. His mouth hung open slightly, and he gazed at Will with a bemused expression.
"Leave, Dickie," Will whispered sadly. "And don't go to work today. Try to enjoy yourself for once, try to remember what happiness was. Go hunting or something. I bet you'd like that. An eccentric literature professor from Britain isn't worth your valuable time, why even bother intimidating him? Leave, Richard Charles Winslow."
And without a word, Dick C. Winslow bent to retrieve his fallen briefcase and walked back to the waiting car. He stooped his massive shoulders and entered the back seat. Peter could just see through the tinted windows that he placed the briefcase neatly on his knees, gazed straight ahead, and mouthed a destination to the driver, who pulled majestically away from the curb and glided down the quiet, Saturday morning street.
Peter felt no triumph as he watched the man drive away. The world was quiet. Too quiet. This was all wrong. There was something wrong.
And his mother's sobs were coming from the house.
Will turned towards him. He looked exhausted.
"Will . . .?" Peter began tentatively, fearfully.
But Will was staring at the house, the direction from which the muffled sobs were coming. There was a sadness in his face that defied description: a sadness that spoke of long-cherished dreams broken in an instant, or victorious quests that had proven useless.
"Let's go inside, Peter," Will said. He walked towards him, clasped his shoulder, and began propelling him up the driveway. Peter struggled for a second, but Will's grip was iron and he couldn't shake free. He didn't want to face what was inside the house, whatever it was that had made his mother cry out in that way. The sobs were quieter now, dying down, but they still tore at his heart. But Will was adamant, and Peter closed his eyes as he was marched up the front steps, fearful of what waited within.