thought of his night visitor, of the gleam he sometimes saw in her slightly slanted green eyes. There was an answer in her, he knew. Only with her, he didn’t know the right question to ask. To her, “Why?” was only “Why not?” That wasn’t enough for Lewis. It never had been.
He lit the lamp when he got home and sat at the table with the paperback book she’d “found” on his lap, waiting for her scratch at the door and her cheery “’Lo, Lewis.” But when she did come, instead of talking to her about the stag, about Tommy’s music, about who or even what she was, he opened the book and read a few more chapters to her. And then she was gone again, swallowed by the same night that had taken the stag, and he was no closer to unravelling the riddles than he’d ever been.
6
There was still a good half hour of daylight left when Valenti closed his front door and started down the road. The black flies were pretty well gone by now, but the mosquitos were more than making up for their absence. He considered going back for some bug-repellent, then decided he couldn’t spare the time. He wanted to be all settled in before it got dark so that he could see who showed up, rather than be seen himself. If whoever was watching the Treasure house was the same person who’d been spying on him when he’d first moved here for good, they’d be coming nightly for at least the first few weeks.
At first Valenti thought that the fratellanza had caught up with him, but when no one made any moves to take him down, he put that fear aside. What had driven the hidden watcher, he still didn’t know. Curiosity, he supposed. Whoever or whatever it was, it was like a wild animal in some respects. He’d never caught more than shadowy glimpses of it himself, and once he’d made a concerted effort to flush it out, the watcher didn’t come around his place anymore.
He wondered, not for the first time, if there were some connection between the watcher and the music that came drifting out of the woods from behind his house; wondered as well if he were the only person who heard it. He didn’t know anyone in the area well enough to ask. What he didn’t need was to start people talking about how he was hearing things. There’d been enough talk when he’d come here to stay for good instead of his usual couple of weeks a year. That talk had long since died down and he wasn’t about to put himself into public scrutiny all over again.
But that music did more than intrigue him. He thought about it often—especially during the winter when it was seldom heard. Spring was the best time—spring and the long evenings of summer. It tapered out again come fall, and after Halloween it was mostly just a memory. Valenti was carrying around too many memories, but thinking of the music always made the others easier to bear.
Close to Ali’s house, he slipped into the woods to the right of the road and worked his way around to the trees that looked on to the back of the house. He stood there studying the building and its yard. To his right, the hulk of their ruined barn grew dark with shadows. He could see figures move across the windows in the house. Insects hummed in the air. The twilight grew rapidly, throwing the house and lawn into sharp relief before the shadows merged to become one pool of darkness. Over the western trees, the sun lingered for a few moments longer then dropped from sight. The air was filled with a clean, spring night scent.
Valenti began to move closer to the house, then paused and cocked his head. A whisper of sound… It came shimmering through the darkness, a breathy and low music, achingly beautiful. Valenti gripped the head of his cane with a white-knuckled hand and slowly lowered himself to the ground. There was a different quality to the piping tonight.
Hear me , it called to him. Find me .
Leaning his head against the rough-barked trunk of a tree, all he could do was listen.
* * *
In her bedroom
He lit the lamp when he got home and sat at the table with the paperback book she’d “found” on his lap, waiting for her scratch at the door and her cheery “’Lo, Lewis.” But when she did come, instead of talking to her about the stag, about Tommy’s music, about who or even what she was, he opened the book and read a few more chapters to her. And then she was gone again, swallowed by the same night that had taken the stag, and he was no closer to unravelling the riddles than he’d ever been.
6
There was still a good half hour of daylight left when Valenti closed his front door and started down the road. The black flies were pretty well gone by now, but the mosquitos were more than making up for their absence. He considered going back for some bug-repellent, then decided he couldn’t spare the time. He wanted to be all settled in before it got dark so that he could see who showed up, rather than be seen himself. If whoever was watching the Treasure house was the same person who’d been spying on him when he’d first moved here for good, they’d be coming nightly for at least the first few weeks.
At first Valenti thought that the fratellanza had caught up with him, but when no one made any moves to take him down, he put that fear aside. What had driven the hidden watcher, he still didn’t know. Curiosity, he supposed. Whoever or whatever it was, it was like a wild animal in some respects. He’d never caught more than shadowy glimpses of it himself, and once he’d made a concerted effort to flush it out, the watcher didn’t come around his place anymore.
He wondered, not for the first time, if there were some connection between the watcher and the music that came drifting out of the woods from behind his house; wondered as well if he were the only person who heard it. He didn’t know anyone in the area well enough to ask. What he didn’t need was to start people talking about how he was hearing things. There’d been enough talk when he’d come here to stay for good instead of his usual couple of weeks a year. That talk had long since died down and he wasn’t about to put himself into public scrutiny all over again.
But that music did more than intrigue him. He thought about it often—especially during the winter when it was seldom heard. Spring was the best time—spring and the long evenings of summer. It tapered out again come fall, and after Halloween it was mostly just a memory. Valenti was carrying around too many memories, but thinking of the music always made the others easier to bear.
Close to Ali’s house, he slipped into the woods to the right of the road and worked his way around to the trees that looked on to the back of the house. He stood there studying the building and its yard. To his right, the hulk of their ruined barn grew dark with shadows. He could see figures move across the windows in the house. Insects hummed in the air. The twilight grew rapidly, throwing the house and lawn into sharp relief before the shadows merged to become one pool of darkness. Over the western trees, the sun lingered for a few moments longer then dropped from sight. The air was filled with a clean, spring night scent.
Valenti began to move closer to the house, then paused and cocked his head. A whisper of sound… It came shimmering through the darkness, a breathy and low music, achingly beautiful. Valenti gripped the head of his cane with a white-knuckled hand and slowly lowered himself to the ground. There was a different quality to the piping tonight.
Hear me , it called to him. Find me .
Leaning his head against the rough-barked trunk of a tree, all he could do was listen.
* * *
In her bedroom
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