The Seven Whistlers by Amber Benson Christopher Golden

would be. After several
moments, another gust came, and she breathed deeply once more. With all of the
folklore, myth, and legend she had read in her life, it was simple for her to
imagine herself as that naiad, bursting up from the water — made from
water herself. At fifty-three, and having never worried overmuch about such
things as hair and makeup, she knew most people would be amused to learn how
easy it was to fantasize like this.
    Those people didn’t know what they were missing. And Arlene
knew that she would never have been able to explain to them. Certainly there
was darkness and cruelty and perversion in folklore and myth, but whenever
possible, she focused on the purity and beauty to be found there, the
joyfulness that existed in so many stories and figures of legend.
    Arlene had spent her entire life holding her breath, feeling
the presence of something just beyond her peripheral vision, turning at a
sudden sound, hoping to catch sight of something wonderful. Magical. If she
lived out her days never having fulfilled that hope, she could think of worse
ways to have spent her time. Meanwhile, though, she brought her dreams to life
on canvas.
    She had become part of the scenery herself in Kingsbury, up
on the mountain and by the lake, always with some painting in progress, clothes
dappled with color. The people of Kingsbury loved her because her fame was
twofold — partially due to her reputation as a fantasy artist, and
partially due to the hundreds of paintings she’d done of Kingsbury itself
— the town, the natural beauty around it. But they also treated her like
everyone’s favorite crazy aunt.
    If not for her success as an artist, her love of folklore
and utter refusal to alter her behavior no matter who was in the room — she’d
met the President once, Bush number one, and neither one of them had come away
too impressed — Kingsbury would have made Arlene nothing more than some
odd, witchy-woman character out of a novel herself.
    In a way, she thought she might have quite liked that.
    Not enough to regret her success, however. To make a living
by painting — and not have to worry about anything else — was a
gift from whatever gods there might be.
    Arlene thought there might be many. She hoped there were. The
idea made the world a much more interesting place.
    Again, she looked up from her canvas, took in the panorama,
and set back to work. But even as she brought brush to canvas, a shiver went
through her, a little frisson of pleasure and fear combined. Her breath caught
in her throat. She stared at the intimate silver lines that made up the
beginnings of the naiad in her painting, and shuddered.
    Something was near.
    Could it be today? A little, self-deprecating laugh bubbled
up from her throat. She really ought to stop hoping so hard. The disappointment
always left her so blue. Really, she should ignore the feeling that prickled at
the back of her neck. She should not even look up until that sensation went
away.
    “Who’m I kidding?” she whispered to herself.
    Arlene looked past the canvas, out of the woods and across
the lake. She searched the surface, wondering if her painting had summoned
something forth. What a dream that would be, becoming a part of folklore
herself. But she saw nothing unusual on the lake.
    Still, the prickle on her skin remained, that certainty that
just out of sight something hovered, waiting to be seen.
    Motion on the far shore drew her eye.
    The sun was bright on the water, making the darkness of the
shadows amongst the thick pines a deep, impenetrable charcoal. Within those
shadows, just beyond the tree line, something stood and stared at her. It would
have been impossible to see its eyes from this distance — this animal, or
man, or thing, whatever it was — but she felt its attention. It
had noticed her, perhaps sensing her awareness of its presence.
    In the shadows, that figure was solid black — as tar,
as oil, as raven’s wings, all of that and darker —