The Seven Whistlers by Amber Benson Christopher Golden Page B

spindles, and working with the adze and spokeshave and other
tools. A shadow might lead him to put too much pressure on the hand plane, and
then there was an indent where he hadn’t meant one to be.
    Mike felt a bit of moisture just beneath his nose and he
reached up to touch it, alarmed at first, thinking his nose might be bleeding
again. How odd that had been, last night, the way the blood had just started up
without any reason. He hadn’t bumped his nose or done anything to bring it on. And
it had taken ten minutes of dabbing damp napkins to his nose before it had
completely stopped.
    This morning, when he’d set down to work on the sketches, a
clearer picture in his mind of what he wanted, it had started up again, bright
crimson drops spotting the sketches of Mrs. Rutherford’s dining room.
    But this time, there was no blood. He sniffled. Must just
be allergies , he thought, as a way to jinx the possibility he might be
getting a cold.
    Studying the shelves against the back wall of the workshop,
Mike picked out a piece of oak that was perfect for his needs. He folded the
sketches and slid them into the back pocket of his jeans, then picked up the
slab of oak and brought it over to the table saw. He checked the machine over,
locked the wood down onto the table to keep it from shifting when he didn’t
want it to, and started up the saw.
    The whine ground against his skull like the scream of a dentist’s
drill. Mike flinched and stood up, backing away from the table. He paused for a
moment, wondering if something was wrong with the saw, but then he realized
that it always sounded like this. Most days, it simply didn’t bother him. He
felt the whine in his head, like he was grinding his teeth. His allergies,
again. Must have been. His sinuses were packed and the noise added pressure. Something
like that.
    But he’d only need the saw for a few minutes.
    He set to work. When the saw began to cut through the wood,
the whine was worse. He forced the tension of his muscles, guiding the saw,
careful with the curves. The basic shape of the seat was all he needed. The
rest he would do by hand.
    With a pop, the power blew, casting the workshop in
darkness. The whine of the saw lingered for a second, diminishing, and then
there was silence as well.
    “What the hell?” he asked the dark, but the only reply was
the echo of his own voice.
    The night was overcast, blotting out the moon and stars. There
would be very little light from the windows, but after the brilliant brightness
of the workshop, his eyes would need time to adjust.
    The pop had sounded almost like a transformer blowing. There
was one on a telephone pole just down from his place. He could see if it he
looked out the window nearest the front, so he made his way over to the window,
careful with each step. He was usually pretty meticulous about cleaning up
after himself — safety first and all that — but just in case he’d
left any wood stacked on the floor, he slid his feet forward, searching the
darkness with the toes of his boots.
    At the window, he looked out. The silhouette of the
telephone pole was visible, darker than the night. Even with the heavy cloud
cover, there was a trace of ambient light — enough to make shades of
black and gray instead of pure darkness. The fat transformer box on the pole
was dark and dormant. If it had blown, there were no sparks, and it had not
started a fire. That was a good sign at least.
    Mike took a breath and rested his forehead against the
window. His momentum was gone. Without power, he couldn’t get started on Mrs.
Rutherford’s chair. He only hoped his passion for the design hadn’t changed in
the morning.
    As he started to turn back toward the dark workshop, he
caught sight of motion outside. Out on the street, two black dogs were trotting
by. They were the most enormous hounds he’d ever seen, bit, sleek things with
pointed ears and eyes that glistened in the dark. They passed the telephone
pole, and the