I paused when I came to a gibbet-shaped tree. A moment’s reflection and I turned left, following an ascending trail among dark rocks. Near its top, I walked directly into a mossy boulder, emerging from a sandbank into a light rain. I ran across the field before me, till I came to the fairy circle beneath the ancient tree. I stepped to its middle, made up a couplet with my name for the rhyme, and sank into the ground. When I was halted and the moment’s darkness went away, I found myself beside a damp stone wall, looking downhill across a prospect of headstones and monuments. The sky was fully overcast and a cool breeze wandered by. It felt to be one of the ends of a day, but whether morning or twilight lay near, I could not tell. The place looked exactly as I remembered it-cracked mausoleums hung with ivy, falling stone fences, wandering paths beneath high, dark trees. I moved down familiar trails.
As a child, this had been a favored playground of mine, for a time. I met here almost daily, for dozens of cycles, with a little shadow girl named Rhanda. Kicking through boneheaps, brushing by damp shrubbery, I came at length to the damaged mausoleum where we had played house. Pushing aside the sagging gate, I entered.
Nothing had changed, and I found myself chuckling. The cracked cups and saucers, tarnished utensils, were still stacked in the corner, heavy with dust, stained with seepage. I brushed off the catafalque we’d used as a table, seated myself upon it. One day Rhanda had simply stopped corning, and after a time I had, too. I’d often wondered what sari of woman she had become. I’d left her a note in our hiding place, beneath a loose floor stone, I recalled. I wondered whether she’d ever found it.
I raised the stone. My filthy envelope still lay there, unsealed. I took it out, shook it off, slid out my folded sheet.
I unfolded it, read my faded childish scrawl: What happened Rhanda? 1 waited and you didn’t come. Beneath it, in a far neater hand, was written: I can’t come anymore because my folks say you are a demon or a vampire. I’m sorry because you are the nicest demon or vampire I know. I’d never thought of that possibility. Amazing, the ways one can be misunderstood.
I sat there for a time, remembering growing up. I’d taught Rhanda the bonedance game in here. I snapped my fingers then, and our old ensorcelled heap of them across the way made a sound like stirring leaves. My juvenile spell was still in place; the bones rolled forward, arranged themselves into a pair of manikins, began their small, awkward dance. They circled each other, barely holding their shapes, pieces flaking away, cobwebs trailing; loose ones-spares-began to bounce about them. They made tiny clicking sounds as they touched. I moved them faster.
A shadow crossed the doorway, and I heard a chuckle. “I’ll be damned! All you need’s a tin roof. So this is how they spend their time in Chaos.”
“Luke!” I exclaimed as he stepped inside, my manikins collapsing as my attention left them, into little gray, sticklike heaps. “What are you doing here?”
“Could say I was selling cemetery lots,” he observed. “You interested in one?”
He had on a red shirt and brown khakis tucked into his brown suede boots. A tan cloak hung about his shoulders. He was grinning.
“Why aren’t you off ruling?”
His smile went away, to be replaced by a moment of puzzlement, returned almost instantly.
“Oh, felt I needed a break. What about you? There’s a funeral soon, isn’t there?”
I nodded.
“Later on,” I said. “I’m just taking a break myself. How’d you get here, anyway?”
“Followed my nose,” he said. “Needed some intelligent conversation.”
“Be serious. Nobody knew I was coming here. I didn’t even know it till the last minute. I-“
I groped about in my pockets.
“You didn’t plant another of those blue stones on me, did you?”
“No, nothing that simple,” he replied. “I seem to have some sort of message for you.”
I got to my feet, approached him, studying his face.