Fabulous Creature (13 page)

That was the other way she was hard to keep track of—physically. She kept turning up missing. Usually he found her exploring some interesting crevice in the rocks or following the tracks of an animal, but at the riverbed she was crouched behind a boulder with her hands covering her face. She didn’t offer to explain, and he didn’t ask.

When they had almost reached the beginning of the cliff trail, he started wondering again if he’d made a terrible mistake. It was probably going to be a real problem getting Griffin over into the valley. The first time he crossed, he’d had moments of real panic when he was sure he couldn’t go on and was even more certain he’d never get back the way he’d come. But when he started up the cliff, she stayed right behind him. When they reached the high ledge, he stopped and pointed out the rock by the deep pool directly below, where he’d first seen her—conducting the disenchantment of Prince Poisson.

“You really were watching—all the time?” She seemed a little embarrassed, but more pleased then anything else, and not at all bothered by the fact that he’d just knocked some large holes in the whole Prince Poisson story. He was sure she’d never admitted to anyone that it was all a fish story—in more ways than one. But then, since she was clearly capable of accepting him as both a long-term member of the Fielding household and a recently disenchanted fish, she probably had no trouble with his being simultaneously watching from the ledge and swimming around in the pool below. It was the kind of mind-boggling concept that made him feel slightly disoriented, and which, on a two-foot ledge over a perpendicular drop, seemed almost dangerously unbalanced.

“Come on,” he said. “We’d better go. This next stretch is the trickiest part of the trail.” He’d hardly started explaining the difficulties involved in negotiating the shale slide when she launched herself down it. She was waiting for him when he slid to a stop at the bottom.

He’d almost forgotten how incredible the valley was. He’d been amazed and excited when he first discovered it, but after having been there so many times, its impact had gradually faded. But now, watching Griffin, it was like seeing it again for the first time. On each side almost sheer rock walls streaked by strata and slanting rays of sunlight towered over the series of small meadows. And on the lush green grass of the first clearing, large outcroppings of bulbous black rock crouched like an invasion of gigantic black toads.

“That first boulder,” he told Griffin, “the flattest one, is my usual observation post. Sometimes the stag comes—”

“The stag?”

He grinned self-consciously. “The deer,” he said, “or buck. I just started calling him that sometimes. You know, the noble stag.”

She nodded. “The noble stag,” she whispered.

“Sometimes he comes right out onto the meadow while I’m sitting here,” he went on. “But in the middle of the day he’s usually lying down back in the woods near the spring. If he doesn’t come out pretty soon, we’ll go up there and look for him.”

They sat on the boulder, Griffin hugging her knees up against her chest. She’d gone silent again, but her face was not the same as it had been during those other silences. She seemed to be completely unaware that he was watching her. Her eyes looked dilated and she breathed deeply, her lips slightly parted. After a while he began to feel a little nervous and he leaned closer forcing her to meet his eyes. She started, smiled vaguely and turned away.

They were still sitting there silently on the boulder when the deer came out of the pine grove. One moment there was only the green wall of pine and fir, and then suddenly there he was, standing in the slanting sunlight at the edge of the clearing. Griffin gasped and grabbed James’ arm.

As many times as he’d seen him appear like that, it took James a minute before he could trust his voice. When he could, he said calmly, “Well, there he is. What do you think of him?”

“Shh,” she breathed.

“It’s all right. He’s used to me talking to him. Watch.” He slid slowly down off the boulder carrying the bag of apples. Moving slowly and continuing to talk in a low, soothing voice, he walked, not directly toward the deer, but obliquely out into the middle of the meadow. He left two apples near the center and then, retracing his steps, left two more quite close to the boulder. He had hardly climbed back up beside Griffin when the deer began to move forward. When he had finished the first two apples, he sniffed the air, staring at James and Griffin, and then tossed his head imperiously, as if he were protesting the necessity of subjecting himself to such close contact in order to receive their offerings.

“I think he’s saying he’d rather be worshipped from afar,” James said. Griffin only nodded. Her eyes transmitted excitement and now and then she pressed her knuckles against her mouth as if she were trying to keep her lips from trembling.

The deer relented then and moved closer, to the last two apples, and James forgot about Griffin in his own excitement at seeing him so much closer than ever before. He was noticing details—the smooth sleekness of the gray-brown coat, the patch of white on the wide chest, and the frayed areas on the antlers where the suedelike velvet was beginning to wear away, exposing smooth dark horn. When the apples were gone, he retreated several yards and then stopped to test the air again, perhaps trying to determine if there were more apples, or checking out the new person who had invaded his domain. With his curiosity apparently satisfied, he turned at last and paced majestically into the deep shadows of the grove.

Griffin went on sitting absolutely still, her chin resting on her knees, her eyes riveted on the spot where the deer had disappeared.

James waited. “Well what do you think?” he said at last. For another moment there was no response, and when it came, it was only a quick turn and a brief smile like a sudden flash of light, and then she was gone again, back into some private world of her own. After a while he tried again. “It’s getting late. We’d better get started or we’ll be late to dinner. At least I will.” There was no telling when dinner happened in a household that had gin fizz breakfasts at one o’clock in the afternoon. After another longish period she nodded slowly and slid down off the rock.

That was the way it was all the way home. Just as at the beginning of the hike, Griffin had become almost completely nonverbal. It was a different kind of silence, but the end result was the same: a lack of communication that got to be almost embarrassing after a while. Taken as a whole, the entire day had turned out to be fairly uncomfortable, and, of course, he had no one to blame but himself. It served him right for giving in to a sudden impulse to share something that had been his own and private with a kooky kid, just because it had seemed like a good thing to do at the moment. It had been a dumb move, and it might very well turn out to be a lot more serious than a wasted day. How did he know, for instance, that she wouldn’t start shooting off her mouth about the deer to everyone she knew.

When they finally reached the spot where the path to the west gate branched off, he said. “Look. It’s late. I think I’ll just go on home if you don’t mind going on alone.”

It took a minute to get through, even then, but at last she said, “Oh no, I don’t mind.”

“There’s one thing though. I just want to remind you not to tell anyone about the valley. I mean, the deer’s life depends on it. I’ve found out enough about trophy hunting lately to know that he’s really one in a million—as a trophy. And if word got out, every hunter in the whole country would be up here gunning for him the minute hunting season starts.”

He finally had her full attention. She was staring at him as if he’d just started growing a second head. “As a trophy!” She seemed to be having trouble getting the words out.

“Yes. You know. A stuffed head.”

She nodded fiercely. “I know. Like all those things in the Jarretts’ house.”

That jolted him, for some reason—probably because of his relationship with Diane. He found himself feeling a little defensive. “Well, yes. I guess the thing is, they go by the number of points and the width and symmetry of the horns, and this deer must be really unusual. I think it’s because he’s managed to live a lot longer than most bucks do nowadays, by holing up in that valley during hunting season. So if people start finding out about the valley,” he made a neck chopping motion, “it’s curtains.”

Griffin actually shuddered. She narrowed her eyes and between her heavy lashes they seemed almost to smoke with intensity. “I would never tell any of those people about the stag,” she said. “Never! They’re murderers.”

“Well!” James grinned. “I don’t know about that. They’re hunters. That’s not quite the same thing.”

“They’re murderers,” she, insisted. “They look like murderers. Their names even sound like it. Hank and Jill—yank and kill.”

He couldn’t help laughing. “How about Jack-whack.”

“And Mike-strike,” she said.

“How about Diane?” he asked, thinking there was nothing very fierce sounding about a name like Diane.

“They call her Di, don’t they?” Griffin said.

He hadn’t thought of that, or he wouldn’t have mentioned it. “Well, okay,” he said. “I didn’t really think you would tell anyone, but I just thought I’d mention it.”

He was turning to leave when she grabbed his arm. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Then she whirled away and began to run.

When James got back to the cabin, he discovered that Charlotte had jumped to a ridiculous conclusion. “That girl?” he said. “No.” He was in the midst of pulling off a boot at the time, and he almost tipped over laughing. “No. That’s Griffin. She told you her name was Griffin.”

“But that’s not a name,” Charlotte said. “It’s some kind of heraldic beast, isn’t it? I thought perhaps it was a nickname or a joke of some sort. And after hearing all about Diane just the other night, it never occurred to me you were interested in another girl as well.”

“Interested?” He stared at his mother in disbelief. “In that little kid?”

“Dear me.” Charlotte looked chagrined. “I’m really embarrassed to have made such an incredible error. How old is this—child, anyway?”

“Oh, I don’t know. About thirteen, I think.”

“Ah. I see.”

He caught the twitch of lips that obviously meant Charlotte thought thirteen wasn’t all that much younger than almost sixteen. “Okay,” he grinned. “So thirteen isn’t exactly another generation, but there is a big difference. If you saw Diane, you’d know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, I’m sure I would.” Charlotte said. “But who is this Griffin, then?”

“Just a kid who happens to be very interested in wildlife and things like that. I promised to take her to see a place I discovered where you can usually see some interesting things. Oh, and about her name—she’s called Griffin because her real name is Griffith, which is pretty strange, too, especially for a girl. Her mother is that woman we were talking about the other day. That Alexandra Griffith, whose name is Westmoreland now.”

“Oh,” Charlotte said. “Well, of course. I knew she made me think of someone. She does look quite remarkably like her mother, doesn’t she? When her picture was always in the papers, I remember thinking that, as much as I disapproved of her antics, she really was quite fantastically beautiful. I take it you’ve met her—Alexandra Griffith?”

“Yes. I just did today. And I guess they do look something alike, now that you mention it.” It really hadn’t occurred to him before. “The thing is, everything else about them seems to be so different. I didn’t even notice about the appearance thing.”

“I see,” Charlotte said.

I
’M AWFULLY SORRY
about yesterday, Jamesy.” Diane took hold of his hand and squeezed it hard. He squeezed back and pulled her to a stop. They had been walking across the patio towards the Jarretts’ kitchen door, and now when James bent to kiss her, she rolled her eyes towards the house. The top half of the Dutch door was open, and from inside the sound of women’s voices drifted out into the patio.

“It’s my mother and aunt,” she whispered, “having their daily gossip session. You know—who’s not invited to whose party, who’s hitting on whose wife, who ought to join Weight Watchers—that sort of thing.”

“Let’s not go in,” James said.

“Oh, come on. I’m thirsty. Then we can go on down to the trophy room and be—” she rolled her eyes “—alone.”

In the kitchen, Jill Jarrett and another woman were sitting at the breakfast bar drinking coffee. Angela Jarrett was smaller and darker than her sister-in-law, but there seemed to be a similarity about them. It wasn’t so much in their actual features, as in their clothing and mannerisms and the sound of their voices. They both said hello with an exceptional amount of warmth and enthusiasm, and then immediately turned their backs and went on with their conversation. Diane was busy rummaging around in the refrigerator.

“It’s not the little boy that worries me,” Angela was saying. “It’s that older child—Griffin, they call her. Laurel seems to absolutely idolize her. She’d spend every waking hour with the two of them if I’d let her. I’ve been trying to discourage it, and Dunc agrees with me, for once. He thinks there’s something very strange about both of them.”

“With good reason,” Jill Jarrett said. “Coming from that background.”

“Well, as far as family background goes, you couldn’t do much better than the Griffiths, or the Westmorelands for that matter. But I know what you mean. The Alexandra thing.”

“Ethel says they both drink like fishes, and that the children are allowed to run wild. Apparently they do have them in very good schools during the year, but here at The Camp they just allow them to run wild in the woods day after day.”

“Considering what goes on at some of those marathon parties, the woods might be the safest place for them. You know the Arthurs were asked once, and afterwards Caroline told me…” Angela glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice.

“Would you like Pepsi or apple cider?” Diane stuck a couple of cold bottles in James’ hands and led the way out of the room. He followed, but the kitchen conversation, and some questions it brought up, were still on his mind. All the way down the stairs and across the dozen or so yards of trophy room to the leather couch by the coffee table, he mulled over possible answers and implications.