Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
Gravelight (2 page)
If she'd been smart she would have let matters slide right then, maybe even gone away again. But Sinah had always been a fighterâshe'd announced herself to be Athanais' daughter and dared them to go on with their lies.
So they'd shut her out, and left her to her lonely splendor here in this wild beautiful place. Just as her foster parents had. Just as everyone who knew the truth about her did.
She didn't want to think about that, but what else was there to think about? Losing her mind? Dying? The taint in her bloodâthe monstrous gift that her dead mother must have shared, else how could the local people hate her so?
The carefully crafted social mask that Sinah wore even while alone crumbled, and she groped for a tissue to blot away the sudden, aching tears.
Tainted blood
. It sounded like the title of a cheap thriller, but it was the truth she'd fought against acknowledging all these years. Normal people couldn't do what Sinah Dellon could.
Tainted blood
. It sounded like the title of a cheap thriller, but it was the truth she'd fought against acknowledging all these years. Normal people couldn't do what Sinah Dellon could.
Normal people couldn't read minds.
She'd never known a time when she couldn't do it: the baby in the crib, absorbing its foster mother's thoughts and feelings with her touch; the schoolgirl with the answer to every test, who knew all her classmates' secretsâand told them, before she'd learned better. The word for what she was existed only in books, not in the real world.
Telepath. Mind reader.
Filthy prying snooping freak no daughter of mine
monsterâ
Sinah choked back a sob. She'd prayed for the gift to leave her, but it had only gotten stronger as she'd gotten older, until she didn't need to touch someone to read his or her mind, though touch brought the sharpest images. With her gift, she could be anyone's
dream girl, a perfect mirror. It had brought her success on Broadway, in Hollywood ⦠.
Filthy prying snooping freak no daughter of mine
monsterâ
Sinah choked back a sob. She'd prayed for the gift to leave her, but it had only gotten stronger as she'd gotten older, until she didn't need to touch someone to read his or her mind, though touch brought the sharpest images. With her gift, she could be anyone's
dream girl, a perfect mirror. It had brought her success on Broadway, in Hollywood ⦠.
But when she wasn't being a perfect reflection, who was Sinah Dellon? Here in her dream house she could be only herself, but she felt strangely empty, restless. As if, without someone else's emotions to mirror, she was nothing at all.
No. That can't be true.
But she thought it might be. That the tiny spark of individuality that called itself “Sinah” had already been ground away to nothing by the imprint of other minds, and that soon even the consciousness of that fact would be extinguished forever.
No. That isn't true. I won't let it be true
. There must be others like her hereâothers of her bloodline who had also inherited her gift.
. There must be others like her hereâothers of her bloodline who had also inherited her gift.
Unless they were all dead of the same “gift” that tormented her. Dead and gone and she was the last.
Wycherly's shout of primitive terror ripped him from his twilight dream and returned him to a world where the sun struck like a hammer, making the world dissolve into a redlit kaleidoscope of pain. But he did not fear the pain as much as he feared whatever lay below the surface of consciousness, and so he forced his eyes to open, feeling the shock of the pain as a thousand burning pulses through his body.
When he sucked a deep lungful of air, he felt the sullen ache of blossoming bruises over his chest and ribs and the warning pressure of the dashboard against his thighs. The edges of the footwell were folded almost tenderly around his extended legs; there was a thick reek of liquorâthe bottles had broken at lastâmingled with the sharp, dangerous scent of spilled gasoline. With infinite care, Wycherly turned his headâand was stopped.
His cheek came to rest upon the rough bark of a tree trunk that plunged through the center of the windshield. All around him the crumbled safety glass lay like thrown rice at a wedding, and the chrome and steel frame of the windshield
was twisted into a mere decorative ribbon. The headrest at the back of his seat had been torn away by the forward thrust of the trunk; the tree had passed just above his shoulder, a few inches away from his right ear, a raw splintered spike of wood as thick as Wycherly's thigh.
was twisted into a mere decorative ribbon. The headrest at the back of his seat had been torn away by the forward thrust of the trunk; the tree had passed just above his shoulder, a few inches away from his right ear, a raw splintered spike of wood as thick as Wycherly's thigh.
It could have killed him.
For a moment his consciousness of every other pain vanished as Wycherly realized it had only missed his head by inches.
I could be dead.
For the first time in his life, the thought repelled him. Deadâhere, now, with all his promises unkept and decisions unmade. He looked down the hill. The sun was just rising above the trees, but the summer heat was already beginning to build. Below, the valley was still in deep shadow, its floor was shrouded by mist, suggesting that water lay somewhere below. The alcohol, the waking dream, and seventy-two hours without sleep coalesced into a conviction that Camilla was waiting for him across the river of death, and that he must make his peace with her or face worse than death when the time came.
For the first time in his life, the thought repelled him. Deadâhere, now, with all his promises unkept and decisions unmade. He looked down the hill. The sun was just rising above the trees, but the summer heat was already beginning to build. Below, the valley was still in deep shadow, its floor was shrouded by mist, suggesting that water lay somewhere below. The alcohol, the waking dream, and seventy-two hours without sleep coalesced into a conviction that Camilla was waiting for him across the river of death, and that he must make his peace with her or face worse than death when the time came.
The bizarre fantasy faded almost at once, leaving behind the odd, urgent feeling that there really was something he must do before he could safely die. Slowly, Wycherly began the painful process of prying himself out of the car. He found that he didn't seem to be badly hurtâa bruise over his left eye, a gash along his leg from something that had sliced open his Dockers. It had bled freely but didn't even seem to ache at the moment.
The driver's-side door was jammed shut, and it took him several painful minutes to pull himself backward across the trunk before he could slither free, only at the last minute remembering to grab his leather shoulder bag. Its surface was dark with spilled liquor.
He rested his hands on the driver's-side door while he looked around. The nose of the little car was pointed down the slope; the convertible was wedged securely between a large rock and a small stand of pines. The rock and several of the trees were smeared with the bright scarlet of the
Ferrari's paint. It must have ricocheted off them before settling. The angle it was at now suggested it had still been airborne when it hit.
Ferrari's paint. It must have ricocheted off them before settling. The angle it was at now suggested it had still been airborne when it hit.
Gasoline and oil spread beneath the car in a glistening puddle oddly reminiscent of blood, and the bottom of the hill was a very long way down. Gingerly, Wycherly reached out and touched the splintered tree trunk, every muscle protesting the movement. He could see now that the bark was weathered and peeling; a fallen tree, wedged among the others at the precise angle to skewer him like a butterfly on an entomologist's pin.
Well, that's totaled. I wonder if I have any insurance?
Wycherly patted himself down automatically, finding his wallet but failing to turn up either a driver's license or an insurance card. Experience told him that he probably didn't have either oneâhadn't his license been revoked a few months ago after the latest DWI conviction? Wycherly suspected it had, which would account for the lack of insurance. He looked back at the Ferrari again, wondering with a certain pleased and distant malice if it was even his car. Perhaps it was Kenny's. Perhaps he had stolen it.
He was lucky to have hit the pines and not gone all the way to the bottom. He was lucky the car hadn't rolled.
He'd been lucky. Wycherly contemplated the unfamiliar concept. Lucky.
He wondered where on earth he was.
He wanted a drink.
Wycherly shuddered and turned away, starting his climb back up the hill to safety and the road.
Half a day's drive north of New York City, along the eastern bank of the Hudson River, lies Amsterdam County, home of Taghkanic College. The college's nearest neighbors are the town of Glastonbury and a small artist's colony that seeks anonymity for its residents. The college was founded in 1714 and lies between the railroad tracks and the river, a location easy to miss unless one knows the area well. Taghkanic is a liberal arts college of the sort that once
flourished in this country before a college diploma became only the overture to and preparation for a job. It exists to this day on the terms of its original charter, and has never accepted one penny of government support to cover its operating costs, choosing to remain independent, first from Crown and Royal Governor, and later from the representatives of the fledgling United States.
flourished in this country before a college diploma became only the overture to and preparation for a job. It exists to this day on the terms of its original charter, and has never accepted one penny of government support to cover its operating costs, choosing to remain independent, first from Crown and Royal Governor, and later from the representatives of the fledgling United States.
But a changing economic climate has forced the closure and assimilation of most of the private colleges in the United States, until only a handful of such privileged and expensive relics remain. Taghkanic does not owe its survival to the generosity of its alumni or the foresight of its trustees but to its affiliation with a most peculiar institution: the Margaret Beresford Bidney Memorial Psychic Science Research Laboratory, founded in 1921 by a bequest from the estate of Margaret Beresford Bidney, class of 1868.
Like so many of those who sought their loved ones amid the ghosts of the aftermath of the Insurrection of the Southern States, Margaret Bidney was a Spiritualist, a follower of the Fox Sisters of Hydeville, New York. In later life, Miss Bidney's interests broadened to include the Cayce work and Theosophy, and eventually, as a disciple of William Seabrook, the whole broad field of parapsychology and the Unseen World. She never married, and when she died, her entire fortune went to fund research into the psychic sciencesâincluding a prize of one million dollars to the individual who conclusively provided proof of paranormal abilities. The prize has never been claimed.
From its inception, the Laboratoryâor, as it came informally to be known, the Bidney Instituteâwas funded independently of the College, though offering courses in psychology and parapsychology to the Taghkanic students and working with the college to provide one of the country's few degree programs in parapsychology. Nevertheless, the Taghkanic trustees had been attempting to claim the entire. Bidney bequest on behalf of Taghkanic College for more than fifty years and were on the verge of success
when Colin MacLaren accepted an appointment as director of the Institute in the early seventies.
when Colin MacLaren accepted an appointment as director of the Institute in the early seventies.
When Dr. MacLaren came to the Institute, it was on the verge of closing. Though the height of the anti-occult backlash was still twenty years in the future, occultism as science had received one of its not-infrequent death blows, and parapsychology was not far behind. The dark side of the Age of Aquarius had become more evident in recent years, and less than five years previously Thorne Blackburn, Magick's most notorious advocate, had vanished in a lurid ritual that left one woman dead, Blackburn gone, and a number of unanswered questions.
Colin MacLaren changed all that. Publisher, lecturer, parapsychologist, he held the opinion that Magick and Science were both fruitful fields of study, and that Mankind could not be understood without the use both of Science and of Science's dark twin: the Occult. MacLaren maintained that there should be no distinction made between occultism and parapsychology when studying the paranormalâthat if anything, the occultists should have the edge since they had been studying the Unseen World for centuries and attempting to distill a scientific method of dealing with its effects.
Pragmatist and born administrator, MacLaren hurled himself wholeheartedly into the work of winnowing the deadwood at the Institute and turning its focus toward documentation and standardization. Under his guidance the Bidney Institute became an international clearing house for research into the irrational truths of human perception. As the Age of Aquarius reinvented itself to become simply The New Age, MacLaren's steady guidance kept the Institute from following popular culture into a frenzy of crystal points and channeling. By the time MacLaren left the Institute at the end of the eighties the specter of its discontinuation had vanished like expended ectoplasm, and it became clear to the disappointed trustees of Taghkanic College that their rich but unwanted foster child would be around until the time Hell froze overâan event that the
staff of the Bidney Institute intended, in any event, to measure.
staff of the Bidney Institute intended, in any event, to measure.
The beautiful Federalist campus drowsed in the muggy heat of a Hudson Valley summer. Pollen and humidity gave the air a glistening shimmer and the rows of apple trees which covered and surrounded the campus were in radiant summer leaf. Although it was June, a month in which most private collegesâwhich closed early and opened lateâwould be easily likened to ghost towns, there was still a great deal of activity on the campus: The Institute operated year-round. Its non-faculty staff enjoyed the quiet of a campus without students, and its associated facultyâtechnically members of Taghkanic's Psychology Departmentâused the time to generate the “publish or perish” projects common to academia and Science both.
Dylan Palmer was typical of the “new breed” of faculty who had come up under Colin MacLaren. A 1982 graduate of Taghkanic College, he had gone on to pursue the College's doctoral program in parapsychology, and then returned to the Institute to teach. He was a professor in the Indiana Jones mold, being tall, blond, handsome, easygoing, and occasionally heroic. A researcher by profession and a ghost-hunter by avocation, Dylan's primary field of interest was personality transfers and survivalsâor, in more mundane parlance, hauntings.
Dylan taught the undergraduate Introduction to Occult Psychology course that Professor MacLaren had pioneered, as well as handling his share of the usual influx of inquiries and requests that occupied the Institute's working year.
But he saved his summers for ghosts.
“Here it is,” Dylan announced, spreading the West Virginia map out on his hastily cleared desk.
Dylan's office, like its occupant, possessed a rumpled and friendly informality. There was a
Ghostbusters
movie poster on the back of the door, and another one over the desk.
Ghostbusters
movie poster on the back of the door, and another one over the desk.
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