Spires of Spirit (17 page)

The light in Wheat's eyes flashed. “By the way, you look very well.”

“I'm a mess.” Joan was lying: she felt wonderful, and she knew that she looked it.

Wheat set the magazine aside and stood up. “I guess I'd best be going.”

“Look,” said Joan. “I've probably really loused up your schedule today. I'd like to take you out to dinner to make up for it.”

“No need,” Wheat said quietly. “You've repaid me already.”

“I have? How?”

“By being you. That's all.”

“I don't . . .” That far. But no farther. Joan felt a chill. “I don't understand . . .”

“Don't worry.” Wheat checked her watch. “I really have to go, Joan. I'm late for an appointment.”

Joan drove her back to the agency parking lot to pick up her Toyota. Near their destination, Joan's curiosity about Wheat flared again. “Who's the lucky fellow?”

“Hmmm?”

She groped for the name she had heard when Wheat had made her phone call. “Hadden?”

“Well . . . he'll be there. Family, I suppose you'd say.”

Joan glanced at Wheat. In the half light of the street lamps, the shimmer about her was even more pronounced. What had she said during the call? Joan could only recall the first few words. She pulled into the parking lot and stopped beside Wheat's car, and, unthinking, she shut off the engine. She smelled the grass in the field, heard the chirping of crickets. Wheat thanked her and reached for the handle of the door.

Then Joan remembered. “What did you need advice about me for, Wheat? What's Hadden got to do with all this?” Joan suddenly remembered that Hadden was the man listed on Wheat's employee records as an emergency contact.

“Hadden's a friend, Joan. A good friend.” Wheat had turned to face her, and the starlight gleamed in her eyes. “I ask his advice about a lot of things. And he asks me.”

“And what's going on?”

Wheat sat back for a moment as though weighing the question. Her next words surprised Joan. “Do you know anything about Elves?”

Joan blinked at the sudden change of subject. “Yeah. They're fairy tales. What's going on?”

Wheat watched her for a moment. “I'll see you tomorrow,” she said. She swung open the door.

If this woman knew something about her odd days, if she had anything at all to do with her hours of torture, Joan wanted to know what it was. But Wheat was already at the Toyota when she found her voice. “
Dammit, Wheat, what's going on?
” Her ears were burning. She was doubtless flushed: she had never treated an employee so rudely, never left herself so exposed, so open.

Wheat had opened the door of the Toyota, but she half turned. “I'll see you in the morning, Joan. Just give yourself some time to rest. Good night.” She was not agitated. She was, in fact, completely calm. Joan's outburst, while perhaps unexpected, was obviously nothing to worry about. Joan shook with frustration and embarrassment as Wheat got in, switched on, and drove away.

She hesitated only for a moment before restarting the Mercedes and following.

***

Why the hell am I doing this?
She waited at a stoplight a few cars away from Wheat.
I've got to be crazy.

She peered into the night. Ahead and to the left she could see Wheat sitting relaxed at the wheel, apparently unaware that she was being followed. Agitated, Joan ran a hand back through her hair. It was none of her goddam business who Wheat was seeing that night, or why, or where. But she was following nonetheless. The same compulsion that caused her to stare at flowers and trees, that forced her to stand, shaking, before fields and the rising sun, had focused tonight on Wheat. There was, she felt, a connection. Wheat had as much as admitted it. Suddenly and inextricably, reality and her obsession had apparently twined themselves together.

The light changed, and Wheat pulled away and headed up the freeway on-ramp. Joan followed, her tires screeching slightly as she rounded the corner in pursuit of Wheat's taillights.

I-25 north, then Highway 6 westbound, towards the mountains. The valleys and ridges were invisible against the darkening sky, but there was enough twilight left to outline the topmost peaks. They passed Golden, the road wound into the foothills, and the last light left the sky as the two cars followed the twisting asphalt through tunnels and cuttings. There was no other traffic, and Joan began to suspect strongly that Wheat knew of her pursuit. But Wheat was keeping her speed constant, taking the turns and rises evenly, smoothly, and Joan pressed on after her.

Am I crazy?
Her world, already touched with madness, had contracted to a pair of red taillights on a mountain road. What good was her fancy talk of sales technique now? Control a conversation? Control a client? She could not even control herself! Jaw clenched, mouth dry, she was following one of her employees into the Rockies. And what would she say to Wheat tomorrow at work? What could she say now?

Minutes went by. They had been on the road for close to an hour when Wheat suddenly slowed and took a turnoff. As the lights of the Toyota faded up along a dirt road, Joan pulled to a stop just off the highway and shut off her engine.

She was shaking. The madness had at last caught up with her. The odd days, the compulsions, and now this. She had no business harassing her employees. Wheat had given her no real indication of any connection with her personal problems. Why, the woman had probably realized early on that she was dealing with a madwoman, and had only wanted to get away with a minimum of fuss.

Joan got out of the car and leaned on the warm hood. She had been sick for a long time. She realized that now.

The stars blazed down at her, and a glow to the east indicated the presence of the moon. Crickets chirped, small animals rustled in the brush, and a soft wind sang through the pine needles.

She put her face in her hands. Tears were running down her cheeks, and she could not stop them. But maybe tears could cleanse the sickness from her brain. Maybe that way she could go home and leave this compulsion here, at the entrance to a small dirt road.

But, through her grief, the persistence of a particular sound finally caught her attention: a motor running. Looking up, she noticed that Wheat's taillights were still in view, and that, though they were a good distance away, they were not moving.

Wheat was waiting for her.

She stared at the lights for a long moment. Once again, reality was mingling with her obsession. Silently, she got behind the wheel, restarted the Mercedes, and turned onto the dirt road.

Wheat flashed her brake lights a couple of times and started off once again, leading Joan along a narrow track that wound deep into the surrounding mountains. Fifteen minutes . . . twenty minutes. Still they traveled, crawling in low gear through the starry darkness.

The road rose slightly, then fell and widened into a pancake of bare dirt. At the crest of the rise, Joan could look down and see, in the moonlight, Wheat's Toyota parked at one edge of the clearing. There were two or three other cars there also, but no sign of Wheat or anyone else.

Joan took a deep breath, and then she eased down the slope and parked among the other vehicles, shutting off engine and lights with the feeling that she was holding a loaded pistol to her head. What could she say to Wheat tonight? It seemed she was going to find out.

Silence. Even the wind had died. She waited a few minutes before she stepped out onto the hard-packed earth, but the door slipped out of her hand as she closed it, and it slammed loudly, the sound echoing off the trees as she turned around with a gasp.

“Hello, Joan.”

She stared into the darkness under the trees. There was a shimmer among the trunks.

“Welcome.” It was Wheat's voice.

She flushed with embarrassment, her ears burning as though touched with a glowing coal. “Hello, Wheat.”

“I was kind of hoping you'd follow . . . but . . .”

“You were . . .?”

“. . . but . . . well, I thought it would be best to leave the decision to you.”

The moon had cleared the treetops fully, and by its light, Joan made her way through the parked cars. Near the edge of the dirt, though, she stopped, startled, even frightened, for Wheat had stepped out from the trees, and now she was standing a few yards away. She was barefoot, there was a wreath of flowers on her head, and about her was a shimmer as of starlight and moonlight wound together.

She smiled and extended her hands to Joan. “Be at peace.”

Joan stayed where she was, steadying herself against a powder-blue Volkswagen. The engine was still warm. “What's going on here?” she demanded, her voice loud in the quiet night.

Wheat lowered her hands. “Going on?”

“What is this place?”

“Elvenhome.” Wheat gestured at the surrounding trees. “This is it. I mean, we haven't actually
built
it yet, but that's what it is.”

Joan let go of the Volkswagen reluctantly, half fearing that her legs would give way under her. “What are you talking about?” Fear was creeping up on her, and it made her voice harsh. “Elvenhome? What the hell does this have to do with Elves?”

She approached and stopped a few feet away from Wheat. Starlight and moonlight wove about the young woman. Radiance seemed to play over her.

“What, what are you talking about? Elves?
Elves?
”

Wheat's eyes were calm. “We're coming back, Joan,” she said. “We disappeared centuries ago, but there was a lot of intermarriage with humans over the years. Most people have some elven blood now. It's starting to wake up in some. If you're lucky, you recognize what's happening to you. Some people don't. They need to be told.”

Joan felt numb, but she began backing up, moving in the direction of her car. “I don't know what you think you're saying,” she whispered, “but I'll tell you this: I thought
I
was nuts. But you're even more of a fruitcake than me.”

Wheat took a step forward. “Joan . . .”

“
Stay away from me!
” Turning, Joan fled back to her Mercedes. Panic made her fumble at the door for a few seconds before she got it open.

In a minute, she had slewed the car around and was heading back up the dirt road, tires clawing for purchase on the sharp turns, headlights bobbing like will-o'-the-wisps. When she reached Highway 6, she turned east and floored it.

***

She awoke before dawn in her own bed, hardly remembering how she had gotten there. The clock said four-thirty, an hour before she usually rose, but she could not sleep any more. Feeling her way in the semi-darkness, she slipped into a robe and wandered into the kitchen to make coffee.

She remembered clearly—too clearly, in fact—most of what had happened the night before. Up until she had dashed for her car, the events were, in fact, well-nigh burnt into her mind. But she had only dim recollections of her mad drive back to Denver that had, doubtless, broken every speed law in the state of Colorado . . . and, equally doubtless, most of the other traffic regulations as well. After that, her apartment. And after that, sleep. Dead, dreamless sleep.

She pulled the carafe out of the coffeemaker and replaced it with her cup, filling it as the cycle was just beginning. The brew was strong and hot, and while it cleared her head a little, there was, nonetheless, some residual fuzziness that would not go away, and her hands, griping the cup, seemed not quite to belong to her.

Later on, in the shower, she sat down in the tub and let the water cascade over her as though she could let the previous night rinse off her like a layer of dust a grime. The water was hot, the steam warm and comforting, pressing close about her. She sighed, relaxing, half dozing off with her head resting on her drawn-up knees.

A minute later she started awake with a cry and hauled herself to her feet. She had seen a sea of stars spread out before her, glittering against a black sky. Trembling, she steadied herself against the tile wall and washed thoroughly, trying to erase the vision with soap and shampoo.

Outside, the sun was just breaking the horizon as she finished drying off and stepped to the mirror to comb out her hair. A shaft of pink and gold slipped in through the window and dazzled her for a moment. She closed her eyes and continued to work out the tangles, but behind her closed lids she saw a gleaming. Stars . . .

And still that fuzziness. Giddiness, actually. No . . . just . . . generally . . . feeling . . . odd . . .

The sun moved, the beam disappeared. She opened her eyes, comb poised to flick her hair back over her ears.

Her ears.

She shrieked, the sound ringing through the apartment, and she fled into the living room, her hands pressed to her head as if trying to deny what her eyes insisted was the truth. It could not be. Such things did not happen.

But the touch of her fingers only confirmed it, and, after nearly an hour of hiding, she finally mustered the courage to go back to the mirror.

Her face, she realized, had also changed. She looked younger, less strained, and there was some alteration in her cheekbones that made the ears fit more naturally. There was a familiarity about herself now, the same familiarity that she had seen in Wheat. She still could not name it, but she knew it.

Too shocked to be frightened, she managed to finish getting ready, blowing her hair dry and arranging it so that it covered her ears completely. It was an unusual style for her, but it seemed to be flattering enough. She prayed no one would comment on it.

The world looked different that morning, different and yet . . . quite normal. She knew instinctively that what she saw was, for the first time in her life, what was really there. Sun on grass, blue sky patched with white clouds, the mountains to the west piling stone on stone and tree on earth. Sometime in the course of the night there might well have been a new creation, for everything sparkled as if only hours old.

At another time, she would have called it one of her odd days. Not now. It was not odd. It was, instead, perfectly reasonable, perfectly acceptable, and, after having passed by the small park with the pond every day for the last five years, she finally pulled off the road and went down to the shore for a few minutes.