The boats. Nothing seemed that different about them, except that there were far more, even though the docks were fewer. Then I noticed the lack of motorboats. Then I saw the side-wheeler, with a crooked black smokestack above it.
I tried to look into the fourth dimension again. For a moment, I got a clearer view, then a dimmer, and I could see the utility and inner nature of the things around me. The moment I looked, a strand of the morality substance touching me jerked rigidly, and glittered as some energy or signal passed along it.
That jerk frightened me; it looked too much like a trip wire being sprung. I closed my eyes tightly for a moment. When I opened them again, the fourth dimension was dim again, my hypersphere only a candle flame, illuminating nothing.
I admit I was scared. It is much easier to be scared when you are cold, tired, and footsore. And hungry.
When was the last time I had eaten? Holiday pie and hors d'oeuvres at Lily Lilac's house, I think.
Why had my upper senses failed just now? Maybe I had strained them by trying too hard. Maybe fear hindered their operation. Maybe it was part of a trap, or an attack. Or…
I said aloud, 'Colin, this is creeping me out. What was your motto: 'When in doubt, bug out'?'
Time to run away.
4.
I turned east and began to jog. In ten minutes, I had trees around me. By fifteen minutes, I was getting tired and beginning to wonder what time it was. Near noon? In the afternoon? Where was I going to sleep tonight?
Twenty minutes, and I came to a break in the trees.
And there was the highway. I walked across the empty lanes, staring left and right in wonder.
Power lines were dripping with icicles like Christmas ornaments. The telephone poles stood as stiff, regular, and proper as Beefeater guards before the palace of the Queen, with no expression to show that they had been gone from their posts when I last looked for them, half an hour ago.
One lane of the highway was paved in black slush and puddles of blue-gray water. In the distance there came one truck on the road, rolling cautiously down the lane, little wings of filthy water dashing from its tires as it came.
I put up my thumb. I cannot recall if they ever taught me not to hitchhike at school. Maybe they thought I would never leave the estate. But, unless the guy driving the truck was Grendel Glum's twin brother, I thought I would be in less danger than I had been anytime that morning.
I danced back to avoid getting sloshed, tripped on the snow, and landed on my bottom by the roadside, my bearskin flopping open, my hair tangles spilling every which way. My bird flapped and shrieked in annoyance, a high-pitched whine like a steam whistle, cold and lonely.
And shockingly loud. No ghost, no banshee could utter a wail as penetrating as a prince of chaos, trapped in the form of a brainless, bloodstained bird, lost in the snow.
The truck went on by. I understand it is customary in these situations to make rude finger-gestures in the rearview mirrors. I was too well brought up. I stood up, bird in one hand, and tried to shake the snow off my bearskin with the other.
Maybe the bearskin flapping did it. The truck slowed, stopped. Its reverse lights came on, and it backed up. It made a little
A man leaned from the driver's side and pushed open the passenger's door. He was a rough-looking fellow in a gray knit cap and a heavy woolen sweater. He had a pipe in his teeth, and the cab of the truck was thick and wet with pipe smoke. I stared in disbelief. Who smoked a pipe in a cab without opening a window?
He had a thick Cornish accent when he spoke. 'Merry Christmas, little lady. What might yew be doing out in the wet, on a day like this day?'
'You would not believe me,' I said.
'Oh, I hear a lot of things.'
'Today was supposed to be my wedding day and someone stole all my clothes, and I'm lost, and I was supposed to meet some friends at the docks in the village, but that was this morning, and they may have left ——-'
He looked at my face, which was probably all tearstained and red-eyed; at my clothes, which obviously were not mine; and at my bird, which was wrapped in a bloodstained handkerchief. The collar or choker made of green glass was still around my neck, and the matching bracelets shimmered and twinkled on my wrists. Maybe he thought they were real jewelry.
The pipe, as if by itself, slid from one corner of his mouth to the other. He pushed the door wider. 'Get in. I can give yew a ride to the dock. 'Tis nought but five minutes awa'.'
I climbed in gratefully. The cab was so high that I had to climb a little ladder thing set along the wheel guard.
It was hot to the point of stifling in the cab, and I coughed on the smoke.
He reached across me to grab the handle and rolled down my window. I must have had a worse morning than I thought, because when he reached out his arm, I fully expected him to grab me and tie me to the seat, or something.
He leaned back, giving me a cocked eye. 'Jumpy, are we, missy? Yew've had a bad time, no doubt.' He pronounced it
I said, 'I can't believe you believe my story.'
He shrugged. 'Yew dinnae know me. Why would y' lie? If yew are to lie, why not say something like to be believed, such as yer car broke down? Or that yer a travel-ing bird salesman who carries a big black bearskin rug around on her head? Besides, it's Christmas Day, it is. So I'll pretend to believe yer tale, and yull pretend yew fooled me, and 'twill be our little Christmas gifties to each other, hnn? Tis a day of faith, ye know.'
The truck trundled over the rise and came down again into the village. The lanes narrowed, and he began
