while the wind roared through the broken windows Axel never bothered to fix, and voles nested in the velvet seat cushions.
In Kamensic you could never trade much on fame, your own or your family’s—everyone was either famous, or sort of famous, or had
Nothing like that had happened to Axel Kern—yet. My own childhood memories of him were complex and rather strange, shaded as much by my physical impressions as anything else. These were startlingly acute. I have a strange gift for recalling sensations, and my father sometimes joked that I was psychic, though my mother would not allow a Ouija board in the house, and when I received an Amazing Kreskin’s ESP game for my birthday one year, she made me give it away. So while I recognized Kern’s famous profile—the tilted, deep-set eyes and high cheekbones, the iron-streaked dark hair and tawny skin that added to his exotic, unsettling persona—what I recalled most about him was the acrid scent of his trademark black Sobranies and the taint of red wine on his breath, at once sweet and foul. Or the way his hands felt when he occasionally and absently stroked my cheeks. Kern was not overly affectionate, at least with children, though he was always kind to me. His hands were large and heavily lined, as his face would one day be; it always felt as though he were wearing leather gloves, supple and rather tough. Yet his clothes were extremely dandyish, even for that foppish age. Custom-made Carnaby Street suits of silk velvet the color of ormolu. Belgian lace shirts so fine I could see through them to his coppery skin and the thick curling hair of his chest. Embroidered Berber robes from Morocco; cowboy boots of ostrich and elephant and python and what Axel solemnly assured me was mastodon, from a corpse recently uncovered in Siberia. I recall all of these, and his voice, lilting for such a big man—Kern was well over six feet—though I remember little of what he actually said. Probably this was because he seldom spoke to me. As I said, he had scant use for children.
Still, I had always felt a proprietary claim on him. And Ali’s story about the bell, ridiculous as it was, pissed me off. Now I stomped around for several minutes, hearing her laughter from the next room and the wind battering the storm windows.
“Lit?”
I looked up to see Hillary standing in the doorway. “I’m getting it,” I said curtly, and yanked the Monopoly set from a bookshelf.
“You and Ali having a fight or something?”
“No. I’m just sick of her stupid stories, that’s all. Look out—”
Hillary moved aside to let me pass. “Lay off her, will you?” he said softly.
“I’m not—”
He grabbed my arm before I could step back out into the living room. “Her mother has a boyfriend,” he whispered. “My father told me. They’re getting a divorce…”
I hesitated, looking out to where Ali still sat on the floor, watching cigarette smoke seep out the window cracked above her head. Beside me stood Hillary. I could hear his breathing, and when I glanced up I noticed for the first time that he had gotten taller, that all of a sudden he was bigger than I was. His hand was still on my arm. I could smell his hair, damp from the shower, and the warm scent of his skin beneath layers of flannel and wool. “Lit,” he said again; but I pulled away.
“All right then.” I flounced into the room, glaring at Ali. “Will you put that out, Ali? My father’ll kill you if he finds out. Come on, let’s play.”
After that I never asked her about the dead bell. If she started telling stories about Axel Kern, or the Village, or any of its odd history, I listened but said nothing. Somehow Hillary had made me feel that we had to protect Ali, and so I did. Much of the time I did so reluctantly, because Ali could be a bully; but I knew Hillary was right. We had to protect her, as the town protected us. It would be a few more years before Axel Kern returned to Kamensic and our world shivered apart, like a crystal vase vibrating to that dimly heard note. By then it was too late to protect anyone.
3. Ghosts
IN ANOTHER HOUSE NEARLY a thousand miles from Kamensic, atop a mountain far more isolated than Mount Muscanth (though no less strange), a man sat looking down upon the dying sun as it dipped beneath the trees. He was a very slight man, small-boned but strong-featured, his black hair curling almost to his shoulders and tinged with gray. The ruddy light spun a fine web across his sun-taut skin, but otherwise it was impossible to guess his age—his full cheeks were rosy as a child’s, his eyes a penetrating sea-blue beneath bristling black eyebrows. His first year undergraduate students always thought him quite ancient, forty at least; but those who went on to more advanced and esoteric studies at the University of the Archangels and Saint John the Divine were nonplused to find that as years and even decades passed, their Professor changed very little; and only the very wisest of his proteges gradually realized that, in fact, Balthazar Warnick never aged at all.
He sat now within an enormous bay window overlooking the Agastronga River far below. A hawk drifted lazily past, its wings tilting as it caught the air currents and finally plummeted out of sight. In the distance stretched the Blue Ridge mountains, their peaks a sunset archipelago thrusting upward from the October mist, light like molten copper trickling down their slopes. Balthazar Warnick leaned forward, tracing the hawk’s path. On the window ledge a note was perched, expensive stationery covered with the fine spidery handwriting of the Orphic Lodge’s formidable housekeeper—
Professor Warnick,
I am to remind you that we have passed three weeks since October 1, and you have not yet performed the pharmakos…
Balthazar sighed. Three weeks was far too long, of course, even for such a monotonous (and unpleasant) task as the pharmakos. But still he lingered at the window, putting off his duty for one more minute as he stared into the autumn haze.
His knee bumped against something, and he looked down to see the Benandanti’s orrery leaning sideways on the faded velvet window seat. A jeweled model of the solar system, sun and planets and little moons all formed of semiprecious stones. But one of the gold wires had become twisted, the lapis lazuli Venus perilously close to being thrown from its delicate orbit. Balthazar had set it here months ago, meaning to set about the careful task of repairing it with more gold filament.
But then the busy weeks of the University’s spring term had begun, with their round of oral and written dissertations, the painstaking process of winnowing Molyneux scholars and the painful one of dismissing those who had failed to live up to their promise, or otherwise crossed the Benandanti. And so the months had passed, until finally today Balthazar had returned to the Orphic Lodge, to find the Benandanti’s mountain stronghold isolate and calm as ever, and the little orrery yet unhealed.
With a sigh he picked it up and set it idly upon one knee, toying with the lapis representation of Venus— marble-sized, its surface etched with faint golden striations that felt like fine hairs beneath his fingertips. He rolled the glowing bead back and forth, back and forth, until heat began to rise from it, and tiny gray fronds like steam. He drew his hand back, smiling a little as the blue orb danced upon its filament; then whistled softly as his thumb caught upon the jagged bit of protruding gold filament. The orrery bounced upon the velvet cushion and came to rest against the window. Balthazar swore beneath his breath and drew his hand to his mouth, sucking another crimson bead from his thumb. On its abbreviated transit, gold-veined Venus spun and strained at its wire lead like a june beetle on a thread, and made a noise like a woman humming.
“‘
Somewhere within the vast reaches of the Orphic Lodge a clock struck the hour, six sweet clear chimes that
