Songs of Love & Death

Hope flared up in Jerry like a bonfire. They knew what the stones were, how it worked. They’d show him how to get back!

“How—how did ye find me?” He could hardly breathe, such a pace they kept up, but had to know. The lantern was shut and he couldn’t see their faces, but the dark man made a muffled sound that might have been a laugh.

“I met an auld wifey wearing your dog tags. Very proud of them, she was.”

“Ye’ve got them?” Jerry gasped.

“Nay, she wouldna give them up.” It was the fair man, sounding definitely amused. “Told us where she’d got them, though, and we followed your trail backward. Hey!” He caught Jerry’s elbow, just as his foot twisted out from under him. The sound of a barking dog broke the night—some way away, but distinct. The fair man’s hand clenched tight on his arm. “Come on, then—hurry!”

Jerry had a bad stitch in his side, and his knee was all but useless by the time the little group of stones came in sight, a pale huddle in the light of the waning moon. Still, he was surprised at how near the stones were to the farmhouse; he must have circled round more than he thought in his wanderings.

“Right,” said the dark man, coming to an abrupt halt. “This is where we leave you.”

“Ye do?” Jerry panted. “But—but you—”

“When ye came… through. Did ye have anything on you? A gemstone, any jewelry?”

“Aye,” Jerry said, bewildered. “I had a raw sapphire in my pocket. But it’s gone. It’s like it…”

“Like it burned up,” the blond man finished for him, grim-voiced. “Aye. Well, so?” This last was clearly addressed to the dark man, who hesitated. Jerry couldn’t see his face, but his whole body spoke of indecision. He wasn’t one to dither, though—he stuck a hand into the leather pouch at his waist, pulled something out, and pressed it into Jerry’s hand. It was faintly warm from the man’s body, and hard in his palm. A small stone of some kind. Faceted, like the stone in a ring.

“Take this; it’s a good one. When ye go through”—the dark man was speaking urgently to him—“think about your wife, about Marjorie. Think hard; see her in your mind’s eye, and walk straight through. Whatever the hell ye do, though, don’t think about your son. Just your wife.”

“What?” Jerry was gobsmacked. “How the bloody hell do you know my wife’s name? And where’ve ye heard about my son?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the man said, and Jerry saw the motion as he turned his head to look back over his shoulder.

“Damn,” said the fair one, softly. “They’re coming. There’s a light.”

There was; a single light, bobbing evenly over the ground, as it would if someone carried it. But look as he might, Jerry could see no one behind it, and a violent shiver ran over him.

“Tannasg,” said the other man under his breath. Jerry knew that word well enough—spirit, it meant. And usually an ill-disposed one. A haunt.

“Aye, maybe.” The dark man’s voice was calm. “And maybe not. It’s near Samhain, after all. Either way—ye need to go, man, and now. Remember, think of your wife.”

Jerry swallowed, his hand closing tight around the stone.

“Aye. Aye… right. Thanks, then,” he added awkwardly, and heard the breath of a rueful laugh from the dark man.

“Nay bother, mate,” he said. And with that, they were both off, making their way across the stubbled meadow, two lumbering shapes in the moonlight.

Heart thumping in his ears, Jerry turned toward the stones. They looked just like they’d looked before. Just stones. But the echo of what he’d heard in there… he swallowed. It wasn’t like there was much choice.

“Dolly,” he whispered, trying to summon up a vision of his wife. “Dolly. Dolly, help me!”

He took a hesitant step toward the stones. Another. One more. Then nearly bit his tongue off as a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He whirled, fist up, but the dark man’s other hand seized his wrist.

“I love you,” the dark man said, his voice fierce. Then he was gone again, with the shoof-shoof sounds of boots in dry grass, leaving Jerry with his mouth agape.

He caught the other man’s voice from the darkness, irritated, half-amused. He spoke differently than the dark man, a much thicker accent, but Jerry understood him without difficulty.

“Why did ye tell him a daft thing like that?”

And the dark one’s reply, soft-spoken, in a tone that terrified him more than anything had so far.

“Because he isn’t going to make it back. It’s the only chance I’ll ever have. Come on.”

THE DAY WAS dawning when he came to himself again, and the world was quiet. No birds sang and the air was cold with the chill of November and winter coming on. When he could stand up, he went to look, shaky as a newborn lamb.

The plane wasn’t there, but there was still a deep gouge in the earth where it had been. Not raw earth, though—furred over with grass and meadow plants—not just furred, he saw, limping over to have a closer look. Matted. Dead stalks from earlier years’ growth.