The Magic Cottage

MYCROFT

THE FOLLOWING Sunday we drove out to the Forest Inn for a snack lunch and a well-earned drink. What with the forthcoming recording session, set for the following Wednesday, and most of the tasks around the cottage now completed, we were in the mood for celebration.

I drank two pints of bitter with my lunch while Midge stuck to her customary orange juice; maybe it was because I was out of practice, but I felt fairly light-headed after I drained the last of the second pint, and more than ready for another. Midge had had enough of the pub, though, and in a way I couldn't blame her: after the tranquility of Gramarye, the crowd and the noise—this place was obviously a popular Sunday watering hole for both tourists and locals alike—was a little hard to take. The bustle and smoky atmosphere were in direct contrast to the peaceful and unpolluted existence we had quickly become used to (although I have to admit I quite enjoyed the change). Without too much protest from me, we left and walked arm in arm toward the Passat.

It was Midge's suggestion that we take a drive and explore some. We hadn't had much opportunity before, apart from walks into the woodland surrounding Gramarye and shopping trips into Cantrip and Bunbury, so it wasn't a bad idea providing we kept away from the mainroads which would be busy with day-trippers. I reversed the car from the parking space and headed away from the inn, breaking into loud song as we hit the road.

We soon turned off onto a quiet lane that snaked into a dense part of the forest, the twists and turns demanding all my concentration. The upper branches of trees formed a leafy tunnel, providing a pleasant relief from the hot sun. To be honest, I think we both had an idea where this road might lead, even though neither of us voiced an opinion: we were curious about the Synergists, our interest kindled by Sixsmythe's warning rather than cooled. Not that we wanted anything to do with them—in fact, it had been a relief that neither Kinsella nor the others had visited us since the blond bomber's departure the previous week. We only wanted to take a closer look at the gray house, the Temple itself. Nothing earnest, no deep motivation—only a destination for an afternoon drive. We'd discussed the Synergists, sure enough, and had easily come to the conclusion that they were no threat to mature and sensible people like us. Possibly Sixsmythe's stupid disclosure of Flora Chaldean's macabre death scenario hadn't exactly endeared him to us, so his views were not taken too seriously. Midge had been pensive for days afterward, but had eventually shed dark thoughts and relaxed in Gramarye's warm ambience once more. I'm sure the constant attention of birds and various animals around the place helped in this respect, bristling life banishing shadowy specters. The cottage would never be quite the same, but our peace of mind had been only slightly dented, not permanently damaged.

As you've already gathered, it had been an exceptionally glorious summer, and a small price had to be paid. The debt collector was about to rap on the windscreen as we sped down that secluded lane.

The Passat had spent weeks out under the boiling sun, used regularly and, to my discredit, rarely checked over. When I saw steam rising over the hood I tried to remember when I had last topped up the radiator. The temperature gauge was way up in the danger zone and a red light glared disgustedly at me.

"Shit!" I growled as clouds rose up in front.

Midge, who had never been machine-minded, said, "What's wrong with it, Mike?"

I could glare just as hard as that bloody red light, and Midge turned her head to the front once again.

"Sorry I asked," she said.

I brought the car to a halt and sat there, letting the engine and myself steam for a while.

"Can you fix it?" Midge ventured after a while, watching the billowing clouds as though they were part of the afternoon's entertainment.

Forcing myself to relax, I replied, "Only by spitting in the radiator." I studied the clouds too, but with less awe than Midge.

"Don't you think you should try and do something?"

I sighed. "Yeah, you're right. Maybe only the fan belt's gone. You wearing tights today?"

She gave me a quick flash and dashed my hopes. Groaning, I pushed open the door. "Pull that thing up, will you, Midge?" I pointed at a lever on the passenger side. She did so and the hood sprang open an inch.

I got out of the car and walked around to the front, muttering to myself as I slid my fingers through the gap and released the hood catch. Pushing the lid all the way up and turning my face away from the tumbling steam, I secured the hood with the retaining rod, then peered into the dragon's mouth. The fan belt was in good shape.

Maybe the demon drink had been enough to dull my senses, or I could have just had a mental relapse for a moment or two, because then I did something stupid, something that all motorists are warned against by those who know better: I took out my handkerchief, bunched it up over the radiator cap, and twisted.

The idea was to release the pressure, but of course once the cap was loosened, boiling water exploded upward like a thermal geyser. My left hand instinctively shot up to protect my eyes as I staggered backward and I howled—no, I screamed—when my skin was scalded by the fiery jet.

I fell, clutching at my arm and writhing with pain in the roadway. I was dimly aware of Midge kneeling beside me, trying to hold me still so that she could examine the burns. Some of my face and neck had been scalded, but the all-consuming pain was in my left hand and lower arm. My short-sleeved denim shirt was wet, but had at least provided a thin barrier against the boiling water for my chest.

I managed to sit, Midge supporting me with an arm around my back; my vision was too blurred with pain-squeezed tears for me to see the damage to my hand, but the agony was more than I'd ever felt in my life before.

Suddenly Midge was on her feet waving her arms frantically in the air. I was conscious of a red car drawing up, two figures getting out and hurrying over to me, one of them vaguely familiar. They knelt in the road and the mail—the other was a young girl—gently pulled at my injured arm.

"Oh dear, oh dear," I heard him mutter. Then he reached behind me and hauled me to my feet. "You'd better come along with us so we can quickly attend to that."

I looked down at my injured limb, blinking, away the dampness from my eyes, and saw that the skin was already beginning to bubble. Gritting my teeth, I allowed them to lead me to their car.

If anything, Midge was more distressed than me so, now I was over the initial shock, I did my best to grin reassuringly at her. It must have come out as an agonized grimace, because her mouth went down at the corners like a small child's and she fought back tears.

I was guided into the back seat of the couple's car, clutching my arm before me as if it were a freshly boiled lobster, and when the girl climbed into the driver's seat I recognized the braided hair, then the face as she turned anxiously toward me: it was Sandy, the girl I had rescued from the village punks the week before.

She said, "Mike, we're going to take you back with us to treat those burns. The Temple is less than a minute away."

"He needs a hospital," insisted Midge, next to me in the car.

The man had just opened the front passenger door and was leaning in. He was middle-aged, balding and very thin, his cheeks so sunken that the bones above cast shadows. "The nearest hospital is many miles away and he needs something done about the pain immediately. You can take him on to hospital afterward—if you think that's necessary." He sat and didn't speak again throughout the brief journey.

Sandy executed a hasty five-point turn in the narrow road and headed back in the direction from which they'd come. As Midge dabbed at the cooled dampness on my face with a tiny handkerchief, I realized I was in the same red Escort that Kinsella had arrived at the cottage in several evenings ago. She left my hand and lower arm alone, the skin there mottled a fierce scarlet and the flesh already beginning to swell.

The car stopped and Sandy jumped out. We were before tall wrought-iron gates set between staunch, gray pillars, a high wall of old brick continuing on either side. Beyond the gate we could see the huge house, the one we'd only seen from the back on our walk through the forest—Bleak House, as I'd mentally dubbed it. The girl swung open the gates while her older companion watched impassively through the window. Sandy hurriedly returned, her expression as anxious as Midge's, and set the Escort in motion again.

Although very much preoccupied with my own discomfort, I took note of the house as it loomed larger. It seemed strange that the place should be set back-to-front, the rear at the end of the long drive and facing toward the gates; even so, Croughton Hall aka The Synergist Temple was still coldly impressive from whatever view.

We passed around the side of the building, drawing up in the rectangular turning area. From there, the meadow stretched upward toward the woodland. By now I was beginning to tremble some, delayed shock I supposed. The man in front got out and opened my door; gingerly protecting my arm, I struggled from the car and looked up at the house. Don't ask me why, but even then when I could barely think of anything other than the intense burning pain, I was reluctant to go inside. Midge, however, appeared to have no such qualms.

"Come on, Mike, the sooner we immerse your arm in water, the better for you," she said, tugging firmly at my elbow. Sandy positioned herself on my other side, while the bony man led the way up the wide stairway to the entrance. Before we'd even reached the top step, one side of the big double door opened and Kinsella was there frowning down at us.

"Mike, what the hell's happened to you?" he called out.

"A disagreement with a car radiator," I quipped, not really feeling that humorous. In fact, I thought I was going to throw up at any moment.

His face blanched when he caught sight of my clawed hand. "Oh God, you'd better get him in here fast." He threw open the other side of the door to allow us all through.

By now I was really shaking, try as I might to control it. Midge clung to me as if afraid I would collapse.

We were in a large hallway, a broad staircase opposite leading up to a gallery. The pain was growing worse, so I wasn't taking too much notice of my surroundings, but still I was aware of the sudden dim coolness inside the house.

"Can we get him into the kitchen or bathroom and put his arm in cold water?" I heard Midge implore.

"We can do much more than that," Kinsella replied. He turned to the girl and said in a voice that was barely audible, "Tell Mycroft who's here and exactly what's happened. Hurry."

Sandy hurried.

He spoke to the Bone Man next and only later did I wonder at Kinsella's authority. "Let the others know," was all he said, and the older man immediately scurried off.

"Okay, Mike, let's try and get you comfortable." The American opened a door off the hallway and ushered us through.

We found ourselves inside a large drawing room—or it may have been a library, so crammed with books were the walls. The heavy mustiness of the atmosphere which, even in my condition, was distinct and somehow unpleasant, suggested that most of the volumes were old editions. Not that I was in the mood for browsing.

Kinsella seated me at a large oval table, its surface highly polished. Angled shafts of sunlight struck into the room in clear, delineated rays, like searchlights, and he went to each tall window to draw the curtains, leaving them open barely a fraction, so that the light was no more than narrow beams. The door we'd entered by had been left ajar and I could see and hear movement outside as though people were gathering. I was damp with perspiration, feverish almost, and I really wanted to scream out at the pain's growing intensity. It was as if nerves numbed by shock (or heat) were now awakening and absorbing the hurt more fully.

"We must do something!" Midge urged as I sucked in air between tight lips to stifle my own moans.

"Be patient a moment longer," Kinsella replied calmly, which was easy for him to say. He sat beside me at the table and laid out my arm on the glossy surface, careful to guide me by the elbow only. Midge stood over me, hands on my shoulders.

"The car radiator burst, huh?" said Kinsella.

"No," I answered between clenched teeth. "I was stupid enough to unscrew the cap."

"You were lucky your arm took the full blast. If your face had . . ."

"Yeah, I know. I was stupid and lucky at the same time."

He was examining the blotchy scald marks on my face when the door opened all the way. A man stepped in and Kinsella said, "Mycroft."

I'm not sure what I'd expected, but the very name, coupled with the vicar's sinister warnings about the Synergists, had conjured up visions of someone tall and powerful, with leathery, wrinkled skin and piercing pale eyes that could shrivel another's soul at will. A cross between Vincent Price and George C. Scott, maybe, or even Basil Rathbone's older brother. This guy was medium height and paunchy, skin smoothly unblemished; almost, but not quite, characterless. He wore gray slacks and a maroon cardigan over a bright white shirt, a beige tie formalizing what otherwise might have been a relaxed effect (these observations were assembled as a whole afterward, you understand, when my suffering had eased—at the time, his appearance wasn't my prime concern). I suppose his eyes could have been described as penetrating, but there was a gentleness to them also. Sorry I can't make the man sound more insidious (sorry because of later events), but that's how he appeared then. He could have been anybody's favorite uncle.

Kinsella stood as Mycroft approached, standing aside and pulling back his chair so that the white-haired man could move in closer to me. Mycroft leaned forward, one hand resting on the tabletop, and I caught a faint whiff of spicy breath. He looked first at my face, then down at my injured hand and arm.

"You must be in great pain," he surmised (quite unnecessarily, I thought). His voice was mild and oddly dry, and the American accent was more New England than further south. There was also a great deal of concern in his tone, almost as if he shared my pain.

"If you want the truth, it's not getting any better," I confessed, growing a little weary of all this inspection and no action. The raw flesh of my arm was beginning to pull alarmingly.

He looked directly into my eyes once more, then at Midge. "We'll waste no more time," he said, more to her than me. He waved a hand and the door opened wide: in came Sandy, our friend Gillie with her;-between them they carried a clear, rectangular bowl containing a greenish liquid. They placed it on the table before Mycroft and myself.

"Call them in," Mycroft said to Kinsella, who promptly went to the door and gave the order. I looked around, becoming quite nervous; Gillie smiled reassuringly at me, but didn't speak. I noticed Midge was also worried.

People began filing into the room, all silent and all watching me. Neil Joby was among them but, although he stared straight at me, he gave no acknowledgment.

I started to rise. "Hey, wait a minute . . ."

Mycroft placed a firm but not forceful hand on my shoulder. "Please sit down and don't be afraid. Your pain will be gone in a few moments."

"No, I don't think so," I began to say, and it was Midge who intervened.

"Mike, wait."

I stared at her. She gave a brief shake of her head.

"I want you to trust me, Mike." Mycroft's voice had altered subtly: it was both soothing and commanding—and very hard to resist. I sat down again and he drew up a chair so that he could be close. "I want you to trust us all," he said, pushing up his sleeves to the elbow. I wiped perspiration from my eyes, agog at what was going on and uncertain of how far I was prepared to let it go.

Mycroft smiled at me as though aware that I thought him crazy and he was quite prepared to enjoy the joke with me. His smile was knowing and encouraging at the same time. He then did something I hadn't expected: he put his own hands into the liquid.

The people around the room—they were of all ages and of more than one nationality—joined hands and closed their eyes. Mycroft, too, had closed his eyes, his lips moving slightly as though intoning a silent prayer. I thought the mob might start chanting "Ommmm" at any moment.

I suppose I must have looked desperate, because Midge held on to me as if to prevent my escape.

"Midge . . .?"

There was a peaceful kind of excitement in her eyes, an inner shining that hinted she was beginning to believe in these nuts.

I felt my burned arm being lifted, and turned back to Mycroft, ready to pull away. His smile discouraged any such reaction and I allowed him to bring down my arm into the greenish liquid.

I got ready to scream, yet not once did I attempt to draw back—I was already learning that this mild-looking man had a hidden persuasiveness. He immersed my hand, then the rest of my arm up to the elbow, and although I couldn't feel the fluid I knew it had more substance than plain water. It looked oily smooth.

Immediately the terrible burning pain ceased, soothed by the cool liquid; I felt as though my arm had been frozen in ice.

Mycroft's fingers lightly stroked the skin, his eyes closed once more, lips moving only slightly. The relief was so immense that I nearly whooped with joy; instead I breathed a huge sigh. I was conscious, too, of the pressure from Midge's fingers on my shoulders and when I turned my head to look up at her, her eyes were also closed, her brow wrinkled in concentration.

"Midge," I said, "the pain's gone."

She opened her eyes, looked at me, looked at my immersed arm. Her relief seemed as great as mine when she hugged my neck.

Mycroft still held me there, continuing to gently stroke my flesh; his fingertips somehow left a tingling trail in their wake. Glancing around the room, I saw that the others still had their eyes closed, one or two of the women swaying on their feet as though about to swoon; their hands were clenched tight in each other's and I had the impression of energy flowing through every individual, passing on to the next, then the next, going full circuit.

Insane, I voiced, strictly to myself. But I couldn't deny I was no longer hurting. Yeah, and what happens when the hand comes out of water? The liquid's obviously a pain-freezer, so how's the arm gonna feel without it? I was soon to find out.

Mycroft opened his eyes and lifted the hand clear. He held it there while liquid drained off, then turned to me and I was unsure if there wasn't just a trace of mockery in his smile. /

The swelling of my flesh had definitely subsided, although my fingers remained puffy; that awful glowing redness was still there, but no more blisters were forming. Best of all, I could feel no pain, only a numbed stiffness.

"I don't believe it," I said incredulously.

"There's no need to," he replied. "Accept, that's all you have to do."

Mycroft rose and the people began to open their eyes, some of them being held steady by those beside them. They released each other's hands to break into applause and I wondered if Mycroft was going to take a bow. Instead, he held up a hand and the clapping stopped.

"We must only be thankful that our young friend no longer suffers," he told them. "You've witnessed our mutual strength, now reflect upon that for a while on your own." He was so casual, so matter-of-fact, his voice even and friendly; no tub-thumping or showing off as you might expect from some quasireligious leader who'd just pulled off a pretty good stunt.

His followers left the room, most of them smiling happily, the rest deep in thought. They were a mixed bag all right, of various ages and nationalities as I've said, but also of different types, from the slightly freakish (wild hair, wild eyes) to the mundanely straight (smartish clothes, bland faces).

Gillie came forward and carefully wrapped a linen towel around my arm, allowing the excess moisture to be absorbed before removing it again. Then it was Sandy's turn: she'd produced bandage and gauze from somewhere and proceeded to dress my arm, ever so gently laying the gauze over the burns first before applying the bandage.

"We oughta let a hospital handle this end of things," I suggested uncertainly.

Kinsella was grinning all over his all-American face. "No need for that, Mike. You're gonna be fine, you'll see."

"The dressing is perfectly sterile," reassured Mycroft, "and you'd find a nurse would do no more than this."

"They might give me a shot or pills or something."

"Unnecessary, but of course you must do as you see fit.

I suggest you rest today and see a doctor tomorrow if you're still uneasy. There won't be any more pain."

I found the last bit ridiculous—Christ, I'd been really scalded— but I didn't want to appear tetchy, not after what he'd done. "Yeah, well, let's see what tomorrow brings."

I was able to smile.

Mycroft, apparently, had already lost interest in me, and was studying Midge with that minimal smile (I was sure it was slightly mocking) on his face once more.

"And you are obviously Midge," he said.

His gaze was a bit too penetrating for my liking, oddly bringing to mind Ogborn the lawyer's barely disguised interest in her all those weeks ago. I'd never looked kindly on dirty old men.

"I don't know how we can ever thank you enough," she replied, and I could tell the tension was only slowly draining from her. Despite the room's dimness, I could also see that she was very tired.

"Thanks are neither sought nor required. I've heard much about you and you'll forgive me if I say I'm glad that you finally had cause, unfortunate though the circumstances were, to visit our Temple."

Gillie and Sandy had gone to the windows and were drawing back the curtains. The light broadened and brought some cheer back into the room.

"Hub has invited us on several occasions," said Midge, "but with so much work in the cottage . . ." She flapped her hands at our standing excuse.

"Ah yes, Gramarye." The name pleased him, his smile becoming warmer.

"You know our place?" I asked.

He didn't even look my way. "It's been described to me. Tell me, young lady, are you very happy there?"

If Midge was surprised by the question, she didn't show it. "Yes, very. We both are. It's a wonderful home."

"In what sense is it wonderful?"

Now she was taken aback. "It . . . it's so peaceful, so serene. And yet full of life. Lots of animals are attracted to it, and there's so much . . ." She floundered, unable to find the right words.

Mycroft found one for her. "Vitality." It wasn't even a question.

"Yes," Midge agreed eagerly. "Yes, that's it exactly."

Mycroft seemed satisfied. He dried his own hands, then pulled down his sleeves. "I would clearly love to speak to you again," he said finally.

Midge just nodded, then turned to me. "How are you feeling, Mike?"

"Me? Good. But I'll never play the piano again—" I broke off and groaned. I'd realized the consequences of my accident. "The recording session on Wednesday—there's no way I'll be able to play."

"Oh, Mike, I'd forgotten." Midge bit into her lower lip and knelt beside me, her arm hugging my waist to comfort. I was too angry at myself to be comforted, though.

"I'm not sure I understand," said Mycroft. "Is there some kind of professional engagement you think you'll have to miss?"

"I'm a musician," I explained. "There was an important session set for later this week, but it looks as if I'm out of it." I stared at my bandaged hand and felt like banging it against the table. I didn't, of course.

Mycroft sat facing me again and put his hand on my shoulder. "Go home and stay there for the next day or so. Don't go out anywhere, just stay inside." He leaned forward confidentially and said, "Your hand will be completely healed by Wednesday."

Grateful though I was, I had to restrain myself from shouting at him. "Right," I said evenly. "I'll go home. I'll stay indoors. Thanks a lot." I stood. "We'd better be on our way, Midge." My eyes told her: No more talk, no more thank-yous; let's just get out of here.

She understood perfectly.

But it was Mycroft who left the room before us. "I'll say good-bye to you now," he said, his voice revealing no resentment of my sudden brusque manner. "Please don't forget my invitation."

"I won't," replied Midge—he'd been speaking to her, not me. She held out a hand as if to shake his, but he appeared not to notice; he turned briskly and walked from the room. I say "appeared" not to, because I'm sure his eyes flickered downward at Midge's hand for a second and he involuntarily drew backward, the slight movement transformed into a complete turn as if his mind were already on other matters. I could have been wrong, but in the light of later events I think not.

"You've still gotta problem, Mike." Kinsella was grinning at me, fingers slid into the pockets of his tight Wranglers.

We looked quizzically at him.

"A dried-out radiator," he reminded us.

I nearly hit my forehead with my bad hand.

He chuckled. "S'okay, I'll organize a can of water and drive you back to your wheels. Let's hope the engine's not messed up."

"Yeah, let's hope."

We left the house and I was glad to be outside, happy to feel the sun on my face again. Weird, but the only soreness I now felt was, in fact, on my face and neck where droplets of scalding water had managed to hit me. Even so, that pain was mild compared to what I'd experienced earlier. Parts of my chest may have felt a bit tender, but the coarse material of my shirt had prevented any real damage. My bandaged lower arm and hand was still tingling, but the feeling wasn't unpleasant.

"Incredible stuff," I remarked to Kinsella as the three of us walked toward the red Escort.

"Huh?" he said, squinting against the sun.

"That green liquid you used on my arm."

"Oh, that was nothing special. A cleanser, that's all, laced with antiseptic."

"But it stopped the pain."

"Mycroft stopped the pain, my friend."

"That isn't possible."

"Yup, we both know it."

"Then why—?"

He flashed those sickeningly perfect teeth. "Mycroft's a wonderful man."

He seemed to think that was explanation enough.

We reached the car and Kinsella opened the rear door for us. Midge climbed in first and I followed, careful not to bump my hand against anything. He took the driver's seat and we waited for someone to arrive with the can of water.

Midge leaned forward in her seat. "Are you feeling better yourself, Hub?" she asked.

He turned to her in surprise. "How d'you mean?"

"You left rather hurriedly the other evening. We thought you'd been taken ill." .

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and pointed toward one corner of the house. "Here comes Neil with that water." He cleared his throat, then said, "I guess I did feel unwell that time. Sorry, it was kinda rude of me to rush away like that. Something I had for lunch didn't agree with me, y'know?"

The passenger door opened and Neil Joby got in, placing the plastic watercan down by his feet.

"Okay, wagons roll," said Kinsella, switching on the engine. "You folk'll be home in no time."

We drove around the house and both Midge and I turned as we gathered speed on the long driveway. The gray house—the Synergist Temple—was much larger than we had imagined when we had first caught sight of it from the forest edge.

To me, at least, it now seemed far more ominous. Yet Midge was looking back with a trace of a smile tilting her lips.