His hair. Connie realized it was the man’s hair—along with the feathers on his necklace, the tassels hanging from the animal-skin sleeves, and the loose-fitting clothing he was wearing—that had made her feel uneasy while he had stood outside the library, outside where the wind was howling and blowing the snow all over the place. The man’s hair and feathers and tassels and clothing hadn’t moved at all. The wind had no effect on them, as if he had been standing in a vacuum bubble that had protected him from the elements. There was no snow on his shoulders or hair. His clothes did not appear to be wet. Nothing indicated he had been standing in a blizzard only moments ago.
A shiver ran up Connie’s spine.
“Thank you.” The man extended a hand. He held it out, waiting for Connie.
Connie shook her head, cleared her throat, and shook the hand. I must have imagined it. His hair had to have been blown by the wind and I just didn’t notice it. But she couldn’t reconcile the fact that there was absolutely no snow on him. What explained that?
“I am eternally grateful to you for your kindness.”
“You are welcome. Although, you don’t have to be eternally grateful. The ‘thank you’ was enough.” Connie smiled, and John Smith smiled back.
“So.” Connie turned toward the main section of the library and John Smith followed. She spoke over her shoulder. “Margaret shared a little bit this morning of how you two met. At the movies, was it? Corvette Summer, I think she said.”
“Yes.” John Smith’s answer was precise and clear. “That was the movie.”
“She’s a young girl at heart.” Connie led John into the processing room and pointed at the phone on one of the desks. “You probably figured that out for yourself already.”
“Yes,” John nodded and smiled. “One of the most effective ways to live life—remain young at heart.”
Connie stood to the side as John approached the phone and picked up the receiver. He dialed the number and looked around the room, holding the receiver to his ear. She thought about the odd aphorism about remaining young at heart, odd not in that the saying itself was odd, but odd in that this man whom she had known less than five minutes would say such a thing. She had been the one to mention that Margaret was young at heart, so maybe it wasn’t a big deal—it’s not a big deal, so calm down—but it just seemed kind of…odd.
Connie poked her head around the doorway to look outside. She wondered if she would be able to get home. Mother nature had unloaded eighteen inches of snow on Old Wachusett two weeks ago, and in spite of the admirable job the municipal employees and independent plowmen had done of clearing the streets of snow, there were still mammoth snowbanks on every street and mountains of snow at every street corner, so much so that there was no place for the workers to put the snow from a storm such as this. The plowing would be rough going today, which meant the drive home would be that much more difficult. She lived only five minutes away, but if she couldn’t get out of the parking lot, that didn’t matter much. Perhaps she should call David to have him come pick her up on the way home from the college, assuming he had been let out early. Even if he hadn’t, she could stay here and do more work until he came by to get her. She would call him as soon as John Smith was done with the phone.
She turned back into the processing room and leaned against the doorway. Mr. Smith had hung up the phone and had in hand a book from the new book cart. A funny thought struck Connie. She didn’t feel the least bit uncomfortable being in the library alone with a stranger. A male stranger. That, too, along with the aphorism, she found to be odd. Connie wasn’t by any means a nervous person who was always looking over her shoulder for an approaching rapist or kidnaper, but at the same time she was appropriately cautious. She knew to never put herself into a situation that could turn dangerous.
But didn’t this qualify as one such situation? Why wasn’t she the least bit wary of being alone in a locked building with a man she did not know? She couldn’t explain it. If one were to ask her right now what she was thinking by not taking more precautions, she would have said that she didn’t feel any were necessary. And that would be the absolute truth. She did not feel, in her intuitive gut, that any precautions were necessary. Even though she relied more on her intuition while David followed facts, Connie was surprised at the lack of uneasiness she felt right now.
Should that in itself be a cause for concern? Maybe she should—
“—be possible to visit it?”
Connie blinked, realized she had been staring into space, and pushed off from the doorway. “I’m sorry. I must have been daydreaming. What did you say?”
“The direction of one’s future often lies in the power of dreams.”
“Um, yes, sure.”
Trying to recover from the embarrassment of being caught not paying attention, along with another odd saying uttered out of nowhere, Connie pointed at the book in John’s hand. Its title was A Brief History of New England. “I consider myself a student of history,” John said as he opened the book and flipped through its pages. “Writing a book chronicling the history of New England might prove to be an intellectually stimulating exercise, probably more so than reading such a book. I had asked if you have a local history room in your wonderful library, and if so, might it be possible to visit it?”
“We do.” Connie thought for a moment before answering the second part of John’s question. “Did you speak with Margaret?”
“No.” John placed the book back onto the cart. “She did not answer the phone. Perhaps she is not home yet, or is currently indisposed.”
Indisposed? Connie fought back a chuckle at the word. Who talked like that today?
“I will call back in a few minutes. Meanwhile, well, I do not wish to belabor the matter, but the local history room. Might it be possible….?
The room was located at the rear of the library. Before Connie could register any uneasiness about bringing John back to the privacy of the local history room she found herself walking down the main section of the library. John followed her. She took her keys from the front pocket of her slacks, unlocked the door, and flicked the light switch. The fluorescent lights buzzed to life and illuminated a small square room with two round tables in the center, each with two chairs flanking them. Three of the walls were lined with volumes of local history: property tax assessment books, high school yearbooks, dozens of copies of four different local history books written by former residents (two deceased, two living), diaries written by founding members of Old Wachusett, old street listings going back to the beginning of the century, and other historical volumes. The fourth wall had shelves designed to hold maps of varying shapes and sizes.
John walked around the room, his head tilted, index finger tracing the spines of the books.
“Looking for anything in particular?” Connie stood by the doorway.
John nodded. “I am, indeed.” He continued on, not offering any further information.
“Perhaps I could help you find it.”
“A book written by a local historian who specialized in Indian myth and folklore originating from this part of the land.”
“The land?” This time Connie could not keep her musings to herself. She chuckled at the use of the archaic language.
John turned to her. “I made you laugh.”
“I’m sorry. I’m really—” Connie covered her mouth with one hand and held up her index finger with the other. It took a moment for her to compose herself. When she did she lowered both hands and looked directly at John. “It’s just that I’ve never heard anyone speak the way you do. ‘From this part of the land?’ It’s…it struck me as funny, that’s all. I’m sorry if I offended or embarrassed you.”
“No offense taken.” John moved along the wall toward Connie and motioned to one of the chairs. “Please, sit down. I’d like to ask you a question, if I may be so bold.”
Connie nodded her head and sat obediently, perfectly at ease within the confines of the tiny room with a complete stranger. She did not notice that John, as he made his way behind her, quietly closed the door. He walked around the table, stood behind the chair for a moment, then pulled it out and sat down. The feathers on John’s necklace caught Connie’s attention. She studied them, observing the brilliant colors: red, green, blue, yellow. The beads, which she had noticed before but had not got a good look at, now appeared to be miniature heads of various animals: there was an owl, an eagle, a bear, a raccoon, and a wolf among others that Connie couldn’t quite discern.
“What do you fear?”
Connie blinked at the question. She raised her hands to her eyes and rubbed them. She felt as though she’d been asleep for days and was now waking up. She lowered her hands to the cold table and looked at the man sitting across from her. The man named John Smith. Connie felt a stirring inside her, something awakening within her…an awareness of an inner struggle.
“What did you say?”
“What do you fear?”
Connie looked at John Smith. Electricity surged through his long, black hair. Sparks traveled from the top of his head, out of his scalp, and down the individual strands of hair and out the ends. Sparkles of dancing light fell to the carpeted floor. The temperature in the room dropped. John Smith exhaled, and vapors drifted away from his mouth. Connie couldn’t figure out how the cold from outside had seeped into the local history room.
She pushed away from the table to get out of the room, but before she could stand hands flashed from across the table and clamped onto her wrists. Cold hands. Dead hands. Connie tried pulling her wrists free, but they did not move. The cold vise grip around each of them tightened.
“What do you fear?”
Connie looked into his eyes. The coldness numbing her hands faded into the background when she saw what was in his eyes. The irises turned color, roiling from red (had they been that color all along?) to orange to yellow to green to blue before turning to black night, matching the color and depth of the pupils. Then Connie gasped. In the center of the eyes, clearly set against the black backdrop of the pupil, she saw a boy suspended in midair. His legs dangled, his arms flailed. Blood stains spread down his back and chest. Something sharp and silver-metallic gripped both shoulders, causing the flow of blood. Connie saw nothing else. Not what the silver-metallic things were, not what was holding the boy in the air, not what was happening to him.
But there were two things she knew from what she did see.
The boy was her son, Joshua. And Joshua was in grave danger.
“You are correct. It is Joshua. And he is in grave danger.”
Connie jerked herself out of the trance or daydreaming or whatever it was and focused on the man gripping her wrists, not looking into his eyes, but at his neck, at the feathers and beads.
“He is in danger.” John loosened his grip on Connie’s wrists. “As are you, your husband, and everyone else living in Old Wachusett.”
Connie started shaking. “Who are you?” She drew away from the table. Her voice quivered. “What…what are you?”
“I am—”
Connie stood and leapt to the door. She yanked at the knob, turned it, yanked it again. The door did not open. She fumbled for her keys. Why the hell do we have a lock on the local history room door?
“Constance—”
Where are my keys? She stuck a hand inside her pocket, feeling for the metal key ring. She found it and pulled it out. Come on, come on, come on! She looked behind her as she found the key and stuck it into the lock. The guy was just sitting there, not moving, not doing anything.
“Constance, please…” He motioned to the seat she had been sitting in.
Screw that, she thought as she turned the key, turned the knob, and still was unable to open the door. What the hell? Did I have the wrong key? What…. She pulled the key out, looked at it, it was the right one. She jammed it back into the lock and turned it and—
“Constance, enough! No more of that!”
The phrase froze her in place, one hand on the knob, the other holding the key. That phrase. Only one other person in her entire life had ever used that phrase, in that tone, to stop her from doing something wrong, from back-talking, from acting in a rebellious manner, from being disrespectful.
That phrase had only been spoken to Connie by her mother.
She turned to John Smith.
“You must sit. You must listen.”
He waited.
She took the key out of the lock, put the key ring back into her pocket, and slid into the chair. “How did you know…those words…how…?”
“You must listen if you wish to survive, if you wish to save everyone you know and love.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. In time, you will. For now, know this. I asked you what you feared. I know what you fear. What’s happened between you and David—you fear him leaving you for someone else. Your son, Joshua—you fear him growing further and further apart from you and David.” The room was grew colder. Connie shivered. “My dear Constance,” John Smith continued, “there are many things you fear, some of which you are aware. Many of which you are not.”
John leaned toward her, his eyes focused on hers. “You fear me—I am something you have never encountered, and you fear that.” He paused, and one corner of his mouth turned upward. “And perhaps you should fear me. Depending on your willingness to follow what I tell you, perhaps you should.” He paused again. “I will tell you what you should fear the most.”
Connie worked her throat. She closed her eyes, wanting to do something, anything, but unable—unwilling?—to act. She opened her eyes and looked at John, but not at his eyes. Never again at his eyes.
“You should—you must—fear for your son. He is in more danger than all of us combined. His life, more importantly for all of us, his destiny hangs in the balance. He is being sought by two entities that wish to use him; one for good, the other for evil. These two entities will stop at nothing to find him. They do not know who your son is, or what importance he plays in the future history of this land and this people, and that is the only advantage we have. They do not know of his significance. But they are still looking for him for other reasons, and when they find him it will not take long for either one of them or both of them to discover who your son truly is. When that time comes….”
For the first time Connie heard fear in John’s voice. She felt it coming from him, a wave of emotion that quickly dissipated.
“When that time comes, and if it is the wrong entity that first discovers your son’s true identity, all will be lost. For me and my people, for you and your family, and for all who now inhabit this land you call Old Wachusett.”
John pulled away from Connie. “Do you understand what I have told you?”
Connie shook her head once, then nodded, first vigorously, then tentatively. “I saw,” she pointed at his eyes, “I saw him in your eyes. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew it was him, it was Josh. He is in danger, but what—”
“Constance.”
“What?” The word came out a hoarse whisper.
“It is not Joshua.”
Connie drew back. She tried to ask the question “What?”, and she moved her lips, but the word did not come out.
“Yes, it was Joshua you saw. And yes, he is in danger. But it is not him of whom I now speak.” John placed his hands on the table, palms down, fingers spread, his eyes fixed on Connie. “It is his twin brother.” He paused again. “Julian is the one being sought, and he is the one you must fear for if we do not do what needs to be done. Listen to me. I must now tell you—”
Connie’s eyes closed, her mind shut down, and her body slumped and slid off the chair. The last sound she heard was the distant ringing of a phone.