Read Online Halfway Dead by Terry Maggert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Terry Maggert
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hands who have lain upon it.
We stopped at a room I’d never been in. Brendan turned on a light that flared to life with a sullen pop. It was a square space, with wooden cabinets that went to the ceiling. Looking up, I glanced meaningfully around for a ladder and found none.
“They’re down here, you don’t need to, ah, reach for anything,” he said, a smile playing at his lips. Short jokes never get old, it seems, but any biting retort died on my tongue when he took an old wooden box from the bottom cabinet. It hummed with magic, and I had to stop my hands from reaching for it. I put the blandest smile I could muster on my face and thanked him as he left, telling me to just leave the plates out when I was done.
I let the room settle around me before I opened the box. I cleared my mind, feeling that delicious tingle of something otherworldly that only witches can sense. After a long moment, I slid the thin lid up and out. It was a cleverly designed puzzle box with two steps, no doubt intended to keep the fragile glass in place.
The tops of twenty sections of glass winked up at me in the harsh light of the room. They stood upright, separated by a ridged bottom that kept each plate a quarter inch apart. As I began to lift the first one out, there was the faintest tinkling as some of the glass moved within the wooden tracks. It sounded like chimes made of bird bones; a hollow, off-putting noise that was somewhere between nature and man.
Gently, I held the negative up to the light. It was a disappointment. I stared at the reverse image of a forest and a scene that could have been anywhere in the Adirondacks. There were the requisite trees, a patch of sky, and nothing else. I slipped it back into its berth and selected the next. More sky, less trees, and precious little of interest, although there appeared to be a hillside spring flowing in the upper left of the image, judging by the intense green around the smear of moistened rock. I spent the next hour repeating this process until there were only two plates left. I could feel myself getting bored and a little bit hungry; for me that’s a deadly combination. I’m glad I have strong hands, because if I didn’t I would have certainly dropped plate number nineteen to the floor.
It was a ring of trees; huge, massive things that soared up and out of the image, each trunk a thick column that spanned ten feet across at the minimum. A natural tumble of stones spilled from the ravine behind the grove, and the canopy was so thick that hardly any light seemed to reach the forest floor. I recognized it instantly, and looked down at the lower right-hand corner of the plate. Someone had scrawled Thendara in a looping, feminine script, and there was a small but clear thumbprint underneath the writing. It seemed accidental, and I drew so close to the plate that my breath fogged the glass as I examined every whorl of the mysterious person who, for all I knew, had taken this picture some century and a half before. I placed the negative back with exaggerated care, wishing I had some fresh air.
It was the last plate that brought my mind into a kind of clarity that almost always signifies danger. The scene was the same, albeit from a slightly closer vantage point. The hulking chestnuts stole all the light, leaving a murk that cast sludgy shadows over everything. It was later in the day, but somehow I knew it was the same day.
His face was round, and young. A sweet boy, I could tell. He might have been twelve, just on the cusp of those awkward years where girls begin to look good and the world begins to look like a challenge. Blood flowed down the side of his face, staining the plain work shirt that was untucked from his britches as if he’d been in a fight. One finger of his right hand was nearly severed, and he stood at an odd angle as if his legs were injured. I noticed two things quickly: I could see through the boy into the forest beyond, and when I drew close enough to the plate
We stopped at a room I’d never been in. Brendan turned on a light that flared to life with a sullen pop. It was a square space, with wooden cabinets that went to the ceiling. Looking up, I glanced meaningfully around for a ladder and found none.
“They’re down here, you don’t need to, ah, reach for anything,” he said, a smile playing at his lips. Short jokes never get old, it seems, but any biting retort died on my tongue when he took an old wooden box from the bottom cabinet. It hummed with magic, and I had to stop my hands from reaching for it. I put the blandest smile I could muster on my face and thanked him as he left, telling me to just leave the plates out when I was done.
I let the room settle around me before I opened the box. I cleared my mind, feeling that delicious tingle of something otherworldly that only witches can sense. After a long moment, I slid the thin lid up and out. It was a cleverly designed puzzle box with two steps, no doubt intended to keep the fragile glass in place.
The tops of twenty sections of glass winked up at me in the harsh light of the room. They stood upright, separated by a ridged bottom that kept each plate a quarter inch apart. As I began to lift the first one out, there was the faintest tinkling as some of the glass moved within the wooden tracks. It sounded like chimes made of bird bones; a hollow, off-putting noise that was somewhere between nature and man.
Gently, I held the negative up to the light. It was a disappointment. I stared at the reverse image of a forest and a scene that could have been anywhere in the Adirondacks. There were the requisite trees, a patch of sky, and nothing else. I slipped it back into its berth and selected the next. More sky, less trees, and precious little of interest, although there appeared to be a hillside spring flowing in the upper left of the image, judging by the intense green around the smear of moistened rock. I spent the next hour repeating this process until there were only two plates left. I could feel myself getting bored and a little bit hungry; for me that’s a deadly combination. I’m glad I have strong hands, because if I didn’t I would have certainly dropped plate number nineteen to the floor.
It was a ring of trees; huge, massive things that soared up and out of the image, each trunk a thick column that spanned ten feet across at the minimum. A natural tumble of stones spilled from the ravine behind the grove, and the canopy was so thick that hardly any light seemed to reach the forest floor. I recognized it instantly, and looked down at the lower right-hand corner of the plate. Someone had scrawled Thendara in a looping, feminine script, and there was a small but clear thumbprint underneath the writing. It seemed accidental, and I drew so close to the plate that my breath fogged the glass as I examined every whorl of the mysterious person who, for all I knew, had taken this picture some century and a half before. I placed the negative back with exaggerated care, wishing I had some fresh air.
It was the last plate that brought my mind into a kind of clarity that almost always signifies danger. The scene was the same, albeit from a slightly closer vantage point. The hulking chestnuts stole all the light, leaving a murk that cast sludgy shadows over everything. It was later in the day, but somehow I knew it was the same day.
His face was round, and young. A sweet boy, I could tell. He might have been twelve, just on the cusp of those awkward years where girls begin to look good and the world begins to look like a challenge. Blood flowed down the side of his face, staining the plain work shirt that was untucked from his britches as if he’d been in a fight. One finger of his right hand was nearly severed, and he stood at an odd angle as if his legs were injured. I noticed two things quickly: I could see through the boy into the forest beyond, and when I drew close enough to the plate
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