had obviously been added onto several times, and sported three distinct porches, though only two were visible in this view.
The following shot was of Dave and his Candy Apple Red ’66 Mustang, the one he called the Mustang-of-Death. It seemed to have had a near brush with its namesake, too, because it was missing the right front fender, and the passenger door was blue. He wondered if Dave had ever got it back like he’d wanted it after the accident—he’d never actually seen it intact.
He skipped quickly by a series that showed the Enotah County landscape. It was not that different from the territory around here, though the Carolina mountains might be a touch higher than their Georgia counterparts, and there seemed to be a few more artificial lakes filling the valleys over there.
And then he found a picture of a gaggle of teenaged boys standing in front of a neat Cape Cod bungalow. They were the MacTyrie Gang, Dave’s gaming and run-around buddies: tall, lanky Darrell “Runnerman” Buchanan, who was handsome in a foolish sort of way, and who, as a member of his high school track team, wore his hair in a scraggly pony tail Calvin was certain Dave wanted very badly to emulate. And dark-haired “G-Man” Gary Hudson, who also ran track, but was into serious body building (he had doffed his shirt and struck a pose for the photo). He was the one getting married—make that having to get married.
Between them was slender Alec McLean, dressed very hi-tech in his black parachute pants and T-shirt, and with his spiky haircut and earring. That hipness was an illusion, though, because Alec was the most conservative—and, after Dave, the brightest, especially in science—of the lot. Finally there was the one he didn’t really know, because he’d been gone most of the time Calvin had spent over there: Aikin Daniels, just a solid, nice-looking middle-sized guy in silver-framed glasses, cammy fatigues, and a black T-shirt that depicted a howling wolf. Dave had said he was the sportsman of their crew, and something of a loner, though the gaming campaigns he orchestrated were noted for their imagination. He was also, apparently, the last one to learn about the Worlds.
Only two pictures to go, now. The first was of Dave’s girlfriend, Liz Hughes, and showed a pretty, pointy-faced red-haired girl holding a camera of her own. She was very slender (exactly the way Calvin liked ’em), and had green eyes that radiated a challenging sparkle. In the photo she was wearing white cutoffs and a green Abolish Continental Drift T-shirt.
The last shot showed the ruins of a mid-nineteenth century cabin nestled in a mountain hollow. The place had been knocked off its foundations, and was skewed every other way as well, with not a window pane intact. The front porch had been smashed to kindling, and large sections of the tin roof were missing. A crumpled burgundy Volvo lay stuffed into one corner.
That was Dave’s uncle’s house: the one that had practically been destroyed when the Sidhe had ridden from their World to demand that Dave surrender Alec, whom they believed to have betrayed them. Calvin had been instrumental in setting things right afterward, and that had been the thing that convinced him to follow the way of the shaman and try to learn the secrets of his people’s magic, to which end he had returned more than once to Galunlati to study. As for Dale Sullivan’s house—he’d heard the old guy had given up on fixing it and had moved a house trailer onto the lot behind the ruins.
“You miss them, don’t you?” came a soft voice behind him, and before Calvin could turn, a woman settled herself on the bench built into the railing to his right. She was as tall as he was, and slender, with hair that would have been brown had the sun not been at it for years, and had it not been so long—nearly to her waist in back. In another time she would have been called a hippie, at least by looks and lifestyle. But she knew more about
The following shot was of Dave and his Candy Apple Red ’66 Mustang, the one he called the Mustang-of-Death. It seemed to have had a near brush with its namesake, too, because it was missing the right front fender, and the passenger door was blue. He wondered if Dave had ever got it back like he’d wanted it after the accident—he’d never actually seen it intact.
He skipped quickly by a series that showed the Enotah County landscape. It was not that different from the territory around here, though the Carolina mountains might be a touch higher than their Georgia counterparts, and there seemed to be a few more artificial lakes filling the valleys over there.
And then he found a picture of a gaggle of teenaged boys standing in front of a neat Cape Cod bungalow. They were the MacTyrie Gang, Dave’s gaming and run-around buddies: tall, lanky Darrell “Runnerman” Buchanan, who was handsome in a foolish sort of way, and who, as a member of his high school track team, wore his hair in a scraggly pony tail Calvin was certain Dave wanted very badly to emulate. And dark-haired “G-Man” Gary Hudson, who also ran track, but was into serious body building (he had doffed his shirt and struck a pose for the photo). He was the one getting married—make that having to get married.
Between them was slender Alec McLean, dressed very hi-tech in his black parachute pants and T-shirt, and with his spiky haircut and earring. That hipness was an illusion, though, because Alec was the most conservative—and, after Dave, the brightest, especially in science—of the lot. Finally there was the one he didn’t really know, because he’d been gone most of the time Calvin had spent over there: Aikin Daniels, just a solid, nice-looking middle-sized guy in silver-framed glasses, cammy fatigues, and a black T-shirt that depicted a howling wolf. Dave had said he was the sportsman of their crew, and something of a loner, though the gaming campaigns he orchestrated were noted for their imagination. He was also, apparently, the last one to learn about the Worlds.
Only two pictures to go, now. The first was of Dave’s girlfriend, Liz Hughes, and showed a pretty, pointy-faced red-haired girl holding a camera of her own. She was very slender (exactly the way Calvin liked ’em), and had green eyes that radiated a challenging sparkle. In the photo she was wearing white cutoffs and a green Abolish Continental Drift T-shirt.
The last shot showed the ruins of a mid-nineteenth century cabin nestled in a mountain hollow. The place had been knocked off its foundations, and was skewed every other way as well, with not a window pane intact. The front porch had been smashed to kindling, and large sections of the tin roof were missing. A crumpled burgundy Volvo lay stuffed into one corner.
That was Dave’s uncle’s house: the one that had practically been destroyed when the Sidhe had ridden from their World to demand that Dave surrender Alec, whom they believed to have betrayed them. Calvin had been instrumental in setting things right afterward, and that had been the thing that convinced him to follow the way of the shaman and try to learn the secrets of his people’s magic, to which end he had returned more than once to Galunlati to study. As for Dale Sullivan’s house—he’d heard the old guy had given up on fixing it and had moved a house trailer onto the lot behind the ruins.
“You miss them, don’t you?” came a soft voice behind him, and before Calvin could turn, a woman settled herself on the bench built into the railing to his right. She was as tall as he was, and slender, with hair that would have been brown had the sun not been at it for years, and had it not been so long—nearly to her waist in back. In another time she would have been called a hippie, at least by looks and lifestyle. But she knew more about
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