Read Online The Kind Folk by Ramsey Campbell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ramsey Campbell
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old, Luke?"
She's expressing admiration, not disbelief, but for an uneasy moment he feels she's implying that he couldn't have overcome his condition—that it's lying low inside him. "I hope they knew how brave you were," she says.
"Nobody needed to know."
"Well, I'm glad I do. They were proud of you, anyway, and they still are," Sophie says and stands up. "Shall we go on with the tour?"
The house stirs in response—at least, Luke imagines that the doors of the serving hatch fidget as the vibrations of a train reverberate through the bricks. He pulls the pair of lightweight doors wide to see Sophie come into the dining-room. With not much more than a glance at the fishing tackle and the magazines she says "Where are his books?"
"In the library," Luke says with some force on Terence's behalf. "He used to say that was how you helped people to read, keeping the libraries open. I expect that's where he found the tales he told me."
"See how many you can remember, then you'll be able to save them up."
Which of them might he tell their child? He remembers Terence saying there were places so remote they weren't on any map and so isolated that they hadn't caught up with the world. They were still in the process of becoming, so that time and space and the tyranny of matter had less of a hold over them, though surely Terence hadn't used those words. He'd talked about a jungle where explorers stumbled on a valley in the mist, where birds of an unknown species flew away at their approach and settled in the trees to wait for them. The explorers wondered if they'd caught some kind of jungle fever, because as the birds flapped into the distance they appeared to grow larger—far too large. This wasn't the reason the party made a wide detour around the valley and never recorded the location; it was the sight of a solitary figure watching from beside a bush as if he was guarding the path into the valley. He wore a mask like the head of a creature too prehistoric to be named, or was it a mask? The explorers retreated into the mist, praying they weren't followed, and one of them risked whispering what they'd all seen: though the shrub hadn't been as tall as the watcher, it was no shrub—it must have been at least fifty feet high. But you didn't have to go into the jungle, according to Terence; if you knew where and how to look you could still find traces of the shaping of the world.
Would Luke ever tell his child anything like that? He doesn't know what effect it might have, which feels like being unsure how it affected him. Before he can decide he sees Sophie making for the hall. "Sorry," he says and manages to reach it first. "Upstairs is worse."
She lingers in front of the pictures and the framed mosaic in the hall. By the time she follows him Luke has picked up the ragged towel and draped it over the chilly metal rail. The dead fly is marinating in the coffee, which he empties down the toilet. He's rinsing the mug when Sophie glances into the bathroom and moves on to Terence's bedroom.
He almost breaks the mug in his haste to put it down, but he's too late. She's tucking the dishevelled sheet under the mattress, and without too much more effort she stoops to drag the quilt onto the bed. "I'm just straightening up for now," she says. "We'll need to make a laundry trip if any of this is worth it." Letting go of the quilt, she takes hold of the solitary pillow.
The house shivers, or Luke's vision does, as a train passes close overhead. The muffled thunder seems to darken the room, unless Luke's apprehension is hindering his senses. Sophie lifts the pillow and begins to tremble—no, she's shaking it into some kind of shape. There was nothing under it, no face lurking like an insect beneath a stone, not even a sculpted face. She lays the pillow to rest and glances at the ceiling as the rumble of wheels mutters into silence. "I suppose you can ignore anything," she says, "if you live with it long enough."
"Maybe he couldn't any
She's expressing admiration, not disbelief, but for an uneasy moment he feels she's implying that he couldn't have overcome his condition—that it's lying low inside him. "I hope they knew how brave you were," she says.
"Nobody needed to know."
"Well, I'm glad I do. They were proud of you, anyway, and they still are," Sophie says and stands up. "Shall we go on with the tour?"
The house stirs in response—at least, Luke imagines that the doors of the serving hatch fidget as the vibrations of a train reverberate through the bricks. He pulls the pair of lightweight doors wide to see Sophie come into the dining-room. With not much more than a glance at the fishing tackle and the magazines she says "Where are his books?"
"In the library," Luke says with some force on Terence's behalf. "He used to say that was how you helped people to read, keeping the libraries open. I expect that's where he found the tales he told me."
"See how many you can remember, then you'll be able to save them up."
Which of them might he tell their child? He remembers Terence saying there were places so remote they weren't on any map and so isolated that they hadn't caught up with the world. They were still in the process of becoming, so that time and space and the tyranny of matter had less of a hold over them, though surely Terence hadn't used those words. He'd talked about a jungle where explorers stumbled on a valley in the mist, where birds of an unknown species flew away at their approach and settled in the trees to wait for them. The explorers wondered if they'd caught some kind of jungle fever, because as the birds flapped into the distance they appeared to grow larger—far too large. This wasn't the reason the party made a wide detour around the valley and never recorded the location; it was the sight of a solitary figure watching from beside a bush as if he was guarding the path into the valley. He wore a mask like the head of a creature too prehistoric to be named, or was it a mask? The explorers retreated into the mist, praying they weren't followed, and one of them risked whispering what they'd all seen: though the shrub hadn't been as tall as the watcher, it was no shrub—it must have been at least fifty feet high. But you didn't have to go into the jungle, according to Terence; if you knew where and how to look you could still find traces of the shaping of the world.
Would Luke ever tell his child anything like that? He doesn't know what effect it might have, which feels like being unsure how it affected him. Before he can decide he sees Sophie making for the hall. "Sorry," he says and manages to reach it first. "Upstairs is worse."
She lingers in front of the pictures and the framed mosaic in the hall. By the time she follows him Luke has picked up the ragged towel and draped it over the chilly metal rail. The dead fly is marinating in the coffee, which he empties down the toilet. He's rinsing the mug when Sophie glances into the bathroom and moves on to Terence's bedroom.
He almost breaks the mug in his haste to put it down, but he's too late. She's tucking the dishevelled sheet under the mattress, and without too much more effort she stoops to drag the quilt onto the bed. "I'm just straightening up for now," she says. "We'll need to make a laundry trip if any of this is worth it." Letting go of the quilt, she takes hold of the solitary pillow.
The house shivers, or Luke's vision does, as a train passes close overhead. The muffled thunder seems to darken the room, unless Luke's apprehension is hindering his senses. Sophie lifts the pillow and begins to tremble—no, she's shaking it into some kind of shape. There was nothing under it, no face lurking like an insect beneath a stone, not even a sculpted face. She lays the pillow to rest and glances at the ceiling as the rumble of wheels mutters into silence. "I suppose you can ignore anything," she says, "if you live with it long enough."
"Maybe he couldn't any
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