Read Online The Knights of the Cornerstone by James P. Blaylock - Free Book Online Page A

another minute and then set out hurriedly toward the bridge, keeping to the dark verge of the island, away from the parking lot lights. When he was near the bridge, he turned around and walked backward, which seemed cunning to him. If they came out and saw him now, he would reverse his step and head back again toward the island, and it would appear as if he was just then coming down from the trailer park—cominginstead of going. But no one came out, and, feeling foolish and shameful, he turned around and headed home, going straight into the guest bedroom, where he put on a pair of pajamas and climbed into bed, switching off the bedside lamp and calling it a night.
    Soon the house and the night outside were perfectly still—a vast silence that was almost like a mass of undifferentiated noises. Lying in the darkness, Calvin listened, unable to fall asleep, and after a time it seemed to him that he could hear a faint pounding in the far distance, from up in the mountains, perhaps, or up in the sky somewhere—Thor with his hammer, maybe, knocking together another thunderstorm. The noise wasn’t regular, but would start up and then fade away and then start up again, and there was a ringing quality to it, like a hammer against an anvil. When he finally drifted into sleep, the hammering became more pronounced. Not louder, but as if the ringing blows had multiplied—dwarfs in a mine, perhaps, knocking jewels out of rock walls with pickaxes, the sounds echoing backward through time …
    He awakened later to the sound of his uncle coming in. He heard the tread of his uncle’s feet moving down the hallway, and then heard the soft click of the doorknob turning. Calvin lay still, feigning sleep, the entire thing reminding him unpleasantly of his childhood. It was past two—strangely late for the old man still to be up and about. Calvin lay awake for a time thinking curious and troubled thoughts before finally descending again into sleep.

TIME AND THE RIVER
    I n the morning he awoke to the smell of coffee, with none of the confusion of finding himself in a strange place. On the contrary, he knew exactly where he was. All night long he had dreamed of earthquakes and of ring-shaped decanters tumbling to the floor in slow motion and breaking, and of walking through a stone cavern deep beneath the river, with the sound of rock hammers keeping time with his heartbeat. But as soon as he became aware of the morning sun through the window, the dream images fled and the waking memory of last night’s activity replaced them like the same size shoe. It had seemed uncannily mysterious out there in the darkness on the Temple Bar, but now in the light of day it was perfectly clear to him that what he had witnessed had been a small Communion service and a coincidental earthquake. Interesting, but nothing to lose his mind over.
    Then it came into his head once again that the sixKnights in the bar had seemed to
expect
the earthquake, that they had been ready for it. But there was nothing he could do with that thought other than to file it away in his mind with all the rest of yesterday’s unfathomables.
    It was early, and through the bedroom window he could see past the cottonwoods to an empty stretch of river that glowed in the morning sunshine. The Dead Mountains were golden with it. Yesterday had been never-ending, what with the long drive out into the desert and all the rest of the tomfoolery. Today he owed it to himself to do nothing, and perhaps tomorrow, too. His aunt had absolutely the right idea, sitting in a lawn chair and watching the river tumble past. Maybe he would go out onto the bridge and play Poohsticks. Maybe he’d take a nap.
    He pulled on his pants and shirt, ran his hands through his hair, and went out to greet the day. In the kitchen there was hot coffee in the pot next to a note that read “Help yourself.”
    “I will,” he said out loud, and poured coffee into a mug. Then he found his aunt, already sitting outside in