After his fairly ignominious departure last night, Midge and I had been too wound up for a sensible discussion on what had happened and where it was leading to. When I pointed out yet again that something was going on inside Gramarye itself, all she did was announce she was too tired for further arguments and was going to bed.
I followed her in, trying to make her see sense (sense? What I was trying to make her see was crazy even to me!), but she'd have none of it. Called me blinkered. Now that really sent me into a rage, considering that it was she who was turning a blind eye on all the weirdness that was going on around us! That night alone, with a howling wind battering the cottage, bats living up a storm in the attic, all quietening down as soon as Mycroft opened the door to leave. The question begged: Had there really been a gale outside? Was it possible for the night to have become so instantly calm? And look at the effect the place had on the Synergists! Christ, Joby had looked about ready to pass out in front of us, and twice now Kinsella had had to leave Gramarye in a rush. I went on. And on. On a bit more, exhausting myself in the end. I brought everything into it, the ruined painting, Bob's hallucinations—my hallucinations, for Chrissake!—the healing of the bird at the beginning, the trust of the animals and birds, the apparent regeneration of the garden. Even our glorious lovemaking (up until recently), even her beautiful artwork (before ruined), and even my inspirational guitar playing. I dredged up everything I could think of.
But it was like talking to a goddamn zombie. She didn't want to know.
Yet she did get interested when I ventured the theory that maybe it was she who'd healed my scalded arm, not Mycroft with his magic potion and phony mental projection, she and whatever enchantment was contained within Gramarye itself, within its walls, its grounds, its atmosphere—in its bloody heritage!— working through her, HER, Midge Gudgeon, innocent catalyst or intermediary or even instigator. Just as Flora Chaldean had been! And whoever lived in the cottage before her!
I was rambling, inventing, plucking notions out of the air. Or so I imagined. It could have been my tiredness and the emotional condition I'd worked myself up into, driving me toward one of those rare states when the subconscious mind takes over and throws out thoughts that are normally vague or even inconceivable.
And maybe, just maybe, my subconscious was being prompted by something deeper and even more mysterious, something completely outside of me.
And when I'd finished, said it all, it was me who became uninterested. I was the one who could hardly keep his eyes open any longer, who had to drag off his clothes and crawl into bed, totally and utterly exhausted, drained of any more considerations.
Like I said, she was interested, but she didn't try to rouse me. My last glimpse of Midge before slipping into sleep was of her sitting on the corner of the bed studying me with a peculiar glimmer in her eyes. After that I zonked out, and was glad to.
But later woke to find Midge bolt upright and staring toward the foot of the bed.
Now I wondered about that. Obviously everything that had gone before that evening had caused her nightmare, and I'd pulled her back down beneath the sheets and endeavored to convince her of that. Although she hadn't verbally rebuffed my contentions, I sure as hell knew she hadn't accepted them. She lay there still and quiet, and when I touched her cheek I found it wet with tears.
I tried my best to comfort her but unfortunately it wasn't long before I did a three-apostles on her—you know, mind willing, flesh weak—and fell asleep again. I just hoped tiredness had soon overcome her own vigil and she'd done the same as me; the thought of her lying there in the dark, believing she'd seen the ghosts of her dead parents, possibly thinking they might return that night, made me shudder. And feel guilty.
I pulled back the covers and swung my legs off the bed, checking the clock on the move. Nearly ten. I tongue-tutted, wishing she'd woken me earlier.
First I noticed, sitting there naked on the edge of the bed and scratching my ribs, that the musty smell from last night still lingered, an odor of damp and old plaster; then I realized I was gaping at something across the room, my addled brain not quite able to comprehend what I was looking at. The long crack in the wall, running from floor to ceiling, somehow didn't register.
"Shit," I said when finally it did.
I rose quickly and my stride across the room was broken when something small and soft squelched beneath my bare foot. I hopped and swore more loudly when the sting hit me half a second later, collapsing back onto the bed and grabbing for my foot. I found the tiny, thornlike projection and, using my fingernails (fortunately finger-picking guitar length on my right hand) as tweezers, plucked out the barb.
The area around the minute puncture was already swelling a bright red and I searched the floor for the culprit. The squashed bee lay a couple of feet away and I imagined its death rattle had been more of a vengeful chuckle.
Leaning forward, I peeled up the flattened furry mound and took it, together with its last-resort weapon, through to the bathroom, limping all the way, to flush them down the john (not before peeing on the floating carcase first, though, my own petty revenge). Back in the bedroom, I examined the crack in the wall, the new plaster that had been used to seal and cement split into two jagged, serrated edges. It was a minuscule divide, but a crack is a crack.
So much for O'Malley's craftsmanship.
I found my robe and left the bedroom in search of Midge. She was downstairs, sitting on the kitchen doorstep, chin on her knees as she looked out at the flowers in the garden. Again I didn't notice at first what was out of place—or in this case, what wasn't in place at all.
I bent over and kissed her neck. There was little response. She moved over slightly as I shuffled down next to her.
Although we were on the shaded side of the cottage I could tell the sun was out in full force by the way it played on the brilliant colors of the garden. And above, the sky was the color of faded denim, a washed-out blue, the vaguest wisps of clouds a long way off in the distance. But the air was cool in that shadowed part where we sat.
"How are you feeling today, Pixie?" I asked, deliberately keeping my voice light, testing. I laid a hand on her upper arm.
Her response was minimal. "Very confused," was all she said.
"Yeah, me too. But not so confused I can't see Mycroft and his creepy little sect for what they are."
Her tone was flat. "Let's drop it, Mike."
Mine was reasonable. "I don't think we can do that. You've become too enamored with them and it scares me."
She shrugged, a small movement, almost a flinch.
"Midge, have you thought about what I said last night?"
Still not looking at me, she replied, "You said so many things. Do you even remember?" Now she did turn her head my way.
Right then, I couldn't. I'd said such a lot it had become something of a jumble in my own head, not so much scrambled as mashed. Only later were those notions (perceptions?) to become clear again. My head ached and you could have done a litmus test on my tongue; I wondered how I could be hungover from one glass of wine last night. Then I realized what was missing from the garden.
"What's happened to our friends today? There's usually one or two still hanging around for food at this time of the morning."
"There were no birds outside earlier," Midge replied without expression.