Voices Out of Time, page 1
VOICES OUT OF TIME
By Charles L. Grant
Previously published under the pen name Deborah Lewis
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Copyright 2013 / The Estate of Charles L. Grant
Copy-edited by: Patricia Lee Macomber
Cover design by: David Dodd
Cover images courtesy of:
http://gothicbohemianstock.deviantart.com
http://mysticmorning.deviantart.com
LICENSE NOTES
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Meet the Author
Photo by Jeff Schalles
Charles L. Grant taught English and history at the high school level before becoming a full-time writer in the '70s. He served for many years as an officer in the Horror Writers Association and in Science Fiction Writers of America.
He was known for his "quiet horror" and for editing the award-winning Shadows anthologies. He received the British Fantasy Society's Special Award in 1987 for life achievement; in 2000, he was the recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award from HWA. Other awards include two Nebula Awards and three World Fantasy Awards for writing and editing.
Charlie died from a lengthy illness on September 15, 2006, just three days after his birthday. He lived in Newton, NJ, and was married to writer/editor Kathryn Ptacek for nearly twenty-five years.
Book List
Horror
Novels
Black Oak: Genesis
Black Oak: The Hush of Dark Wings
Black Oak: Winter Knight
Black Oak: Hunting Ground
Black Oak: When the Cold Wind Blows
Fire Mask
For Fear of the Night
In A Dark Dream
Jackals
Millennium Quartet #1: Symphony
Millennium Quartet #2: In the Mood
Millennium Quartet #3: Chariot
Millennium Quartet #4: Riders in the Sky
Night Songs
Raven
Something Stirs
Stunts
The Bloodwind
The Curse
The Grave
The Hour of the Oxrun Dead
The Last Call of Mourning
The Nestling
The Pet
The Sound Of Midnight
The Tea Party
The Universe of Horror Trilogy
The Soft Whisper of the Dead
The Dark Cry of the Moon
The Long Night of the Grave
Collections
Dialing the Wind
Nightmare Seasons
The Black Carousel
The Orchard
Science Fiction
A Quiet Night of Fear
Ascension
Legion
Ravens of the Moon
The Shadow of Alpha
As "Geoffrey Marsh"
The Fangs of the Hooded Demon
The King of Satan's Eyes
The Patch of the Odin Soldier
The Tail of the Arabian, Knight
As "Lionel Fenn"
The Quest for the White Duck Trilogy
Blood River Down
Web of Defeat
Agnes Day
668, the Neighbor of the Beast
By The Time I Get To Nashville
Mark of the Moderately Vicious Vampire
Once Upon a Time in the East
The Once and Future Thing
The Really Ugly Thing From Mars
The Reasonably Invisible Man
The Seven Spears of the W'dch'ck
Time, the Semi-Final Frontier
As "Simon Lake"
Daughter of Darkness
Death Cycle
Death Scream
He Told Me To
Shapes Berkley
Something's Watching
The Clown
The Forever House
As "Felicia Andrews"
Moonwitch
Mountainwitch
Riverrun
Riverwitch
Seacliffe
Silver Huntress
The Velvet Hart
As "Deborah Lewis"
Eve of the Hound
Kirkwood Fires
The Wind at Winter's End
Voices Out of Time
https://www.facebook.com/CharlesLGrant
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Chapter One
The sun was gently warm, the breeze comfortingly cool as Alice reined her mount to a snorting, pawing halt at the crest of the hill. The black stallion wanted to run again, and she wanted to run with him, but the sun was already westering over the sea only two miles distant and she wanted to be back at the house before it grew dark. She sighed contentedly while her left hand absently combed through the horse's mane. It was, without a doubt, the best part of the day, though she could not have said whether it was because the time and the country reminded her of home, or because she knew that if she waited long enough Geoffrey would be soon riding up from the village to join them for dinner. Not, she told herself suddenly and sternly, that she was becoming romantically involved with the young lawyer, or he with her, but his urbane wit and genteel manner were things markedly absent from the characteristics of those who lived within the walls of Cullcraig. If Scots were truly dour, then, it was certainly her distant family who provided the mold. She glanced guiltily down the long slope, then, as though those within the house had heard her, she chided herself for being ungrateful; after all, it wasn't every day that a young American girl was able to take a free trip across the Atlantic to see members of a family she had not even known existed until a month ago.
The stallion moved impatiently then, and with a quick knowing smile, she slid from the saddle and drew the reins over his magnificent head, giving him his freedom to wander a bit and graze. And as he did, she sat on the ground cross-legged, her hands cupped around her knees . . .
Below her was Cullcraig.
In terms of those mansions, and sometimes castles, still occupied by the major clan chieftains, it was a small place and relatively unassuming. But sitting alone on the downward sweeping plain that led to the cliffs and the sea, it was imposing enough to give her chills whenever she saw it at a distance. Three stories high it was, and fashioned of dark brown stone whose gloom was relieved only by the high, white-framed casement windows that banded it on all sides; its sharp, squat image softened only by the slate-tiled, cone-topped turrets on each corner. And in the center of the slightly peaked roof there was a tall tower of contrasting pale limestone open to the elements at the top to provide a clear view of the surrounding countryside. She had been told, though only when she asked, that it had been used to keep the watch during the days of the English invasion in the fourteenth century, but no one ever climbed there now. Its great inside door was permanently locked – to protect the unwary, she was warned, from the steep stairs now in poor and dangerous repair.
The wind shifted, and her waist-long auburn hair was pushed over her shoulders, catching the setting sun with sparked highlights of red. She caught at one strand and twined it thoughtfully around her little finger, wondering again as she had done every day since her arrival why the master of the house, her great-uncle Roderick, refused to permit trees to grow between the house and the three low hills that flanked and backed it, and between the house and the sea one could glimpse only from the tower. As it was, a broad green lawn surrounded Cullcraig, tucked snugly within the confines of a waist-high stone wall. There was only a clump of hedging flanking the double doors at the front. A hundred yards from the house, on' the left, was a sturdily built stable that housed both horse and horseless carriage these days, and beside it a thatch-roofed cottage.
But no trees.
They had been ruthlessly dug up and burned wherever Roderick had found them; yet, beyond the hills to the boundaries of the huge estate there were still isolated groves of tall oak and weeping elm. These he had not touched.
She shrugged at her failure to understand this peculiarity of her uncle, and suddenly remembered the first day she had seen Cullcraig, and the curious mixture of excitement and despair that had greeted the view.
She had landed at the port of Southampton in England, had trained by day coach to Glasgow where she was met at the station by Alex Gordon, one of Roderick's men. He had a sleek black motorcar that was open to the warm summer wind, and he had insisted despite her objections that she sit in the back "like a true lady of the MacDonneaugh" deserves. She had laughed, then, accepting the status promotion with as much good grace as she could muster, thinking that her friends back in California would indeed be envious to see her riding in a fine car driven by a most handsome and likeable chauffeur.
But several hours later, once they had passed through the small village of Graillag, she knew why she preferred the more reasonable and predictable transportation offered by a horse. Twice along the partially paved r
oad they had been forced to stop for water, once to change a tire, and she had been thrown from side to side at every small bump, several times convincing her that the combination of Gordon's speed and the condition of the road would make her more than a little ill.
The trip, too, seemed longer than it was. The roar of the wind in her ears and Alex's intense concentration on his driving made conversation impossible for practical purposes, and she had been thrown back to her own imagination as she watched the Scottish countryside fall away from the industrial city to the hilly lands that bordered the eastern coastline. Eventually, however, with Graillag left behind, they rounded a low barren hill on the road that was now more cobblestone than compacted earth, and she saw the plain stretching before her, and the house.
"Cullcraig, Miss MacDonneaugh," he had said then. "A right fine place for a stay."
"But not to live?" she'd asked without thinking, and not knowing what there was about the driver and the area that had brought the question out.
"Stay. Live. It comes to the same thing, Miss, when ye're at Cullcraig."
It was dark, it was big, and in the deceptive haze of a thickening dusk she had had the uncomfortable feeling that it was watching her, like some patiently waiting brown beast huddled at the mouth of its lair.
She blinked away the memory, then, when the stallion nudged at her back with its muzzle, pushing persistently until she laughed and scrambled to her feet. She looked down the back slope of the hill and saw a brace of grouse skim low over the tangled brush and wild grass that grew close to the trails. They vanished quickly into the shadows, and she shook herself and launched up into the saddle. That, she remembered, had been the first time she had shocked her uncle – insisting on using a western-style saddle instead of the English, and in wearing tough cotton trousers instead of a riding gown. Roderick's grandson David excused her behavior because she was American; Bess, his granddaughter, had only been unabashedly envious.
But by that time, Alice had already given up trying to please her uncle.
She dug her heels into the stallion's sides and they flew down the slope, her hair a ribbon of sparked amber behind her, her face full into the wind. Her green eyes squinted but did not close, her full lips grinned at the freedom she felt, then shouted to spur the horse on. The house grew and she angled to the left, deciding to head for the village road to see if she could meet Geoffrey as he approached for dinner. And as she swept by the low wall, a voice called to her from the side door. She'd barely heard it, turned and saw a dim figure standing on the threshold. It was a woman, and blonde, and wearing a curious flowing gown girdled with sparkling silver. Alice blinked and nearly reined in, but she was going too fast and the figure vanished as she blinked away the wind's tears. It must have been Bess, she thought as she bent low over the horse's neck, in some sort of Gaelic costume worn especially for dinner, the next to the last she would have in Scotland.
Racing full out, then, she sped past the stable and the cottage, where Alex and his wife Christine lived, and onto the road, flying, feeling nothing but the wind and the strain of powerful muscles pressed to her legs.
Slowing finally, nearly stopping, when she saw the headlamps of Geoffrey's car star-bright in the twilight. And in that moment her laughter and exhilaration faded, and she fell into a long moment of melancholy. Two more days, and her visit would be ended. Before the week was out, Alex would roll the car from the stable, polish it until it shone to rival the sun, then drive her back to Glasgow and the train to Southampton. And then she would be alone. Alone again, as always.
The moment ended when Geoffrey spotted her and raced his engine, waving a gloved hand and nearly standing behind the wheel. Alice yanked skillfully on the reins and turned the horse about, urging the massive stallion to cut across the grounds, leaving Geoff to the winding road. Swiftly, like a dark moon shadow racing before dawn's coming, they pounded over the summer-dry earth, leaping over a copse of briar, swerving to avoid a half-buried boulder. Within moments she was at the stable, calling for Alex to come fetch the mount as she slid from the saddle. When the cottage door opened to spring a broad shaft of light into the dusk, she waved gaily and hurried to the road, dusting at her clothes and fussing with her hair. And when Geoff pulled up beside her, she smiled shyly and slid into the passenger seat.
He was wearing, as usual, a brown tweed suit and tartan waistcoat, with a large-knotted tie centered with a gold pin. His face was ruddy, seemingly carefully carved from a rare soft stone that sprouted sideburns nearly black and a moustache so dark it was nearly sable. He might have been forbidding, perhaps even ominous, and Alice had indeed been given that impression when they had been introduced on her third day at Cullcraig. But then, as he bowed gallantly over her hand and brushed at her skin with a continental kiss, he had smiled and she'd seen everything about him shift to an odd sort of elegance that bespoke gentleness as well as strength, concern as well as power.
"You're impossible, lass! " he shouted over the roar of the engine.
"No, I'm American," she answered, and leaned her head back to stare up at the first stars.
They said nothing more until he had parked by the black iron gate in the wall, had walked quickly around the car and had given her his hand to assist her out. Then, as he pushed the gate slowly inward, he appraised her frankly, so much so that she suddenly felt nervously uncomfortable and reached to her hair to stroke it over her shoulder. Geoffrey, she admitted as she passed him to step onto the slate walk, puzzled her considerably. There were moments when he exhibited a reserve so aloof she was positive she had done something to anger him, or had reminded him that she was, in his eyes, only an American, a poor relation, not someone of station with whom he should bother. And yet, at the same time, he could be almost boyish in his enthusiasm, his great craig of a face melting into a mask of sheer adolescence – like the time they had had a picnic with David and Bess on the banks of the small loch at the far end of the estate near the remains of the castle that had once been the MacDonneaugh's stronghold.
The walk was lined with a rose hedge that was Bess' private project, and halfway to the door Geoff put a hand to her arm and stopped her, turned her around and looked fully into her eyes. She tried to smile, but it was too brief to be warm, and she frowned instead.
"Alice," he said, reaching to the hedge and plucking at one of the tiny red blossoms that still clung to its thorns, "Alice, you'll be leaving us soon."
"I can't stay forever."
His face darkened then, almost in anger, twisted swiftly into a semblance of a smile that had no laughter behind it to convince her she had not somehow struck a painful nerve. She was positive he would have said something then had not the doors opened behind her to spill a soft golden light onto the walk. Immediately, he seemed to shake himself and relax, and she grinned up at him and took his elbow to permit him to escort her inside.
The front hall was grey stone and massive wooden beams that lowered the ceiling and added shadows to the gloom that already pervaded the entry. On the walls left and right were gilt-framed portraits of MacDonneaughs reaching back, she'd been told, nearly three hundred years – and not one of them smiled. A tear-drop crystal chandelier was the only touch of gentility and wealth here, hanging from a heavy linked chain secured to a winch near the dining hall on the right. Although Roderick had admitted – albeit reluctantly, she thought – that it was in fact the year 1923 and electricity could be had for the asking, he preferred to save what he called an Englishman's luxury for the bedrooms and library, all of the other rooms being lighted with candles.
The floor of the hall was also grey stone, huge blocks of it patterned with odd-shaped inserts of red and black marble that led in a sort of pathway to the stairs that climbed to a broad landing. From the rafters above them hung nearly a dozen banners now faded with age, each carrying the crest of those families that had visited Cullcraig in some now forgotten official capacity; and on the wall above the landing a magnificent tapestry – a detailed forest scene in greens and browns and muted reds, with a man in knight's armor astride a white horse, leaning down and apparently speaking with another man who wore a dark tartan kilt and silver-grey blouse. Standing to one side and bathed in a dim golden light was a tall woman wearing a white gown girdled in green, with flowing sun-bright hair, and hanging about her neck on a single strand of royal blue was a large jewel of brilliant wine red.
