Bag of Bones 35 страница

There was a gruesome ripping sound. She had inhabited the birch, made it into a physical body of some sort and intended to tear it free of the earth. She would come and get me with it if she could; kill me with it if she could. Strangle me in limber branches. Stuff me with leaves until I looked like a Christmas decoration. “No matter how much of a monster he was, Kyra had nothing to do with what he did, ” I said. “And you won’t have her. ”

“Yes I will! ” the Green Lady screamed. The ripping, rending sounds were louder now. They were joined by a hissing, shaky crackle. I didn’t look around again. I didn’t dare look around. I dug faster instead. “Yes I will have her! ” she cried, and now the voice was closer.

She was coming for me but I refused to see; when it comes to walking trees and bushes, I’ll stick to Macbeth, thanks. “I will have her! He took mine and I mean to take his! ”

“Go away, ” a new voice said. The spade loosened in my hands, almost fell. I turned and saw Jo standing below me and to my right. She was looking at Sara, who had materialized into a lunatic’s hallucination—a monstrous greenish-black thing that slipped with every step it tried to walk along The Street.

She had left the birch behind yet assumed its vitality somehow—the actual tree huddled behind her, black and shrivelled and dead. The creature born of it looked like the Bride of Frankenstein as sculpted by Picasso. In it, Sara’s face came and went, came and went. The Shape, I thought coldly. It was always real. . . and if it was always me, it was always her, too. Jo was dressed in the white shirt and yellow slacks she’d had on the day she died. I couldn’t see the lake through her as I had been able to see it through Devore and Devore’s young friends; she had materialized herself completely. I felt a curious draining sensation at the back of my skull and thought I knew how. “Git out, bitch! ” the Sara-thing snarled. It raised its arms toward Jo as it had raised them to me in my worst nightmares. “Not at all. ” Jo’s voice remained calm.

She turned toward me. “Hurry, Mike. You have to be quick. It’s not really her anymore. She’s let one of the Outsiders in, and they’re very dangerous. ”

“Jo, I love you. ”

“I love you t—” Sara shrieked and then began to spin. Leaves and branches blurred together and lost coherence; it was like watching something liquefy in a blender. The entity which had only looked a little like a woman to begin with now dropped its masquerade entirely. Something elemental and grotesquely inhuman began to form out of the maelstrom. It leaped at my wife. When it struck her, the color and solidity left Jo as if slapped away by a huge hand. She became a phantom struggling with the thing which raved and shrieked and clawed at her. “Hurry, Mike! ” she screamed. “Hurry/” I bent to the job.

The spade struck something that wasn’t dirt, wasn’t stone, wasn’t wood.

I scraped along it, revealing a filthy mold-crusted swatch of canvas.

Now I dug like a madman, wanting to clear as much of the buried object as I could, wanting to fatten my chances of success as much as I could.

Behind me, the Shape screamed in fury and my wife screamed in pain. Sara had given up part of her discorporate self in order to gain her revenge, had let in something Jo called an Outsider. I had no idea what that might be and never wanted to know. Sara was its conduit, I knew that much. And if I could take care of her in time-I reached into the dripping hole, slapping wet earth from the ancient canvas. Faint stencilled letters appeared when I did: j. M. MCCUTDIE SAWMILL.

Mccurdie’s had burned in the fires of ’33, I knew. I’d seen a picture of it in flames somewhere. As I seized the canvas, the tips of my fingers punching through and letting out a fresh billow of green and gassy stench, I could hear grunting. I could hear Devore. He’s lying on top o/her and grunting like a pig. Sara is semiconscious, muttering unintelligibly through bruised lips which are shiny with blood. Devore is looking back over his shoulder at Draper Finney and Fred Dean. They have raced after the boy and brought him back, but he won’t stop yelling, he’s yelling to beat the band, yelling to wake the dead, and if they can hear the Methodists singing “How I Love to ll the Story” over here, then they may be able to hear the yowling nigger over there.

Devore says “Put him in the water, shut him up. ” The minute he says it, as though the words are magic words, his cock begins to stifn. “What do you mean? ” Ben Merrill asks. “You know goddam well, “Jared says. He pants the words out, jerking his hips as he speaks. His narrow ass gleams in the afternoon light. “He seen us! I3u want to cut his throat, get his blood all over you? Fine by me. Here. Take my knij, be my guest! ”

“N-No, Jared! ” Ben cries in horror, actually seeming to cringe at the sight of the knij. He is finally ready. It takes him a little longer, that’s all, he ain’t a kid like these other ones. But now—!

Never mind her smart mouth, never mind her insolent way of laughing, never mind the whole township. Let them all show up and watch if they like. He slips it to her, what she’s wanted all along, what all her kind want. He slips it in and sinks it deep. He continues giving orders even as he rapes her. Up and down his ass goes, tick-tock, just like a cat’s tail. “Somebody take care of him! Or do you want to spend jrty years rotting in Shawshank because of a nigger boy’s tattle? ” Ben seizes one of Kito Tidwell’s arms, Oren Peebles the other, but by the time they have dragged him as far as the embankment they have lost their heart.

Raping an uppity nigger woman with the gall to laugh at Jared when he jll down and split his britches is one thing. Drowning a scared kid like a kitten in a mud-puddle. . . that’s another one altogether. They loosen their grip, staring into each other’s haunted eyes, and Kito pulls jee. “Run, honey! ” Sara cries. “Run away and get—" Jared clamps his hands around her throat and begins choking. The boy trips over his own berry bucket and thumps gracelessly to the ground. Harry and Draper recapture him easily. “What you going to do? ” Draper asks in a kind of desperate whine, and Harry replies “What I have to. ” That’s what he replied, and now I was going to do what I had toin spite of the stench, in spite of Sara, in spite of my dead wife’s shrieks. I hauled the roll of canvas out of the ground. The ropes which had tied it shut at either end held, but the roll itself split down the middle with a hideous burping sound.

“Hurry/” Jo cried. “I can’t hold it much longer! ” It snarled; it bayed like a dog. There was a loud wooden crunch, like a door being slammed hard enough to splinter, and Jo wailed. I grabbed for the carry-bag with Slips ’n Greens printed on the front and tore it open as Harry the others call him Irish because of his carrot-colored hair—grabs the struggling kid in a clumsy kind ofbearhug and jumps into the lake with him. The kid struggles harder than ever, ’ his straw hat comes off and floats on the water. “Get that! ” Harry pants. Fred Dean kneels and fishes out the dripping hat. Fred’s eyes are dazed, he’s got the look of a fighter about one round from hitting the canvas. Behind them Sara Tidwell has begun to rattle deep in her chest and throat like the sight of the boy’s clenching hand, these sounds will haunt Draper Finney until his final dive into Eades Quarry. Jared sinks his fingers deeper, pumping and choking at the same time, the sweat pouring off him. No amount of washing will take the smell of that sweat out of these clothes, and when he begins to think of it as “murder-sweat, ” he burns the clothes to get shed of it. Harry Auster wants to be shed of it all to be shed of it and never see these men again, most of all Jared Devore, who he now thinks must be Lord Satan himself. Harry cannot go home and face his father unless this nightmare is over, buried. And his mother! How can he ever face his beloved mother, Bridget Auster with her round sweet Irish face and graying hair and comrting shelf of bosom, Bridget who has always had a kind word or a soothing handler him, Bridget Auster who has been Saved, shed in the Blood of the Lamb, Bridget Auster who is even now serving pies at the picnic they’re having at the new church, Bridget Amter who is mamma, ’ how can he ever look at her again—or she him—if he has to stand in court on a charge of raping and beating a woman, even a black woman?

So he yanks the clinging boy away—Kito scratches him once, just a nick on the side of the neck, and that night Harry will tell his mamma it was a bush-pricker that caught him unawares and he will let her put a kiss on it—and then he plunges the child into the lake. Kito looks up at him, his face shimmering, and Harry sees a little fish flick by. A perch, he thinks. For an instant he wonders what the boy must see, looking up through the silver shield of the surface at the face of thejllow who’s holding him down, thejllow who’s drowning him, and then Harry pushes that away. Just a nigger, he reminds himself desperately.

That’s all he is, just a nigger. No kin of yours.

Kito’s arm comes out of the water his dripping dark-brown arm. Harry pulls back, not wanting to be clawed, but the hand doesn’t reach Jr him, only sticks straight up. The fingers curl into a fist. Open. Curl into a fist. Open. Curl into a fist. The boy’s thrashing begins to ease, the kickingjet begin to slow down, the eyes looking up into Harry’s eyes are taking on a curiously dreamy look, and still that brown arm sticks straight up, still the hand opens and closes, opens and closes. Draper Finney stands on the shore crying, sure that now someone will come along, now someone will see the terrible thing they have done the terrible thing they are in fact still doing. Be sure your sin will find you out, it says in the Good Book. Be sure. He opens his mouth to tell Harry to quit, maybe it’s still not too late to take it back, let him up, let him live, but no sound comes out. Behind him Sara is choking her last. In front of him her drowning son’s hand opens and closes, opens and closes, the reflection of it shimmering on the water, and Draper thinks Won’t it stop doing that, won’t it ever stop doing that? And as if it were a prayer that something is now answering, the boy’s locked elbow begins to bend and his arm begins to sag, ’ the fingers begin to close again into a fist and then stop. For a moment the hand wavers and then I slammed the heel of my hand into the center of my forehead to clear these phantoms away. Behind me there was a frenzied snap and crackle of wet bushes as Jo and whatever she was holding back continued to struggle. I put my hands inside the split in the canvas like a doctor spreading a wound. I yanked. There was a low ripping sound as the roll tore the rest of the way up and down.

Inside was what remained of them—two yellowed skulls, forehead to forehead as if in intimate conversation, a woman’s faded red leather belt, a molder of clothes. . . and a heap of bones. Two ribcages, one large and one small. Two sets of legs, one long and one short. The early remains of Sara and Kito Tidwell, buried here by the lake for almost a hundred years.

The larger of the two skulls turned. It glared at me with its empty eyesockets. Its teeth chattered as if it would bite me, and the bones below it began a tenebrous, jittery stirring. Some broke apart immediately; all were soft and pitted. The red belt stirred restlessly and the rusty buckle rose like the head of a snake.

“Mike/” Jo screamed. “Quick, quick/”

I pulled the sack out of the carry-bag and grabbed the plastic bottle which had been inside. Lye stille, the Magnabet letters had said; another little word-trick. Another message passed behind the unsuspecting guard’s back. Sara Tidwell was a fearsome creature, but she had underestimated Jo. . . and she had underestimated the telepathy of long association, as well. I had gone to Slips ’n Greens, I had bought a bottle of lye, and now I opened it and poured it, smoking, over the bones of Sara and her son.

There was a hissing sound like the one you hear when you open a beer or a bottled soft drink. The belt-buckle melted. The bones turned white and crumpled like things made out of sugar—I had a nightmare image of Mexican children eating candy corpses off long sticks on the Day of the Dead. The eyesockets of Sara’s skull widened as the lye filled the dark hollow where her mind, her prodigious talent, and her laughing soul had once resided. It was an expression that looked at first like surprise and then like sorrow.

The jaw fell off; the nubs of the teeth sizzled away.

The top of the skull caved in.

Spread fingerbones jittered, then melted.

“Ohhhhhh. . . ”

It whispered through the soaking trees like a rising wind. . . only the wind had died as the wet air caught its breath before the next onslaught. It was a sound of unspeakable grief and longing and surrender. I sensed no hate in it; her hate was gone, burned away in the corrosive I had bought in Helen Auster’s shop. The sound of Sara’s going was replaced by the plaintive, almost human cry of a bird, and it awakened me from the place where I had been, brought me finally and completely out of the zone. I got shakily to my feet, turned around, and looked at The Street. Jo was still there, a dim form through which I could now see the lake and the dark clouds of the next thundersquall coming over the mountains. Something flickered beyond her—that bird venturing out of its safe covert for a peek at the re-arranged environment, perhaps—but I barely registered that. It was Jo I wanted to see, Jo who had come God knew how far and suffered God knew how much to help me. She looked exhausted, hurt, in some fundamental way diminished. But the other thing—the Outsider—was gone. Jo, standing in a ring of birch leaves so dead they looked charred, turned to me and smiled. “Jo! We did it! ” Her mouth moved. I heard the sound, but the words were too distant to make out. She was standing right there, but she might have been calling across a wide canyon. Still, I understood her. I read the words off her lips if you prefer the rational, right out of her mind if you prefer the romantical. I prefer the latter. Marriage is a zone, too, you know. Marriage is a zone. —So that’s all right, isn’t it? I glanced down into the gaping roll of canvas and saw nothing but stubs and splinters sticking out of a noxious, uneasy paste. I got a whiff, and even through the Stenomask it made me cough and back away.

Not corruption; lye. When I looked back around at Jo, she was barely there. “Jo! Wait! ” —Can’t help. Can’t stay. Words from another star system, barely glimpsed on a fading mouth. Now she was little more than eyes floating in the dark afternoon, eyes which seemed made of the lake behind them. —Hurry. . . She was gone. I slipped and stumbled to the place where she’d been, my feet crunching over dead birch leaves, and grabbed at nothing. What a fool I must have looked, soaked to the skin, wearing a Stenomask askew over the lower half of my face, trying to embrace the wet gray air. I got the faintest whiffof Red perfume. . . and then only damp earth, lakewater, and the vile stink of lye running under everything. At least the smell of putrefaction was gone; that had been no more real than. . .

Than what? Than what? Either it was all real or none of it was real. If none of it was real, I was out of my mind and ready for the Blue Wing at Juniper Hill. I looked over toward the gray rock and saw the bag of bones I had pulled out of the wet ground like a festering tooth. Lazy tendrils of smoke were still rising from its ripped length. That much was real. So was the Green Lady, who was now a soot-colored Black Lady—as dead as the dead branch behind her, the one that seemed to point like an arm. Can’t help. . . can’t stay. . . hurry. Couldn’t help with what? What more help did I need? It was done, wasn’t it? Sara was gone: spirit follows bone, good night sweet ladies, God grant she lye stille.

And still a kind of stinking terror, not so different from the smell of putrescence which had come out of the ground, seemed to sweat out of the air; Kyra’s name began to beat in my head, Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki, like the call of some exotic tropical bird. I started up the railroad-tie steps to the house, and although I was exhausted, by the time I was halfway up I had begun to run. I climbed the stairs to the deck and went in that way. The house looked the same—save for the broken tree poking in through the kitchen window, Sara Laughs had stood up to the storm very well—but something was wrong. There was something I could almost smell. . . and perhaps I did smell it, bitter and low. Lunacy may have its own wild-vetch aroma. It’s not the kind of thing I would ever care to research. In the front hall I stopped, looking down at a heap of paperback books, Elmore Leonards and Ed Mcbains, lying on the floor. As if they had been raked off the shelf by a passing hand. A flailing hand, maybe. I could also see my tracks there, both coming and going. They had already begun to dry. They should have been the only ones; I had been carrying Ki when we came in. They should have been, but they weren’t.

The others were smaller, but not so small that I mistook them for a child’s. I ran down the hall to the north bedroom crying her name, and I might as well have been crying Mattie or Jo or Sara. Coming out of my mouth, Kyra’s name sounded like the name of a corpse. The duvet had been thrown back onto the floor. Except for the black stuffed dog, lying where it had in my dream, the bed was empty. And Ki was gone.

I reached for Ki with the part of my mind that had for the last few weeks known what she was wearing, what room of the trailer she was in, and what she was doing there. There was nothing, of course—that link was also dissolved. I called for Jo—I think I did—but Jo was gone, too. I was on my own. God help me. God help us both. I could feel panic trying to descend and fought it off. I had to keep my mind clear. If I couldn’t think, any chance Ki might still have would be lost. I walked rapidly back down the hall to the foyer, trying not to hear the sick voice in the back of my head, the one saying that Ki was lost already, dead already. I knew no such thing, couldn’t know it now that the connection between us was broken. I looked down at the heap of books, then up at the door. The new tracks had come in this way and gone out this way, too. Lightning stroked the sky and thunder cracked. The wind was rising again. I went to the door, reached for the knob, then paused.

Something was caught in the crack between the door and the jamb, something as fine and floaty as a strand of spider’s silk.

A single white hair. I looked at it with a sick lack of surprise. I should have known, of course, and if not for the strain I’d been under and the successive shocks of this terrible day, I would have known. It was all on the tape John had played for me that morning. . . a time that already seemed part of another man’s life. For one thing, there was the time-check marking the point where John had hung up on her. Nine-jorty A. M. . . Eastern Daylight, the robot voice had said, which meant that Rogette had been calling at six-forty in the morning. . . if, that was, she’d really been calling from Palm Springs. That was at least possible; had the oddity occurred to me while we were driving from the airport to Mattie’s trailer, I would have told myself that there were no doubt insomniacs all over California who finished their East Coast business before the sun had hauled itself fully over the horizon, and good for them. But there was something else that couldn’t be explained away so easily. At one point John had ejected the tape. He did it because, he said, I’d gone as white as a sheet instead of looking amused. I had told him to go on and play the rest; it had just surprised me to hear her again. The quality of her voice. Christ, the reproduction is good.

Except it was really the boys in the basement who had reacted to John’s tape; my subconscious co-conspirators. And it hadn’t been her voice that had scared them badly enough to turn my face white. The underhum had done that. The characteristic underhum you always got on TR calls, both those you made and those you received. Rogette Whitmore had never left TR-90 at all. If my failing to realize that this morning cost Ki Devote her life this afternoon, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I told God that over and over as I went plunging down the railroad-tie steps again, running into the face of a revitalized storm.

It’s a blue-eyed wonder I didn’t go flying right off the embankment.

Half my swimming float had grounded there, and perhaps I could have impaled myself on its splintered boards and died like a vampire writhing on a stake. What a pleasant thought that was. Running isn’t good for people near panic; it’s like scratching poison ivy. By the time I had thrown my arm around one of the pines at the foot of the steps to check my progress, I was on the edge of losing all coherent thought. Ki’s name was beating in my head again, so loudly there wasn’t room for much else. Then a stroke of lightning leaped out of the sky to my right and knocked the last three feet of trunk out from beneath a huge old spruce which had probably been here when Sara and Kito were still alive. If I’d been looking directly at it I would have been blinded; even with my head turned three-quarters away, the stroke left a huge blue swatch like the aftermath of a gigantic camera flash floating in front of my eyes. There was a grinding, juddering sound as two hundred feet of blue spruce toppled into the lake, sending up a long curtain of spray, which seemed to hang between the gray sky and gray water. The stump was on fire in the rain, burning like a witch’s hat. It had the effect of a slap, clearing my head and giving me one final chance to use my brain. I took a breath and forced myself to do just that. Why had I come down here in the first place? Why did I think Rogette had brought Kyra toward the lake, where I had just been, instead of carrying her away from me, up the driveway to Lane Forty-two? Don’t be stupid. She came down here because The Street’s the way back to Warrington’s, and Vrrington’s is where she’s been, all by herself, ever since she sent the boss’s body back to Calij$rnia in his privatejet. She had sneaked into the house while I was under Jo’s studio, finding the tin box in the belly of the owl and studying that scrap of genealogy.

She would have taken Ki then if I’d given her the chance, but I didn’t.

I came hurrying back, afraid something was wrong, afraid someone might be trying to get hold of the kid-Had Rogette awakened her? Had Ki seen her and tried to warn me before drifting off again? Was that what had brought me in such a hurry? Maybe. I’d still been in the zone then, we’d still been linked then. Rogette had certainly been in the house when I came back. She might even have been in the north-bedroom closet and peering at me through the crack. Part of me had known it, too. Part of me had felt her, felt something that was not-Sara. Then I’d left again.

Grabbed the carry-bag from Slips ’n Greens and come down here. Turned right, turned north. Toward the birch, the rock, the bag of bones. I’d done what I had to do, and while I was doing it, Rogette carried Kyra down the railroad-tie steps behind me and turned left on The Street. Turned south toward Warrington’s. With a sinking feeling deep in my belly, I realized I had probably heard Ki. . . might even have seen her. That bird peeking timidly out from cover during the lull had been no bird. Ki was awake by then, Ki had seen me—perhaps had seen Jo, as well—and tried to call out. She had managed just that one little peep before Rogette had covered her mouth. How long ago had that been? It seemed like forever, but I had an idea it hadn’t been long at all—less than five minutes, maybe. But it doesn’t take long to drown a child. The image of Kito’s bare arm sticking straight out of the water tried to come back—the hand at the end of it opening and closing, opening and closing, as if it were trying to breathe for the lungs that couldn’t—and I pushed it away. I also suppressed the urge to simply sprint in the direction of Warrington’s. Panic would take me for sure if I did that. In all the years since her death I had never longed for Jo with the bitter intensity I felt then. But she was gone; there wasn’t even a whisper of her. With no one to depend on but myself, I started south along the tree-littered Street, skirting the blowdowns where I could, crawling under them if they blocked my way entirely, taking the noisy branch-breaking course over the top only as a last resort. As I went I issued what I imagine are all the standard prayers in such a situation, but none of them seemed to get past the image of Rogette Whitmore’s face rising in my mind. Her screaming, merciless face.

I remember thinking This is the outdoor version of the Ghost House.

Certainly the woods seemed haunted to me as I struggled along: trees only loosened in the first grand blow were falling by the score in this follow-up cap of wind and rain. The noise was like great crunching footfalls, and I didn’t need to worry about the noise my own feet were making. When I passed the Batchelders’ camp, a circular prefab construction sitting on an outcrop of rock like a hat on a footstool, I saw that the entire roof had been bashed flat by a hemlock.

Halfa mile south of Sara I saw one of Ki’s white hair ribbons lying in the path. I picked it up, thinking how much that red edging looked like blood. Then I stuffed it into my pocket and went on. Five minutes later I came to an old moss-caked pine that had fallen across the path; it was still connected to its stump by a stretched and bent network of splinters, and squalled like a line of rusty hinges as the surging water lifted and dropped what had been its upper twenty or thirty feet, now floating in the lake. There was space to crawl under, and when I dropped to my knees I saw other knee-tracks, just beginning to fill with water.

I saw something else: the second hair ribbon. I tucked it into my pocket with the first. I was halfway under the pine when I heard another tree go over, this one much closer. The sound was followed by a scream—not pain or fear but surprised anger. Then, even over the hiss of the rain and the wind, I could hear Rogette’s voice: “Come back/Don’t go out there, it’s dangerous/” I squirmed the rest of the way under the tree, barely feeling the stump of a branch which tore a groove in my lower back, got to my feet, and sprinted along the path. If the fallen trees I came to were small, I hurdled them without slowing down. If they were bigger, I scrabbled over with no thought to where they might claw or dig in. Thunder whacked. There was a brilliant stroke of lightning, and in its glare I saw gray barnboard through the trees. On the day I’d first seen Rogette I’d only been able to catch glimpses of Warrington’s lodge, but now the forest had been torn open like an old garment—this area would be years recovering. The lodge’s rear half had been pretty well demolished by a pair of huge trees that seemed to have fallen together.

They had crossed like a knife and fork on a diner’s plate and lay on the ruins in a shaggy X. Ki’s voice, rising over the storm only because it was shrill with terror: “Go away! I don’t want you, white nana! Go away! ” It was horrible to hear the terror in her voice, but wonderful to hear her voice at all. About forty feet from where Rogette’s shout had frozen me in place, one more tree lay across the path. Rogette herself stood on the far side of it, holding a hand out to Ki. The hand was dripping blood, but I hardly noticed. It was Kyra I noticed. The dock running between The Street and The Sunset Bar was a long one—seventy feet at least, perhaps a hundred. Long enough so that on a pretty summer evening you could stroll it hand-in-hand with your date or your lover and make a memory. The storm hadn’t torn it away—not yet—but the wind had twisted it like a ribbon. I remember newsreel footage at some childhood Saturday matinee, film of a suspension bridge dancing in a hurricane, and that was what the dock between Warring-ton’s and The Sunset Bar looked like. It jounced up and down in the surging water, groaning in all its slatted joints like a wooden accordion. There had been a rail—presumably to guide those who’d made a heavy night of it safely back to shore—but it was gone now. Kyra was halfway out along this swaying, dipping length of wood. I could see at least three rectangles of blackness between the shore and where she stood, places where boards had snapped off. From beneath the dock came the disturbed clung-clung-clung of the empty steel drums that were holding it up.

Several of these drums had come unanchored and were floating away. Ki had her arms stretched out for balance like a tightrope walker in the circus. The black Harley-Davidson tee-shirt flapped around her knees and sunburned shoulders.

“Come back! ” Rogette cried. Her lank hair flew around her head; the shiny black raincoat she was wearing rippled. She was holding both hands out now, one bloody and one not. I had an idea Ki might have bitten her.

“No, white nana! ” Ki shook her head in wild negation and I wanted to tell her don’t do that, Ki-bird, don’t shake your head like that, very bad idea. She tottered, one arm pointed up at the sky and one down at the water so she looked for a moment like an airplane in a steep bank.

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