Tales Of Corwin

By Friday, the warm spell seemed finally to be running out, and there was a dire weather forecast for the weekend. There was no doubt that something heavy was on the way; the only question was how much would be rain, how much would be ice, and how much would be snow. At the Prime Way, Mark heard people sharing their juiciest forecasts. The man in front of him in the checkout line said, “Ready for the big storm? Supposed to be eight inches, is what I heard.” “Twelve, I heard,” said the kid bagging the groceries. “And that’s after the ice.” Mark was inclined to discount such predictions; supermarket forecasts were always exaggerated. But by Saturday afternoon he wasn’t so sure. The official forecasts were still threatening, and now the air did feel different, with a damp and unquiet breeze blowing fitfully. Terri put out the word that the Figgy Pudding Singers were making their first public appearance that night. Sandra agreed to close up the tavern early—“It’ll be a slow night anyway,” she said—and the gro

Monday morning early, Mark was just getting back to the house from a run, alone. Since Sandra had moved in, she’d tried running with him a couple of times, and he had tried joining Sandra’s yoga practice. But when it came to exercise, they didn’t seem to be compatible. Mark liked to push himself hard on the road, which Sandra apparently found unpleasant; she’d teased him about it, saying that she didn’t want to run with someone who was punishing himself for his sins. Mark had decided, for his part, that Sandra’s yoga was far more fun to watch her do than to do himself. So now, Mark was back to running by himself. It was nice to be able still to enjoy an outdoor run, this late in the year. He usually drew the line somewhere in the upper twenties; any colder than that, and he’d take it indoors, to the town’s municipal gym. He began stretching on the front steps. As he did so, he watched a white van come all the way down Amber street, and finally pull into his driveway. The driver-side door opened, and Chris ho

Late Monday night, after Mark’s parents had gone home to Maine, Mark sat alone, high in the branches of the old tulip tree. He was within ten or fifteen feet of what appeared to be a squirrel’s nest, and he had come to talk to the squirrels. His encounter with a tool-carrying squirrel in the Starved Rock State Park had helped him reach clarity about the fate of his tree. It would be hard for the squirrels (and any other inhabitants of the tree) to lose their home now, he thought, but it would be far worse for them to be in the tree if it fell in the middle of a winter storm. The tree had to come down now, before the weather turned. He’d called the tree service, and they’d said they could be there Wednesday or Thursday. “Hello, squirrel-friends,” Mark began, feeling rather foolish. He didn’t know if they were really in that nest, or if they could hear him, or if they could understand him. But he felt he had to make the effort. “I’ve brought you two gifts, and a warning. The first gift is this bag of acorns.

In the morning, Sandra’s ankle was still tender and swollen. Mark called his parents to postpone breakfast, and he convinced Sandra to go to the urgent care first. There, they put a compression bandage and a walking brace on her ankle, told her to ice it and elevate it, and told her to get some rest. Sandra was indignant. “I can’t bloody well ‘get some rest’ the day before Thanksgiving, with your parents here! Look.” She made an effort to walk a few steps to the car without limping. “See? I can do this.” “I’m sure you can,” Mark countered. “But I’m also sure you shouldn’t. Let’s go get breakfast first, anyway. You’ll feel better with something to eat. And hey, there’s an upside: you look very pathetic with that thing on your foot, my dear.” “Oh, thanks a lot.” “No, I mean: it’s an advantage. It’ll make meeting my folks that much easier.” So when Mark and Sandra walked into the dining room at the Shaughnessy Hotel to meet Mark’s parents, Sandra was limping along with a walking brace on her right foot. It

The Monday before Thanksgiving, Sandra woke up and looked out the window. It was a beautiful fall day, sunny and dry. There was no shortage of things to be done, at work and around the house. And yet … “Mark,” she said. Mark opened his eyes. “Hey, beautiful,” he said. “Let’s get away for a little while today—can we?” Sandra suggested. “What do you think?” “What did you have in mind?” he asked. “How about Starved Rock?” she replied. “A little hike, and a picnic lunch? I’ll pack it.” “You’re on,” he said. “Just let me get a quick shower first.” Unspoken between them lay the sense that this might be their last chance to get away together for a while. Mark’s parents were coming to town on Tuesday and staying through Thanksgiving. Then there was the looming threat of the winter weather foreseen by Timi; the warmth of this strange November couldn’t last forever. Who knew when they might have a chance like this again? They ate breakfast at Mark’s favorite place, a tiny diner in a tiny nearby town. Then they

John Quick woke up the next morning feeling restless. That was better, he thought—better than feeling nothing. Near his door he found a note from Sandra: Food in the fridge. Call at need. See you tonight. The note was on a pile of folded laundry—good grief, they’d done his laundry—and there was a business card with Sandra’s cell number on it. John took a shower and dressed. He was so tired of being so tired. He found his coat and made his way downstairs in the huge old house. He made a piece of toast and buttered and ate it—that felt like an accomplishment. Then he dared the door and went outside for some fresh air. The air was unexpectedly warm, and the sun was out. He had a sudden apprehension: could he have been asleep all winter, and could this be spring? He took the phone from his pocket to check the date, but it was dead. Oh, of course—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d charged it. There were probably a thousand messages, too. The very thought of all those messages was exhausting, and he almost

Not that scary, Mark insisted to himself, walking down Main Street toward her office. Not that scary. He wasn’t sure why he found Eunice the scariest of the McCutcheon women, but he did. Her mother Lois was grandmotherly—though he sometimes had the sense that he might be one grandmotherly hug away from being fed to the worms. Her daughter Timi was spooky-scary, but in a vulnerable way that made her seem less threatening. But Eunice herself …. Eunice was a woman of about forty. She had a striking face—beautiful, perhaps, in Mediterranean way that was quite unlike either her mother or her daughter. She didn’t seem to be fat, but whether she was muscular, or rounded, or rail-thin, Mark couldn’t have said, because she always wore clothing that concealed. She’d always been polite to Mark, and perhaps even friendly, but with so much reserve that he couldn’t really be sure. In fact, there was a sort of sheathed sharpness about her. Mark sometimes imagined her as a secret agent or an undercover assassin. And she alw

They sat in silence for a minute. Terri, on a kitchen chair, tucked up into a ball, hugging her knees and staring into space; she looked like a little lost waif, Mark thought. But the moment passed, and she brightened again. “So! I’ve had an idea,” she said, “and I want to run it by you guys.” “Get a glass of wine, then, and tell us about it,” said Mark. Mark put his fudge pot in the sink to soak, while Sandra got Terri a glass of wine. “Something’s not right,” Terri began, once they were all seated around the kitchen table. “This winter of storms we’re preparing for—I just feel like we’re missing something. The generators and all that, that’s great. But, somehow, it still feels sort of depressing. Like we’re all just hunkering down. Like we’re bracing ourselves for a hard time.” “Bracing ourselves,” repeated Sandra. “Yeah, that’s about the size of it.” “That’s how I feel too,” Mark said. “That was a pretty grueling vision Timi had. It’s given me … I don’t know … sort of a feeling of impending doom. So,

The train eased to a stop at the Corwin station that Friday night, but John Quick didn’t move. Or couldn’t move. He continued staring blankly down the aisle. Most of his brain was on hold, and the anodyne on-hold music that seemed to be playing in it was a bit annoying. Not quite annoying enough to do anything about, however. In the working corner of his brain, he wasn’t at all sure that coming back to Corwin was a good idea anyway. Maybe at some later stop, he’d have a better plan. Maybe Chicago. “Sir? This is your stop, isn’t it?” That was a conductor. He pulled his gaze away from the middle distance—with a great effort—and tried to focus on the stout woman in uniform. “Um … yes … Corwin,” he managed to say. His voice didn’t seem to be working too well. “Are you all right, sir? Do you need some help?” No, he didn’t want help. To avoid being helped by someone, he would make an effort. “No, thanks,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m fine. Just tired, is all. Sleeping with my eyes open, I guess.” Well,

Tuesday evening was Church Council night. When Mark arrived at the meeting, the room was already full of Church Council members. The meeting was held in the “parlor” of the church: a homey, smaller room just off the Fellowship Hall. The parlor housed a collection of odd sofas, chairs, and coffee tables; there were also two bookcases full of old Bibles and hymnals, and a fireplace that no one could remember ever having used. Eleven council members were already present, sitting in a loose circle. As soon as Mark sat down, Lynn Gertzig, the Moderator, called the meeting to order. Mark was asked to open the meeting with prayer; the minutes of the previous meeting were passed around and approved; and then it was time for the pastor’s report. Mark started by going over his logs for the past month, and then moved on to his plans for the month to come, up to the first Sunday of Advent. Then came the hard part. “So now,” he said, “I guess I need to tell you all about a change in my personal situation. This is sort of

They all rose from their seats, and Sandra began to lead the way out of the kitchen.  But suddenly, Timi cried out: “Oh! That’s—there’s something—I’d better just—” She began to shiver, and crouched down to the kitchen floor. Eunice ran to her daughter and crouched beside her. “It’s awa-ake,” Terri whispered into the silence, looking around wide-eyed. “Circle up now!” Lois said, in a commanding voice. “It’s a vision she’ll be having, and she could use our help.” “Right here, then,” Sandra said. “Lois, your north is there by the window onto the street. Eunice, stay with Timi. Can you lift her onto the table?” Mark went to help, but too late: Eunice gathered Timi into her arms, rising as if her twenty-one-year-old daughter weighed no more than a baby. She sat on the table, cradling Timi in her lap. Everyone else went to their accustomed positions in the circle, forming it around the kitchen table. Sandra watched Timi. The girl was in distress, like she had been Samhain eve; clearly there was a vision pressin

In the end, not everyone wanted to sit at the kitchen table. Pythagoras perched on the counter by the sink, just as he had done back in her old kitchen, and Flora Fludd stayed by the cooktop, heating tortillas on demand in an iron frying pan. Vicente brought beer and lemonade, and also offered a nasty mixture of the two he called radler—apparently something he’d acquired a taste for in his travels. The food was good—nothing could beat Lois McCutcheon’s guacamole—but most of all, it just felt good to have everyone there. Seeing all her friends together in the kitchen made her feel at home. “So: thank you all for coming,” she said, when the eating and drinking seemed to have slowed. “It’s great to have you here in my new home. And I would have wanted to get together for a housewarming anyway. But I also have another reason for wanting to get together with you all. Something happened on Samhain eve that I need to tell you about, and get your thoughts about. Something more, I mean, than the amazing things we all

On his day off, Mark ate lunch in the Rose and Feather, taking his time and reading while he ate. When he came out of the side door after lunch, he stopped in his tracks: David Caputo, pastor of the Bible Church, was just climbing out of his Cadillac across the street. Mark hadn’t seen the older man since before the fire. He’d thought about calling him, or going to see him, but he just hadn’t been able to do it. He didn’t know what he’d say. Over the course of the previous year, David had harassed Sandra with letters and phone calls, believing her Wiccan way to be inherently evil. He had convinced his church to open a mission in the building across the street—attempting to use an obscure city ordinance to drive Sandra out of business. He’d had an unproductive argument with Mark about it. And all the while, his son had secretly pursued his father’s ends by more sinister means, with hate crimes against Sandra’s people and, ultimately, an attempt to kill Sandra by arson, along with Mark and a police officer. N

When Sunday morning rolled around, Mark woke up enthusiastic. “Good morning, happiness,” he said, when he saw that Sandra was already awake. “And a happy Sunday morning!” “Huh,” said Sandra sleepily. “What’s happy about it?” “Oh, I don’t know,” replied Mark, getting up and stretching. “I almost always feel excited about Sunday morning. It’s like I’ve been cooking a fancy meal all week, and now finally I get to put it on the table.” “You’re sweet,” said Sandra. “I used to dread Sunday mornings, myself. When I was a girl, I would lie in bed, hoping my parents would forget to get me up for Mass. I can’t remember that they ever did, though.” “Well,” said Mark, “like I said last night: you’re welcome to sleep in. You don’t have to come to church, just because you’re living with the pastor. Or just because the pastor will be sad and lonely if you’re not there. Don’t give it a thought.” “I won't.” Sandra turned over and pulled the covers over her head. But after a few seconds she poked her head out again, sayin

It was long after midnight, that Samhain night, when Mark and Sandra came back to earth on the cliffs above the Illinois River. Mark had been so full of exuberant energy, out there among the dark winds of heaven! He had felt like he could fly forever, with Sandra clinging to him and shouting her delight into the night air; yet having her there, riding on his back, where he couldn’t touch her or kiss her or see the look on her beautiful, foxy face—it was too tantalizing to put up with any longer. As he landed and brought them upright, he felt Sandra slide off his back. He turned to her, put his arms around her, and kissed her in the moonlight. He wanted to say so much to her—but she just stepped back, took his hand, and said, “Come on, Mark Lucifer. Let’s go home.” Home, he thought. Does she mean my house? And does that mean—but he didn’t have any more time to think. She opened a way for them, and through the portal he could see the basement of his house, the room she had told him she could always find. There

On Friday, Mark visited Marion Swisher, a matriarch of his congregation—a disgruntled matriarch. She had been recovering from a bout of pneumonia, and Mark had let two whole weeks go by without visiting her. An obvious tactical error, there. In her place, and surrounded by her suffocatingly attentive family, he wouldn’t have wanted any visitors at all. But when he called to ask if he could drop by, she was very cross with him for having taken so long. “I wondered when you were coming!” she exclaimed. “I was just saying to Amelia: ‘Is Mark Collins still pastor of this church?!’” “Yes, ma’am,” said Mark. “And I’m very sorry for having neglected you so shamefully. May I stop by now?” The old lady allowed that this long overdue visit would be acceptable, and Mark headed out to her property. She owned a big hunk of the shore of a little artificial lake outside of town—Swisher Lake, of course. Two of her daughters, Rose and Amelia, were in the kitchen when he came to the door; these were the two youngest daughte

It was noon before they made it out to a restaurant. They got a booth at the Big Boy—breakfast all day—and Sandra watched Mark carefully. He had been an enthusiastic lover, but still: men’s feelings could be so easily hurt. Was he really taking her “no” in his stride, or was he hiding an injured heart? “You’re watching me,” he conjectured, “to see if my feelings are hurt, about your not wanting to get married, aren’t you?” Damn, he was sneaky. This wasn’t going to be so easy. “Please don’t worry,” he continued. “Honestly. I’m just so happy you’re here—and I missed you so much when you were away. Nothing else seems all that important right now.” He sipped on his orange juice. “Of course, now, if you’d like to soothe my hurt feelings, I can think of several ways—“ “Cool your jets, pastor,” she protested. “You might at least give me a chance to catch my breath.” “Oh, I didn’t mean right here in the Big Boy,” he said with a grin. “The church really would fire me for that. How about—“ “Just stop now,” she said