Gravelight by Marion Zimmer Bradley Read Free Book Online Page B

he felt the hackles on the back of his neck begin to rise.
    The door banged open.
    â€œOh, there you are, Mister Wych!” Luned said.
    She strode through the door, a filled bucket in one hand,
a six-pack in the other. Wycherly hurried over and took the beer from her. It was icy cold.
    â€œBeen settin’ in the crick,” Luned said, setting the bucket down beside the stove with a sigh of relief.
    Wycherly pulled off the top of the can, sitting down in one of the wooden chairs to pour the beer down his throat in one long swallow. The need to have it available was almost stronger than his craving for it; he drank the next one more slowly.
    â€œI’m sorry about the pump, Mister Wych, I truly am,” Luned said. “I’spect I can get it to run, but I didn’t like to wake you or anything. Least-ways now you can wash up and all.” She looked anxious. “And there’s a backhouse up the hill a-ways; you can see it from the window here.”
    Thanks, but no.
    â€œNever mind. I imagine, ah, ‘crick-water’ will be just fine,” Wycherly said. He wasn’t sure he’d be willing to drink it, no matter how clear it looked, but then water hadn’t been his preferred beverage for a very long time.
    â€œIcebox works on white gas,” Luned went on. “The tank’s empty, and there won’t be any more along until Monday. You’ll need kerosene for your lamps, and I guess Mal Tanner’ll bring that too, along with what else you might think to ask for.”
    Mr. Tanner, Wycherly remembered, was the local bootlegger. Evan had told him. He hesitated. Beer was one thing. Moonshine was something else again.
    â€œWhat day is this?” he asked instead, shoving the rest of the six-pack aside.
    â€œThursday. It’s about six. Dinnertime,” Luned added, as if Wycherly were ignorant of the most basic facts of life.
    Wycherly said nothing, nursing his second beer. He wasn’t entirely sure of what was going on here, and he wanted to know. For all her talk of ghosts back in the general store, Luned seemed to have had no hesitation in scrubbing the cabin from top to bottom. And the sun was starting to set, and she was still here.
    Why?

    As he stared broodingly at her, Luned moved to the cabinets over the sink and began taking down cans. They were new, obviously stock from the general store. Wycherly glanced around the room. Several cardboard boxes—some filled with bulging rusted cans, some with shining modern ones—were tucked into corners.
    â€œEvan sent up a load of groceries,” Luned said, catching his look. “He says there’s everything here you’ll need. Bread comes in on Wednesday, milk on Monday, big store’s in Pharaoh and you could maybe pay Francis Wheeler to run you down there or borrow Bart Asking’s pickup.”
    The speech had the air of something planned beforehand and carefully rehearsed. Wycherly wondered who else Luned’ d had the chance to say it to; from the way Evan Starking had acted, Morton’s Fork wasn’t exactly on the tourist-trade map.
    â€œAnd my car?” Wycherly asked, remembering it with an effort. The crash that must have been only this morning seemed an episode from another lifetime already.
    â€œJachin and Boaz pulled it right up the hill and it’s down to Asking Garage right now. Mister Asking says he says he doesn’t think it’s any kind of an American car.”
    Boaz and Jachin, Wycherly deduced, must be the oxen owned by Caleb. He felt a faint spasm of relief at knowing that the car was safely out of sight.
    â€œIt isn’t. It’s Italian.”
    â€œWell! Fancy that—and it uses American gasoline and everything?” Luned asked.
    Wycherly stared at her, not sure whether she was serious or pulling a joke. After a moment, Luned turned away and went back to opening cans.
    Silence.
    â€œI thought you said no one lived here?” he said,