Witch Hill

ONE A PLACE TO LAY MY HEAD It began to rain just as the funeral limousine drove out of the cemetery, and all the way back into the city, the hard beating of the rain and the steady swish-swish-swish of the wipers ran counterpoint to my own dismal thoughts. A week ago, there had been four of us. Four Latimers. MotherJanet Latimerfragile and often ill, which is why I had given up the exciting work I was doing at the Art School, and come home to look after her; but alive and very precious, well worth the coddling and care to save her failing heart any stress. FatherPaul Latimerstill vital, still very erect and slender, his hair greying but his eyes as bright as ever and his voice strong and definite. And Brad, the way he had looked in his uniform as he boarded the train to Parris Island for basic training; just nineteen, so full of fun and laughter. A tight little circ≤ a loving family, but not a smothering or stifling one. I'd been on my own for three years, until Mother's heart attack, and I would be again when she was stronger. Brad had always wanted to go into the Marines; there'd been a Latimer in the armed forces ever since the Revolutionary War. Oh, we had lives of our ownbut we had roots, too, and a strong, firm family. When Brad stepped on the train, the family wasn't breaking up; it was just loosening the apron strings; he'd go away from home as a gawky kid, as I'd gone away from home a shy teenage girl, and he'd come home a grown man, as I'd come home an adult, even a sophisticated woman, sure of the direction I wanted my life to take. Only none of it had happened. Like a row of dominoes, as if we'd been set up for some idiot force to flick us with a finger, one after another, we'd gone down. It began with the yellow telegram from Brad's commander, and the words that had all run together in front of my eyes:Regret-to-inform-youyour-son-Paul-Bradley-Latimer-IVkilled-in-crash-of-training-helicopterand the name I never could decipher or remember. My first thought, and Father's, had been: Mothershe mustn't know yet. It will kill her. It did. She came in while the thought was still clear on our faces and before we could get the telegram out of sight. She said, in a whisper, "Is it Brad?" and even before we could answer or try to delay or deny it, dropped, like a stone. In the emergency room they said she must have been dead before she struck the floor, while Father and I were still racing to pick her up. Riding in a funeral limousine just like this, four days ago, Father had spokenalmost for the first timeof his own roots. Among other things, he said we used to be related to half of Massachusetts. All I knew about his early life was that he'd been born in a little town in New England, near the coast; and that he'd left it at the age of sixteen, for reasons he never discussed. I didn't even know the name of the town; but that day he'd said, holding on to my hand, "Sara, when I die, I want to be buried here, beside your mother. Don't let anyone talk you into taking me back to Arkham, no matter what anyone in my family might say." "Your family? I never knewyou never mentioned anyone, Father." "No, I didn't," he said. "I supposewell, I kept putting it off, year after year, telling you. I suppose, like most children, you just took it for granted that there were a few generations between you and Adam. I always thought there'd be plenty of timethat I'd go back some day. After Aunt Sara diedmy fatherRBradley, Marion Zimmer is the author of 'Witch Hill', published 2000 under ISBN 9780312872830 and ISBN 0312872836.