A Dusk of Demons Read Online Free PDF

real, you noodle? The moon’s where the Demons live. How could anyone get there?”
    What she said was unanswerable, but unsatisfying. The very oldness of the book, the crumbling brown-edged pages stained with damp and smelling of must, had worked powerfully on my imagination, and still did when I thought of it. Men and women, people like us, had written those words, drawn those strange, disturbing pictures. And drawn them with a faithfulness and clarity that even Miss Phipps, our art teacher, could not have begun to match. What reason would they have for lying?
    But I could not properly express my doubts and knew this was forbidden territory. I retreated to an earlier point. “I’ve never seen a Demon perching on the mill on Sheriff’s. Have you?”
    â€œWell, you don’t want them to, do you?”
    That was true enough, but it didn’t seem to havemuch to do with tall buildings or anything else. I shrugged, dismissing it firmly from my mind, and peeled another egg.
    We went swimming, not for long because the water still had its winter chill, and basked as the sun dropped toward the line where blue met blue. I heard a distant rumble which sounded like thunder but dismissed it as fancy; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
    Paddy said, “We could have stayed the night. The weather looks set fair.”
    â€œMother wouldn’t allow it, with school tomorrow.”
    â€œShe couldn’t stop us, could she? No one can tell you what you must do.”
    You meant us. “Anyway, there is school. Sheriff Wilson said.”
    â€œAnd who’s Sheriff Wilson, to tell the Master of Old Isle what to do about school?”
    We wrangled, talking pleasant nonsense. Sea gulls screamed offshore, before settling among the rocks, perhaps to lay more eggs. Time drifted past. Then Paddy said, “What’s that?”
    â€œWhat?”
    She pointed. Beyond the island’s shoulder, black smoke rose against the blue. “A fire . . .”
    â€œMenhennick’s haystack, most likely.”
    He was a farmer on Sheriff’s who had twice been fined for letting his hay catch fire, and threatened with the stocks if it happened again.
    â€œAt this time of year?” That was a point: His stack would be near exhausted. “And it’s not the right direction for Sheriff’s.”
    Rocks barred our way to the north, but there was a southern route to the far side of the island. We ran across rabbit-cropped grass, where ground roses were budding, still only idly curious. We rounded the point, and Sheep Isle and January and Sheriff’s in turn came into view, peaceful in afternoon sunshine.
    And now we could see Old Isle, and it was from there the dark plume rose, billowing out of smoke that completely enveloped the house.

3
    T HE SMELL REACHED US BEFORE we beached but grew much stronger as we ran up the path beside the lower paddock. It was a reek of burning wood, mixed with less identifiable smells, now and then nauseating. The ruins of the house were capped by a dark cloud from which occasional flames still burst. I heard a snort from Jiminy and saw him down by the bottom fence, as far away as he could get. Paddy was ahead, and I fought a stitch pelting after her.
    We were halted by heat as we reached the monkey-puzzle tree on the front lawn. The wholeof the far side was withered, the spiky branches wilting and charred. A few feet from where we stood the grass was burned dark brown.
    Paddy called out. “Mother . . . Antonia!” Her voice was shrill above the crackling grumble of the conflagration.
    I said, “Perhaps if we get around to the other side . . .”
    We had to make a wide circuit. I saw Sea King and Black Prince standing together, over by the pea field, but no other sign of life. No sound either, except the growling of the fire and a startling crack as one of the remaining uprights collapsed; not even a bird. Paddy called