Gravelight Read Online Free PDF Page B

kinship with the Celtic forbears who had settled this unforgiving
land in the eighteenth century, but there the resemblance ended. Wycherly Musgrave was the end product of money: expensive health care, expensive nutrition. He looked younger than his thirty-two years; the body he abused so casually had the resilience to endure what he did to it. He suspected the stranger was near to his own age, and the thought gave Wycherly an odd, uncomfortable feeling that might almost have been pity.
    The newcomer’s remark had been addressed to the weathered truck driver. Francis. His mother probably named him after the talking mule he so resembles, Wycherly thought pettishly.
    â€œSmacked up his fancy furriner car on the overlook to Frenchy’s Hollow,” Francis said. “I expect he’ll be needing the loan of Caleb’s team to get her out.” As if satisfied that Wycherly was now someone else’s problem, Francis drove off, leaving Wycherly and the stranger standing alone in the street.
    Wycherly glared at the other man balefully, somehow at a loss for words. The man stared back at him with equal suspicion, and Wycherly realized with a sudden shrewdness how he must look: bruised and bloody from the crash, pale and disheveled and possibly not quite sane.
    He couldn’t afford to seem out of control. The stakes were too high. If his family should somehow find him …
    â€œI have to say I’d be grateful for Mr., ah, Caleb’s help. If, um, Francis hadn’t come along, I’d still be sitting on the edge of the road. I’d hate just to leave my car there.” Especially if there’s something in it that ties it to me. “So I really need to get my car …” Towed to some place it can be worked on? Or just hidden before the highway patrol finds it? Wycherly forced what he hoped was a friendly smile. “And I’d really be awfully grateful for any assistance you could give me.” His words faltered to a stop, and still the other man said nothing.
    Wycherly hated to make these false conciliating speeches; he always had. They were an admission of powerlessness, and more than many things, Wycherly craved
the power he knew he was too weak to grasp. Wycherly ran a hand through his hair distractedly, wincing when his fingers encountered a tender spot. More than anything just now he wanted oblivion, and he wasn’t particular about how he got it.
    â€œI need it towed here, I guess,” he repeated. “If someone can do that.”
    At last, as if having wound his way through some complex process of decision, the man smiled and held out his hand.
    â€œLooks like you need more than that. I’m Evan Starking.” He pronounced the name as if it were two separate words: Star King. “My pa owns the general store.”
    Wycherly nodded. There didn’t seem much to say about that.
    â€œWhy don’t you come inside and set, and I’ll send my sister Luned over to Caleb.” Evan hesitated. “It’s going to take most of the day to get your car up the hill with Caleb’s ox team, mister, so if you’re in a hurry …”
    â€œNo,” Wycherly said, taking Evan’s hand. The palm was harsh and callused against his own. “I haven’t got anywhere else to go.” He followed Evan, past the waiting loiterers, inside the general store.
    For all its external shabbiness, the inside of the general store was neatly stocked; dark and cool, its shelves were crammed with merchandise whose modern labels looked garish and out of place in their antiquated surroundings.
    Evan sent Luned off in search of Caleb—Wycherly got a jumbled impression of a young street urchin, blonde and none too clean—and once she was gone, Evan reached beneath the counter and pulled out a blue spatterware cup and a familiarly shaped bottle. The battered condition of its label suggested it did not contain its original contents, and it was