Green Willows. V. J. Banis
BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY VICTOR J. BANIS
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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1977, 2012 by V. J. Banis
Originally published under the pen name, Jan Alexander
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
I am deeply indebted to my friend, Heather, for all the help she has given me in getting these early works of mine reissued.
And I am grateful as well to Rob Reginald, for all his assistance and support.
CHAPTER ONE
I have come at dusk, come to follow the little path that leads over the hill and by the lake. It is no idle curiosity that has brought me back to Green Willows, nor any longing to see the place again. For ten years, I have lived down the road, and in all that time, I have never set foot on this path. Hardly anyone ever does. Hardly anyone ever did.
I have come because I must, because someone saw, or said they saw, two ladies down by the lake, and I must know. I must see for myself.
He did not come with me. I told him where and why I was going, and he looked at me with a look I thought to see no more in his eyes. After a long while, he nodded and turned away.
When I left, I looked back once and he was in the doorway, watching me. If I had asked, I am sure he would have come, but I did not ask, and he did not offer.
So I have come alone over the hill, around the stand of birches. The path is overgrown now. The wildness had always threatened, and now it reigns triumphant. Brambles catch my skirt like warning fingers that would hold me back when I press on.
And there is the lake, with the willows that gave the house its name gracing one green bank. It is a pond, really, with an island in the center and a gazebo on the island. It is artificial, of course, dug out when the house was built, but it is deep. Deep enough for drowning.
The gazebo is crumbling now, and its roof has fallen in. The little stone bench that once sat there is turned over, its legs stuck into the air like some great clumsy animal that has been rolled on its back and cannot right itself again.
I come closer, my gaze going beyond the lake. There stood the house on a gentle rise, and beyond that, the cliff and the sea. What a contrast that was, to walk from the front to the back of the house, from this lovely, peaceful view that was artificial, to the real waves crashing at the real rocks below. There was a clue there, in that duality of nature, if I had been clever enough to see it at the time.
But I do not walk to the cliffs, which I never liked, or to the house. There is no house there now, only two broken chimneys that stand like sentinels watching me approach the lake.
There are no ladies by the water. There are no ghosts here. They were long since driven out.
And yet...and yet, why do I turn my head so fast, thinking for a second that I saw a girl race across the hill, fling herself to her death over the cliffs?
I catch my breath and sink into the tall, soft grass by the lake’s edge. I close my eyes, and at once memories beset me. I see the gazebo, clean and lovely, gleaming white in the moonlight, and I see a man standing in its shadows. I see a young woman moving quickly through the darkness, across the bridge (the bridge, where is the bridge, is it gone too?) and into his arms.
I see another scene, too, less romantic. I see two women struggling together by the lake. I see them fall into the water....
The wind rustles the branches of the willows, and it is the sound of gentle sobbing in the night.
Someone screams.
I open my eyes and sit up, my heart pounding, but it was only the cry of some bird, a hawk, I think, or a sea-bird. I am alone by a stagnant weed-choked lake. For a moment, I see bubbles rising to the surface of the water, but it is only a trick of my imagination, only the surface scum, moving in a slight breeze. Green Willows has frightened me, as she always frightened me.
But Green Willows is gone, I tell myself as I stand and brush my skirt. All the ghosts are gone, all the hates and loves and fears and passions. They exist no more.
Except in my heart.
CHAPTER TWO
I came that first time with trepidation. I was nineteen and this was my first job. I had to succeed. I had nowhere else to go. I could not return to Mrs. White’s school for girls. Although