999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [29]
But they were out of earshot, and recklessly moving away.
Once through the opened gate and onto the country road, Stephen felt remarkably lighter, freer; as if gravity had miraculously lessened; that curious sensation you feel when stepping into water, as it begins to buoy you up. His battered bicycle continued to sway, lurch, shudder beneath him, his seat was unnaturally low, as if for a much shorter boy, there was a staccato click! click! click! as if his chain was preparing to snap, yet Stephen persisted; he managed to get the bicycle into a higher gear; by degrees, his speed increased. And Rosalind, trying to keep up with him, experienced much the same sensation of a sudden airiness, lightness, elation, as soon as she found herself out on the road, which was a narrow blacktop road hardly two full lanes. A fragrant wind cooled her heated face and dried the tears of hurt and frustration in her eyes. “See? What did I tell you!” Stephen called to her, grinning. His wonderful sunny smile that lit up her heart. His smile that was like their father’s, except its boyishness was sincere, genuine; not lined with irony. They laughed together like careless children. There they were: free! Children of a former justice of the State Court of Appeals, and yet—free!
They were giddy with daring. They knew they might be punished. Yet not thinking of that—their father, punishment—not thinking of anything but the balmy summer air, the exquisite splotched sunlight shining through foliage at the side of the road; in this region of steep and undulating hills that was scarcely known to them, surrounded by dense, shadowy pine forests alternating with open meadows in which wildflowers shimmered with color—the pale blue of hepatica and chicory, the vivid yellow of miniature sunflowers. Close beside the road were shallow, rocky, fast-running brooks; in the near distance, the ever-present, brooding Chautauqua Mountains, covered in pines and misty at their peaks. Rosalind’s heart beat with a strange illicit joy. Her flushed, pretty face shone with excitement, her fingers were covered in bright rust from the corroded handlebars. Breathless from the hilly terrain, she called, “Stephen, wait for me!”
They were traveling in the direction of Contracoeur—weren’t they? Or was it in the direction of Lake Noir, deeper into the country? They must have bicycled two miles, three miles—yet nothing looked familiar. No houses, no farms, no familiar landmarks. And, oddly, there was no traffic on the road. Rosalind would have called these observations out to Stephen but he was too far ahead, and unconsciously pulling away; the entire back of his shirt was damp with sweat, his sinewy, muscular legs worked powerfully at pedaling. Rosalind felt a stab of apprehension; not fear, exactly, but apprehension; thinking without knowing she’d been thinking of it, of the hideous thing-without-a-face that had appeared in her dream of the other week, and which Graeme had claimed to have seen. Was such a thing possible? On such a summer day, in such surroundings, Rosalind found it difficult to believe.
But, yes: you know it’s so.
Another half-mile and there came, returning in her direction, Stephen, concerned that his rear tire was leaking air; so, reluctantly, he and Rosalind pedaled back to Cross Hill, approximately three miles, though it seemed much longer, for the road now ascended almost steadily,