He ducked his head, bowing gently and folding his hands. “I understand you are not feeling well. Harold thought you might wish for something to aid your sleep.” His voice was nearly a whisper, low and soft, and it invited confidence. It implied that he was alive, and that I was secure. Although I couldn’t see him well, I got the impression that he must be a very old man beneath the cowl.

I didn’t respond except with my stare, and he seemed embarrassed, or maybe he was only polite and reserved.

“I . . . I have a tonic here, if you’d like.”

“Okay.”

He fed it to me like I was a baby, propping me up with a pillow and spooning the drink into my mouth. I took it obediently, even willingly. I wanted nothing more than to sleep deeply enough to keep the ghosts away, and even though the tonic was bitter, I had the strangest feeling that it could only help.

By the time I’d taken the last spoon, I was already losing consciousness. I wanted to thank the monk, but the words were thick in my mouth.

He removed the extra pillow from behind my head and pulled the covers up under my chin with a grandfatherly tuck. Then he held his hands above me, in a blessing, I suppose, and murmured something I didn’t understand—a Latin prayer, I thought. But the last words I heard were understandable enough that I suddenly remembered where I’d heard his voice before. But by then it was too late to cry out.

He took my hand in his.

You’re on your way back to me.

Oh yes, soon you’ll be home, child. And you’ll be mine once again.

10
Gone South

We arrived at Highlands Hammock State Park in early mid-afternoon after another six-hour drive. While the map showed that the area of the park was quite large, the official entrance was barely more than an outbuilding, a sign, and a small parking lot. Though there were several other cars, we didn’t see any people aside from the woman in the ranger’s station who gave us our pass. She suggested that we register to camp, as the park closed at sundown each day, but after a quick consultation, Harry and I declined the invitation. Some cursory scouting was in order before we stormed the place, and besides, neither of us had any burning desire to camp in the middle of a swamp unless it was absolutely necessary.

If Harry was right, the main road ran fairly close to where the land in question must be, out on the south side of the preserve. According to the maps from the rangers’ station, one of the catwalks extended far enough down to possibly come near it as well. We decided to hike the trail like ordinary tourists first, and then return later for a closer, less legal look.