The Land Beyond Summer by Brad Linaweaver

Author:Brad Linaweaver [Linaweaver, Brad]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, fantasy, General
ISBN: 9781584450030
Google: YIwMAAAACAAJ
Goodreads: 500997
Publisher: Pulpless.com
Published: 1999-02-01T00:00:00+00:00

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The Land Beyond Summer is posted for entertainment purposes only and no part of it may be crossposted to any other datafile base, conference, news group, email list, or website without written permission of Pulpless.Comtm.

Copyright © 1996 by Brad Linaweaver. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MRS. NORSE

They entered the dark interior of the old house. Of course, if this were the only house in the whole world, there wasn’t anything that could be used for comparison. But it sure felt old, smelling of mothballs and clean rosewood, of delicate incense and furniture polish.

In the hallway, there was a noisy grandfather clock keeping time with heavy monotony. Clive felt that he should tiptoe past the antique as if he didn’t want to disturb the repetitive ticks and tocks with his own sounds. It was that kind of place.

He’d never been in a house like this before. The closest he’d come was at a museum, in the Early American section. More than a carefully preserved house, this was like stepping inside a glass case where a history lesson in old wood and older ceramics were laid out under golden lights, with big DO NOT TOUCH signs everywhere. Only there were no signs.

Wolf let Clive take the lead. It was easy to sense how uncomfortable the dog was. The brown and white cat that had met them at the door expressed a disdain far beyond anything Kitnip had ever shown.

Clive was nervous, too. At least he was until he stepped into the living room. Mrs. Norse was waiting for them. One look at her put Clive at his ease.

She was standing in the center of the room, surrounded by cats. She had a full head of silver-white hair, but it didn’t make her appear old. Her smooth, strong face suggested hearty middle age; the few wrinkles around her eyes and neck seemed less the result of aging as the final touch to a work of art. The hair was combed upwards so that different strands found their own eccentric peaks. A gigantic pair of owl glasses, supported by a sizeable nose, dominated her face. The dress she wore was an old fashioned mother hubbard affair, the primary color of which was lavender.

“Hello,” she said in a musical voice that made the single word into both a fond greeting and question.

“Mrs. Norse, I presume,” said Clive, regaining enough confidence to try and be funny. For the first time since stepping foot in this world, he felt at ease. Wolf was happy to see her, too; so much so that he promptly forgot how uncomfortable he’d been a moment before. His tail was wagging so hard you’d never know he was surrounded by cats. After all, it is one thing to grow up with one cat as a friend; it is quite another to be deposited in the enemy camp, so to speak. “Woof,” was all he could think to say under the circumstances.

“You are both more than welcome,” said Mrs.

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