Enchanted Forests (42 page)

"How long have we been here? How long has it been winter,

Chris?"

"And we don't have to leave, don't you see? The circle keeps

us together. You aren't dead, Justin."

"I'm not—alive." It was hard to talk. Justin was afraid. "I dug

up the circle, Chris. 1 saw my body."

She blanched. Shook her head, covering her mouth with both

her hands.

"This is a forest of dead things," he continued, "of dying

things. It's going to be winter forever. Nothing will grow, noth-

ing will change." He caught her hands; they were warm, where

his were not. "What happened to Bill—you were starting to date

again, remember?"

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter anymore." She turned

away from him, and stared blindly into the fire; the tears running

down her cheeks were orange.

"I—I took your plants, you know? I took them, even though

I knew I'd kill them. I had to try; they were like a little bit of

your life. But when they started to die—it was like I couldn't

even keep that part of you."

He walked over to her back, and put his arms around her, be-

ing as gentle as she would let him while still holding on.

"And then, your body." She began to cry harder. "I identified

it, sort of. It was—" She couldn't speak. Minutes passed as she

gulped air. "After a few months, I couldn't stand it. I disinterred

you, and had you brought here. I wanted you to be near me. I'm

sorry; it was selfish. I know you never loved the rowans, not like

I've always loved them.

276

Michelle Sahara

"They were the heart of the forest, and you—you were such

a big part of my heart. It—it made sense to bury you there." She

tried to pull away, and then changed her mind and bun-owed

back into his arms. "I prayed so hard. I'd've died for you, Justin.

I prayed there, in the circle."

"You always were a sentimentalist and a romantic," he said,

crying softly into her hair.

Her voice changed, softening, lightening. He heard the miracle

in her tone; she had always been too prosaic to deliver it with

words. "And then, I woke up the next morning. You were here.

It was winter. And I knew it was going to be winter forever. All

the animals left. All the birds. It was sudden. Like they couldn't

be where you were.

"And I didn't care. Winter—frozen—I didn't care. I don't

care, Justin." She put her hand over her mouth. "I don't want to

lose you, I don't want you to leave me."

He held her. He just held her.

After she had fallen asleep, exhausted, he cradled her in his

arms. He had choices to make, and he was afraid of all of them.

He loved Chris, he loved life—and he understood that he was

supposed to have neither.

Well, what of it? He could live as he chose; the rowans had

seen to that, for her sake.

For her sake ...

He gazed out of the window, at the brilliant, icy day. They

were waiting for him, with their hungry eyes, their angry eyes,

their painful eyes. They had no life, and they belonged to the

green.

And Chris—admit it, Justin—Chris had no life, either. Just a

shadow of it, a tiny, small slice of unending winter. Because of

him. Because he died, but she was better than most at holding

on.

Oh, Chris, he said, although it was silent. You're going to

break my heart.

It snowed that night, for the first time that Justin could re-

member. The window was shut, but not shuttered; he stared at it

as if it were a television. The flakes fell, fast and furious, as the

wind whipped mem around the barren landscape. The rowans

were seeing to his body.

For five days, he refused to think about it at all. Life in the

cabin was almost normal, if nighttime visitations by hissing

GHOSTWOOD             277

nightmares were discounted—and as long as he stayed indoors,

they gave him no trouble. But ...

The plants were the worst. He went to them daily, spoke to

them, watered them, moved them to where the light conditions

were right. But they didn't recover; they didn't grow.

At least, he reflected, they hadn't died. But they weren't alive

either. He wasn't sure what the difference was between life and

death anymore, but he knew there was one—knew there had to

be one.

"... and this is why it has to be repotted. The roots have got-

ten too large for the—Chris, you aren't listening." He caught her

hands as she stared at his face. "Look, if you can love a bunch

of smelly trees, you can leam to appreciate a beautiful jade plant,

okay?"

She said, "why are you teaching me this?"

"Because I want you to know it. You can't go around just kill-

ing every plant you're given."

She tried to laugh, but it was the ghost of a laugh that she of-

fered him. He hugged her. "Now comes the most important part

so far. It's about the water—"

The sixth day. The world in winter was bright and cold.

Breakfast was good—and he didn't even worry about choles-

terol. He had cream with his coffee, used liberal amounts of but-

ter, ate bacon by the half pound.

"Justin—the way you eat, it's not good for you."

He looked up from his plate and grinned. "I'm dead. Food is

going to hurt me?"

She couldn't laugh. Her silence, uncomfortable and tight,

stretched between them until Justin left his chair. "Where are

you going?"

"For a walk."

"Can I—can I come with you?"

"Chris—" He walked around the table and hugged her tightly,

thinking that he had never hugged her so much in his life. "Of

course. Come with me."

He let her fuss about his boots—too light, and too short—and

his snowshoes, and when that didn't satisfy her, he left his coal

unzippered. He also neglected to put on a hat, and her gentle ha-

ranguing took the edge off her tension and made her seem almost

normal.

278                    Mickelle Sagara

It was cold out, of course, and Justin could feet it at the bone

level. I'm dead, he told himself sternly, but apparently it didn't

make a difference, and after about ten minutes, he put on his hat,

scarf, and mittens, even though it made Chris insufferable.

Behind me naked trees, they were watching him.

"We're being watched, Chris." he said, casually.

She whipped around, and he covered his face.

"You have no idea what the word subtle means, do you?"

But she was scanning the same trees that he saw; her brows

were furrowed, her face pale. "Watched by what?"

"Just checking."

The dead voices sounded like me rustle of dry leaves gone

mad. Justin listened to mem whisper and mutter, and it was al-

ways with a longing for spring, the turn of seasons. He looked at

Chris' face, seeing the winter written there.

"Do you like the snow?"

"I've always liked the snow." She looked over her shoulder

surreptitiously—or at least, she tried to.

"What about spring? Summer? Fall?"

She was quiet.

"There are no birds at the feeder this year, are there?" He slid

his arm around her shoulder and she pulled away.

"Justin, please—"

"Come on, Chris." He held out a mitten, and after an awkward

pause, she put her hand into it. She was shaking. "Don't do

that." he said gently. "Your eyes will freeze."

"Justin, I don't want to go there."

"But you love the rowans," he replied. "And you'll never see

them in spring again either."

She bit her lip and nodded. "I don't care."

"You don't have to right now. I do." He pulled her through the

snow, and because it was him, she came. She always had, really.

Behind her, they followed, shuffling awkwardly. He aimed

once to look over his shoulder, but he contented himself with a

nervous glimpse. He didn't want to meet their eyes; he knew

whose death he saw mere.

The rowans were cold and ice-coated, but they were still a cir-

cle. Within their confines, the snow was pristine and perfect. If

he had come with a shovel, had broken the crust of snow, ice,

and dirt, no trace remained of his labor. He was grateful for it.

"Come on, Chris."

"I can't."

GHOSTWOOD

279

"Why?"

She swallowed. "I just can't."

"It's the circle. That's all. And I'll be with you." He hated to

make her cry in this cold.

"You won't be with me," she said; it was an accusation.

"I'll be with you for as long as you want." He held out his

arms, and after a minute, hesitating on the boundary, she stepped

into them. The circle seemed to close; the trees almost huddled

over them, as if for warmth. "Come and sit down."

She looked a bit dubious, but as they were dressed for cold,

she bit her lip and settled down to me right of the circle's center.

She wouldn't sit over the center itself, but he didn't push it. He

didn't want to sit there either.

He sat in front of her, and she pulled him back into her arms,

the way she had often done when they were both much younger.

"What's the worst thing about me that you remember?"

She was quiet for a long time. "The worst thing? Mom."

"What about Mom?" The question was a bit sharp.

Chris laughed. "You asked. I don't have to answer—I mean,

it hasn't bothered me for years."

"No—I want to know."

"Mom was the worst thing. She wanted a boy, I don't know

why. She always loved you best." She caught his hands and

pulled them up. "But I guess I learned from her, too. I love you,

even if you did try to sell my diaries. Closest you ever came to

dying—" She stopped speaking, and he pulled her arms into a

closed circle around them both.

"What's the best thing?"

"Best? There isn't a single best thing. There are so many, I

could go on for days. I tried to remember everything I hated

about you. I even hated you a bit, for dying. You know, I'm

wrong. Mom isn't the worst thing.

"The worse thing about you is that you died."

"I'm not thrilled about it either."

"You don't even remember it."

'True. But I'm not thrilled about the idea." He swallowed.

"But if you want me to make sense of it, I can't."

"I don't want you to make anything of it. I want you to stay

here, as if it never happened,"

"And if I stay here, you'll stay here, as if the rest of your life

never happens."

"Maybe you should let me make that choice," she replied. Her

hands became tight, even through two layers of mittens.

280                    Mickelle Sagara

He was quiet; her hands gripped his like anchors imbedded

into the skin. "You know," he said quietly, "When we were re-

ally young, you were like another mother, but closer. You went

to school with me. You protected me from Tony Fisker—

remember him?" He laughed. "You promised you'd protect me

from anything."

"I remember."

"I didn't realize just how serious you were." His voice was

light. "But I can't let you make that choice. And I think I under-

stand, now, why no one should have to make it." He pulled his

hands away from her, it was hard; her grip was fierce. "I'm your

past, Chris."

"And what's wrong with the past? All our lives are made up

of our pasts' Our futures come from it—how can you just say

you'll walk? Justin, you selfish—"

"I'm selfish?" He said, wheeling. "Me? You've killed an en-

tire forest because you can't face the death of one man, and I'm

selfish?"

The rowans creaked in the wind that rose suddenly, lifting a

veil of powder-fine snow. She looked up, her voice lost.

*They weren't meant to live in eternal winter," Justin said qui-

etly, as his sister turned, slowly, to look at the perimeter of her

living circle. "You always loved lire. You said nature was your

gardener."

She began to weep. "But th-they're o-only t-trees."

He put his arms around her awkwardly, and held her, because

he knew she was lying-

"The worst thing about you," he said softly, as if changing the

subject, "was that you were always so damned insecure as we

got older. You were afraid that I'd grown away from you, that I

didn't need you anymore.

'The best thing about you ..." He thought about it for a min-

ute. Laughed. "You're right. The best thing isn't easy to pin

down. I've got so many memories, Chris—it'd take days to sift

through them all."

She was tense.

"My death doesn't change those memories, or the truth of

them."

"I don't want Just memories."

Justin began to laugh. 'That's exactly what you want—can't

you see it? That's exactly what 1 am, now. Memory, Chris."

"No, you're—"

"How long have we been here?"

GHOSTWOOD             281

She didn't answer.

"Have I gotten older? Have I learned anything, made any new

mistakes, had my heart broken another dozen times? Have I

found a job I finally like, found a way to contribute to the causes

I believe in? Have I changed at all?"

"Justin, why are you doing this to me?" Her voice was so

small, he wanted to stop.