Enchanted Forests (43 page)

He didn't. "I don't remember dying," he said, his voice the

monotone of someone deep in thought. "I don't even remember

living anymore. I remember things that happened years ago, but

I don't remember the details of last month." He pulled away

from her gently shaking body, and stood. She started to get up

but he waved her back, into the snow beneath the rowans.

They were watching it all, but their sibilant chant had ceased.

He could hear a collective drawing of breath, like the death rattle

of a man with emphysema.

'Tell me how I died."

She was silent for so long, he thought she was going to refuse.

He turned to look at her face. The afternoon sun was wending its

way toward the horizon; they had been here longer than he

thought.

"You were speeding," she said, her voice toneless, almost

cold. Her eyes were on snow, on the circle's center; they were

dark and wide. "It was raining and the roads were slick. I always

told you I hated it when you sped. You weren't drinking, thank

God—I think it would have killed Dad if you had been.

"But it was dark, it was late. I guess you must've been more

tired than you thought. You knew that stretch of road. I'd've bet

you could travel it in your sleep." She laughed feebly. "Anyway,

you killed four trees. The fifth one was a targe, old maple with

a trunk like a steel girder."

"Figures."

"They told me how fast you must've been traveling. I don't

remember it—the number only came up once, and it just wasn't

real. I nodded a lot I remember that. Everyone would ask me

questions, and I'd nod and smile. It was really important to me

that I not embarrass Dad or you by having a stupid breakdown.

I wasn't going to be the typical hysterical female, not me."

He knelt a yard away from her, like a religious pilgrim at the

feet of a very holy man.

"Funerals are expensive, but funeral directors aren't very

tacky. They know how to deal with people made stupid by grief.

It's the rest of the world that's hard. People feel like they have

282

Michelle Sagara

to fill up all the silences with words, that they have to trip over

themselves to make it clear how much of a loss it was—as if we

didn't know it already.

"And they mean well, so you can't tell them to drop dead."

"I'm not sure they'd get the joke," Justin said, smiling.

"Joke? What—oh." She rolled her eyes; tears slipped down

the rims and onto her lashes, where they began to freeze. "And

then your close friends and relatives—they know when to leave

you alone. They give you privacy and space. But -.. but some-

times they don't know when not to leave you alone.

"I hate it. The first week, I thought I'd die. I wanted to. But

I held on, because I wasn't about to add my death to yours, and

because there was work to do. Ail your papers to go through,

your house, the plants.

"But after that... after the funeral, everyone seemed to think

it was just over. And it was, in a way. You were gone. But I kept

thinking about what 1 could have done differently. I'd fantasize

about turning up, like magic, at just the right moment to save

your rotten life. I'd dream about selling my soul, just to get you

back.

"Do you know that I woke up one morning, and I called you?

I wasn't thinking. I just picked up the phone and dialed. And

then, when I got the stupid message about the number being no

longer in service, I screamed. I just screamed and screamed—1

thought I'd never stop. Because you were gone, and it was sud-

denly real.

"Eventually, I talked to Dad, and he said we could move your

body from Mount Pleasant to here. He was worried about me, by

then—and he knew it couldn't bun you any." She smiled with a

shadowed shyness. "The rest you already know."

It was his turn to be quiet

"Are you afraid, Justin?"

"Of death? I don't feel dead, but I'm not afraid of making you

let go."

She nodded as if she believed him. "Is there an afterlife?"

"How the hell should I know? I can't even remember dying."

He shook his head. "But if I had to guess, I'd say yes. I mean,

I'm here."

"I wanted to believe in God and heaven. But I couldn't, be-

cause you were dead."

"People die all the time, Chris."

"Yes, but none of them were you. Will you wait for me on the

other side?"

GHOSTWOOD             283

"I don't know. I don't know if there is another side." He saw

that she was crying openly now, but it was important to him—

had always been important to him—to tell her the troth. "I can't

make sense of death for you by giving you false promises or

platitudes. Death doesn't make sense. That's not the way it

works,"

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Make sense of life. Just because I don't have mine anymore

doesn't mean I'd like you to lose yours. I can't tell you for cer-

tain that I'll wait for you, because I don't know if I can. I

can't tell you there's a real afterlife, because I don't know it.

I can't tell you anything that'll make any of this any easier. But

I always made your life difficult—why should I stop now?" He

held out his arms.

She scrabbled to her feet and hugged him.

"I can tell you the two things I know for certain: I want you

to go on living."

"That's only one thing."

"And I love you."

"That's t-two."

He raised his head and looked out into the trees. "Is it getting

warmer in here, or is it just me?" He let her go very gently and

removed his winter wear.

"It's warmer," she said faintly. Sh& pulled off her hat and held

it in shaking hands.

'The spring is coming." His voice was soft. He looked over

her head to the periphery of the circle. "The spring is coming!"

They knew it. But they did not leave, or move, or even speak.

He saw the knowledge in their eyes as they stared, unblinking

each one, at the center of the rowan circle-

"Justin—"

"It's really getting warm in here. Maybe there is an afterlife,

and I'm going to hell."

"That's not funny!" she said, and she whacked him on the side

of the head. But her lips twitched at the comers.

The snow began to melt. Or rather, vanish. It receded from

right, shrinking and dwindling as a warm, brisk breeze blew in

through the trees. The scent of the rowans coming to spring life

began to fill the air. Justin caught Chris* shaking hands, and to-

gether they watched the trees unfuri, leaves springing up along

multiple branches, flowers blossoming like a spray of white and

gold in time-lapse photography.

As if the center of the circle were a pebble, and the forest it-

284                      Miclielle Sagara

self a lake, green rippled out in concentric circles. Silence

reigned for seconds, but it was overtaken by birdcalls, forest

songs, the sound of life returning.

It wasn't spring; it was summer's height.

"Jesus, Chris—how long has it been winter?"

She didn't answer. She was facing, not him, but the forest it-

self, her mouth half-open, her eyes unblinking. Everywhere, the

snow receded, called back to the season in which it belonged.

He smiled crookedly and watched her face. Saw it changing

slowly as she recognized the birdcalls that pierced the silence.

He had never been able to tell one bird from another, and obvi-

ously being dead didn't give him any extra information. But the

rowans' scent was strong and sweet, as it never had been in life.

"Take care of her," he said to the trees, and they seemed to

nod, although that was a trick of the wind.

We will.

He looked up, and saw that the edge of the circle was still

guarded, but by no winter creatures. God, he thought, it figures.

My sister had to find a stretch of forest with imaginary people

and walking legends in it. He didn't know what or who these

summer people were, but they were grand and glorious—a mir-

acle of life. What had once been mummified was now restored;

the gray pallor of lifeless skin was gone to a golden glow, and

eyes that had been slate and steel were now greener than the for-

est itself.

They smiled at him, these forest beings; smiles that were full

and wise and heavy with the unsaid. "Don't hold it against her,"

he said. "People—we're like that. Help her, if you can."

"We can't," one replied. It was hard to tell if the voice was

male or female, young or old. "She will not let us in,"

"Not yet. But she will. The forest was always her biggest

weakness."

"Then we will be there, when the circle opens again and we

are free to dance within its confines. Thank you." They turned

and began to walk, almost to prance, back into the woods.

He wanted to ask them where they were going, but he knew

it didn't matter. They weren't of the dead. He was. Their roads

didn't coincide further. And how the hell do I know that?

"Hey, Chris?" She looked up at him. "The tears'U catch up to

you all the time. You always were a mush-brain." He hugged her

again, because it was the last time. "I gotta get going."

"Where?"

"I don't know. But I'm getting restless." It was true. The

GHOSTWOOD

285

breeze almost made him itch with the desire to be gone. "I'll

write you a postcard."

"Bullshit," she said, but she smiled, even if the smile was faint

and sad. "You never wrote a damned thing to me when you were

alive."

"I called sometimes."

"When you were near a phone." She hugged him back, fierce.

But she couldn't hold him that way for long. "You'd better be

waiting for me when this is all over."

"If I can, I'll wait. You'd better take your time coming." He

wanted to wait and watch her; to be certain that she would return

to the life she'd been leading before his accident.

But that was a matter for the living, and he was truly dead.

Very quietly, he kissed her on the forehead. "Gotta go," he said

again.

"I know." And her face seemed lighter somehow; the weight

was gone. "Can I walk with you?"

"Not a chance." He began to whistle quietly as he left the

rowan circle.

Chris watched him go, and because she did, she missed the

sudden rush of life in the circle's center, as a sprig popped out

of the ground, unbending and leaning toward the sun's light.

Il was a young rowan.

SANCTUARY

There is danger m me Forest

but also peace

Tne Monsters or Mill Creek Park

by Susan Shwartz

Susan Shwartz has edited several anthologies and is the

author of The Grail of Hearts; she co-authored with Andre

Norton Empire of the Eagle. Several times nominated for

the Nebula and once for the Hugo for short fiction, she is

currently working on a long novel about the Byzantine

Empire.

Today was Marty's turn to sit by Mark on the worn front seat of

the bartered blue Rambler. He steered, careful not to jar the

campers crowded into the car, past the fancy Boardman houses,

the low shining waterfall by the Old Mill where crazy Lindsay

That's Mister-Vickers-to-you actually drank milk he squeezed

himself from poison ivy, and down the spiral (**you little mon-

sters stick your hands out the windows one more time and I'll

roll them up!"—the windows, not their hands) roads into the

great well of Mill Creek Park where the leaves of old trees that

Indians had probably walked under turned the sunlight into a

green summer glow.

Pressing happily against Mark's side, Marty strained to see

over the warm dashboard. Life was good. Her lunchpail was

frosted silver in her lap, and she'd finally worked big holes in

her sneakers. Best of all, she got to sit beside her favorite coun-

selor. Mark Mantle was tall and cute with a white grin. He could

hit a ball Uke Mickey, he told the best stories of all the counsel-

ors, and his mother's gardens let him supply all the campers in

his car baby tomatoes. She was too happy to yell or sing. That

290 Susan Snwartz

would be trouble if someone noticed and said something. Then

they'd watch her again.

She knew they wanted her to play, especially Outside. As Dr.

Thomas told Mom and Daddy when they left her room and

didn't think she could hear, Marty was a solemn child. Too

smart! he had said the last house call he made before he retired

to raise dogs.

Don't push her. Get her outside. So ever since then, they had

tried so hard not to push—while pushing her outside—that she

was sure she could never please them.

"Martha, are you readingT they'd call through the door they

worried if she closed.

As if reading was bad, like chewing with her mouth open,

bubbling her milk, or not-sharing. "Martha, go outside and play."

Being watched all the time was hard on the kid.

Still, it got her summers at M&S. M&S was only a day camp,

not like that snobby Wood Echo where the kids sang stupid

boom-di-ada-boo songs with sappy looks on their faces. But at

least it wasn't the Center's day camp, where they even took the

boys in the pool through the girls' side of the locker room. Ev-

erybody knew that showed how awful the Center was.

M&S Day Camp's colors were blue like Mark's car and green

like Mill Creek Park, though Daddy said that Morris, who ran it,

was really a pinko. His wife Sophie taught Piano. Sophie was all

round and brown, but Daddy said she was a pinko, too; and

when Marty had asked what it meant to be pink, she had gotten

a Look and been sent to her room. But, because Sophie didn't

pressure kids to play recitals like the Tavolarios, Marty got to

take lessons from her. Already, she could play "Spinning Song,"

though Mom and Daddy were starting to get scared that that was

pushing her too fast.

Even if Morris and Sophie were pink, Marty's parents ap-

proved of the M&S Day Camp. So summers meant singing

"Give a shout and a yell, and grab your lunch pail because the

M&S Camp is on the run!" Even if it didn't quite rhyme. Marty

suspected that knowing what rhymed and what didn't might get

her into trouble about pushing, so she tried not to care when she

sang the song.

You always had to be careful when Mom and Daddy worked

so hard to bring you up. That's why she said her name was

Marty now, not Martha. Marthas were careful and stayed inside

and did homework even if they didn't have any. Marthas even

dusted. Marty, though, as in Spin&Marty on their new TV, got to

THE MONSTERS OF MILL CREEK PARK

291

do things. Okay, Marty in Spin& was a boy, but who did they

want her to act like—that icky Annette?

Marty knew she'd made her parents happy the day Mark told

them she was a good camper, not a little bookworm like he

thought she might be. And he hadn't tattled when she told all the

kids that her silver ring with the one turquoise missing was ac-

tually a utility ring from outer space.

So she was glad to sit beside Mark. If she were like Annette,

she'd probably want to many him; but Marty wasn't creepy like

that. What's more, he had promised to tell them the story of

"The Monster of Flaboongie" at lunch. He said it was an Indian

story, but that didn't sound like an Indian name to her like Ohio

and Shenango and Mahoning. But if he said "Haboongie" was

an Indian name, it was an Indian name; and she liked the funny

sound of it anyway.

Here, in the deep heart of the park, the leaves closed overhead

like the water in the swimming pool if you held your breath till

your eyes bugged and stood at the bottom of the pool in the deep

end and looked up. She hoped they'd go all the way down to the

"bottom" of the Park.

Not that she didn't like the new place with the metal merry-

go-round you could sit in the middle of, not Just on the benches,

and where you could roll down the hill after lunch till you were

almost sick. And she loved Lake Newport where they sat on

rocks left by the glaciers and sketched trees that had so many

leaves that the whole camp couldn't count them if they'd tried.

She liked the rowboats there, too. She'd peer through her glasses

and the brown water for devil-homed catfish.

Or she'd stare at the bubbles in their wake and imagine that

each bubble was an entire world that God had made, grew up,

and blew apart in the lifetime of the bubble. When she tried to

explain that, Mark decided real fast that it was her turn to row.

You couldn't talk and row, and Marty was a good rower. Rowing

wasn't pushing, though you had to push against the oars to do it.

But talking about the lives of bubbles—she saw that made Mark

worry, and so she never talked about it again.

Flaboongie. She thought she could maybe scare the kids in the

other cars with that name.

Mark turned the car. They were going to go to Slippery Rock.

Marty gave a little bounce of joy. They didn't get to go there too

often. Everybody's lunchbox had begun to smell of damp bread

and warmed-up tuna and apples by the time Mark turned down

the lefmand road. It was so quiet here he didn't even beep the

292 Susan Shwartz

horn "we're here first!" to brag to the other cars when he parked

the car.

Slippery Rock was the smallest pavilion in the park, and the

darkest. The bathroom's smell made all the kids giggle, and

the water from the pump and taps tasted like eggs. Slippery Rock

had a pool, formed where a sleepy edge of Lake Newport flowed

over an old wall. When the campers came down here, they were

allowed to wade the pool, hunt for snails and teeny fish, and

climb the slippery rocks that gave the place its name. They ac-