IGMS Issue 17 (8 page)

"Tomorrow then," she said, and smiled, beautiful and terrible. "You may bring him home, and say farewell. I will come for you at nightfall."

She left, dissolving into the fog.

Steve stood, his eyes glued to the white-painted metal of the fire escape where something bright lay waiting. He scooped it up into his aching hand, blood and meat and feathers, a sad, silent thing. He glanced up, remembering Matt's story about the nest, and the birds fighting for it. Yes, there --the nest. It, too, was silent. For all he could tell, it was empty. He looked down at the broken thing in his hand.

"A bluebird," he said, to no one but himself. "The sparrows must have killed it."

Matt was insanely healthy from the moment he woke at the hospital, full of energy. He ate every bite of his breakfast, as though he'd been waiting all his life for lukewarm pancakes, turkey sausage, and a fruit cup. He was still thin, but with good color, and clearly in excellent spirits, charming the doctors and nurses alike with a seemingly endless round of knock-knock jokes. Matt didn't understand half of them, but he had memorized them and loved making people laugh.

There was obviously no reason to worry any more on Matt's account, but it was late afternoon before the hospital let them go. Steve had expected it to take some time for the hospital to believe the results of their own tests. He had expected to be annoyed by the delay, but wasn't really. In the hospital, he and Matt had unlimited time together. They watched the TV, and wore out a box of crayons and a coloring book.

Steve hadn't slept on the cot in Matt's room after all -- just watched all night as his son slept -- and he thought he could pinpoint the exact moment when the junkie's spell had worked on Matt. Just as the cloudy sky had begun to lighten outside the window, in that fading moment between night and day, Matt had rolled over in his sleep and suddenly begun to breathe deeply and easily, as though a giant hand had been lifted from his chest.

Like the Emperor, thought Steve, when he heard the nightingale sing.

They were home in time for dinner: spaghetti and meatballs. The sauce was from a jar, but that was how Matt liked it, and Steve had been too dazzled by his smile, his laughter, to find any fault with the menu.

Steve had thought it would be hard, this last day with Matt, but he simply lost himself in it, taking each moment as a gift, without letting his mind dwell on the future. At least until he called Leah, arranged for her to come early the next morning, in time for breakfast, so that Matt wouldn't have to wake up alone and frightened. Hanging up the phone, he found himself staring at the palm of his hand, where the agreement he'd made last night had left only the faintest of scars -- a sparkling trail that reminded him of snail slime rather than fairy dust.

He stared at his own hand for a long, lonely moment, unmoving, while Matt rattled and bounced in the next room, sounding like an elephant juggling freight trains. The rush of relief was worn away; there was only crushing exhaustion. How long had it been since he had last slept? It felt like months. He heard the thunder of Matt's feet, running, and lifted his own head an instant before he was tackled full-on, by a cannonball hug.

"Dad," said Matt, breathless from running. Running! "Dad. Dad! Can we watch a movie before bed?"

This was definitely not on the good-parenting list, but clearly Matt had homed in on the fact that today the rules were for other people. "Dad, can we?"

And Steve, knowing himself for a coward, smiled and nodded.

He reached out and ran a hand over Matt's hair, and pretended to be a strict disciplinarian, pretended he was going to be there tomorrow. "After your bath," he said.

They had a bath, with bubbles, and they had a tooth brushing race. Matt got to wear his own pajamas again, and he leapt almost his whole body length to land sprawling and happy on the couch. They watched the movie, and had popcorn, because Matt was hungry for it. Matt ate two bowls and stayed awake through the whole movie, but as much as he wanted to, Steve couldn't delay bedtime forever.

It was almost midnight, long past when Matt should have been in bed.

It was story time.

"What'll it be?" asked Steve, settling in with the customary unopened book on his lap. He felt giddy, almost drunk with happiness every time Matt laughed, or bounced, or made some idiotic joke. There had been an infinite number of fart noises included in the evening's entertainment. "How about The Juniper Tree? The long version?"

His back was deliberately turned toward the window, but he was all too aware of the presence of the junkie on the other side. Her shadow cut across the room, sharp as a knife.

"How 'bout I tell you a story, Dad?" asked Matt. He was smiling. Bright and beautiful. "I got a story for you! It's called Pandora's Ducks."

"Pandora's Ducks?" said Steve. "That's a new one on me. Where did you hear this story?"

"In the hospital," said Matt. "Not this time. The first time, when Mom died. A nurse read it to me from a book. But I still remember." The day or the story, he didn't specify. "At least, I remember the good parts."

Steve swallowed hard and nodded. "Lay it on me, kiddo," he said.

"Once upon a time," Matt began, beaming. "There was a lady named Pandora, and she was in charge of all the ducks in the world. She was supposed to keep them in this big box, but they kept on quacking night and day, all the time. The noise gave her a headache. So she opened up the box and all the ducks flew out everywhere, except one duck. She shut the box, and kept the one duck, and it didn't quack so much all by itself. The end."

Steve laughed. "That's a good one," he said. He remembered the story of Pandora. She'd lost everything, except hope. That had been the thing in the box. Hope. All at once, he reached out and caught his son in a hug, fierce and tight. Matt held on, too, an uncharacteristic embrace. Steve shook his head, his eyes burning with unshed tears. It was all over. He couldn't stand it. How could he leave Matt?

How could he not leave, if the price for staying was Matt's health?

Matt was ready to end the hug. Steve closed his eyes, pressed a kiss to the top of his head before he let go. "I love you, Matt," he said. "Don't you ever forget that, okay?"

"Okay, Dad," said Matt. His eyes shifted, glanced at something over Steve's shoulder, widened. "Dad --"

The window exploded into a thousand shards of broken glass. The safety bars creaked and collapsed inwards. The lights in the room flickered and died, and the night air rushed in with the sound of beating wings. Steve crushed Matt to him, shielding his son from the blast with his own body. Turning his head, he saw the junkie, dressed all in white, standing on the windowsill.

"Come away, Steven," she said. There was no need to shout. Her musical, mysterious voice seemed connected directly to his muscles. He was on his feet before he knew it. He stood, yes, but he stood between her and Matt. He guessed from the way her eyes flickered between them that this was not what she had expected.

She said, "It is time to go."

"Dad?" said Matt.

Steve could feel her will working on him. She was strong in her power, her magic. She was beautiful, and irresistible. And yet, he could also feel Matt's hand in his and somehow, somehow, he resisted.

"You gave me your oath," said the junkie. "Your stories, your love. Do not pretend you have forgotten. I kept my part of the bargain."

"Dad," said Matt again, more urgently. "Daddy?"

Steve looked down and saw that small, scared, face looking up at him. A piece of glass from the window had caught Matt just above the eyebrow, and the cut was bleeding, a small trickle running down the side of his face.

Steve knelt down, and managed a broken smile. Carefully he reached out and rubbed his thumb across the cut on Matt's brow. It came away with a glint of gold and crimson, smearing the blood away. He could see the cut; it was not as deep as he'd feared.

"Just needs a Band-Aid," he said, and his smile of reassurance felt faded but genuine. "You'll be okay."

"Don't go, Daddy," whispered Matt. His hands on Steve's shirt were white-knuckled.

"Steven," said the junkie. "It is time. Would you have me take back the gift I gave?"

"No," Steve said. "No, you don't have to do that."

He gave Matt a last smile, though it hurt to do so. He wanted to howl and rage and weep. He wanted to pick Matt up and run somewhere beyond the junkie's reach.

"Can't we reach some new bargain?" Steve asked. "Isn't there some way--"

"No," she said. Sharp as a slap. "Remember what was said. Remember what was promised." She tried to make him rise, but could not. Not while he was holding on to Matt.

"I'll go of my own free will, or not at all," Steve said. He thought she flinched. She clearly did not like being denied.

"You leave my Daddy alone!" shouted Matt. He would have launched himself at the junkie, but Steve caught him up and held tight.

The junkie used her magic to try and make him stand, and although Steve felt her power clutch and shudder in his arms and legs, she could not move him.

"Dad," whispered Matt. "I love you."

Steve smiled, and rested his forehead lightly against Matt's. "I love you, too," he said.

"Now, Steven," said the junkie. Steve's head swung around, and if he could have, he would have glared holes right through that slim, white-clad figure.

"Keep your promise," she said. "Come away with me." Her voice had gone soft, coaxing, sweet, with the first hint of springtime in it. She held out her hand, and her fingertips still shone with the glistening residue from their oathtaking. "Come away."

Steve closed his eyes and drew a deep, slow breath, filling himself with the smell of that night. The smell of cold metal on the breeze, the remnants of spaghetti sauce and popcorn from the kitchen, Matt's shampooed hair. Gently, still cradling Matt to his heart, Steve rose under his own power, this time.

"I did promise." He shifted his grip, tightened his hands around Matt's shoulders, ready to say something more, to defy her, to dare her to try and take Matt from him.

Then he stopped.

The air was cool, but his hands burned. Steve looked at them. The fingers that had been marked with the junkie's blood were newly stained . . .

He'd used that hand to wipe Matt's bleeding face, and it seemed to him the blood had turned a strange color on his fingertips, something sun-tinged and luminous.

Steve looked up again, met the junkie's eyes.

"You promised not to harm him," he said.

The junkie said nothing, frozen in place. Time seemed to stand still, but he could feel his heart racing, pounding until his whole body shook with it.

"You promised," said Steve, and his arm wrapped around Matt's shoulders and drew him close. "You gave your oath that no harm would come to my son because of you."

But it was she who had broken the glass with her magic. The copper scent of Matt's blood, like the glimmer of dawn outside the window, stained the air.

"You gave your word," he said again. "And you broke it."

"So I did," she said matter-of-factly. Afterwards, he never could be certain whether the light he saw in her eyes at that moment was a smile, or only the reflection of the streetlamp off her tears. "So. I did."

She stepped away from the window and onto the fire escape.

The breeze there was stronger, blowing the clouds out of the sky. It tossed and pulled at her clothing, her fair hair, and for a moment only, she stood there, watching Steve with Matt in the circle of his arms.

Steve had the fleeting impression of her beautiful, pale face, and the flying tail of her long, white coat. Then she was gone, flown away, blown apart on the wind.

Beyond the last of the clouds, the sky was growing light, and from the nest on the fire escape just above them came birdsong.

And Matt, in his fuzzy, footie pajamas, with his hair sticking up at all angles, was grinning from ear to ear. Despite the broken glass, despite the pain, the bloodstains and the tearstains, he said: "Hey, Dad, look! Bluebirds at the feeder!

Steve nodded, and tightened his hold around Matt's thin shoulders: "I guess the sparrows decided to leave well enough alone."