Kit's Wilderness (13 page)

T
he Snow Queen
night. The moon shed its light onto the wilderness as we walked to school. It stunned the light from stars. It made snow luminous. It glittered in our eyes. It cast shadows into the gardens of Stoneygate, into the ruts and depressions of the frozen earth. Our own shadows moved silently at our side. We held our collars tight and sent plumes of silvery breath into the air. There were dozens of us, families coming out from Stoneygate to watch the Snow Queen slide a sliver of ice into Allie’s eye and sow evil in her soul. Young children giggled in excitement, clasped the hands of parents. Old people walked tentatively, took careful steps, used rubber-tipped sticks to keep them safe. Beyond its fence, the school gleamed with warm electric light.

Inside the doorway, fifth-graders dressed in silver foil and silver slippers passed out programs. We read that this was not a suitable play for young children on their own. The lobby had great paintings and photographs of glaciers and ice floes. There were paintings of polar bears and penguins. The humps of whales burst from clearings in the ice. Maps showed how the Ice Age once held the northern world in its grip. Fur-clad people hunched in caves around blazing fires beneath paintings of the beasts they feared, hunted and worshiped. Music played: squeaky violins and whistles, sometimes a distant wailing voice, sometimes a roaring beast.

Chambers stood there, directing us inward. He smiled, shook my parents’ hands, told them I seemed to have pulled myself together after the troubles with the game. Dobbs winked at me, shook my parents’ hands as well, whispered that the school had great hopes for me. We filed into the hall: dim lights inside, rows of chairs facing the brilliantly lit ice world on the stage. Then all the lights went down, left us all in deepest darkness. A gasp of mock-fright from the children, then
The Snow Queen
began.

Two children who’d taken a wrong turning became lost in this world of ice. They wore red and green, they held hands, they looked around in fascination and fear. They talked of the home they’d lost, their loving parents, the green hills and valleys around it. How had they gone so wrong? The boy wept and the girl comforted him, then scoffed at him for his weakness, his lack of courage. She pointed across the mountains: It’s that way, she told him. She was sure it was that way. The boy whimpered. How could she know that? How could she know? They quarreled. She threatened to leave him on his own. She grinned down at him. “Look at you,” she whispered. “Just look at you.” Then the Snow Queen came to the edge of the stage in her sleigh, and the look that passed between her and Allie sent a shiver down my spine.

She stepped down from the sleigh and wrapped the children in her arms. She cooed at them, comforted them. She told them that there was no need for fear. She wrapped them in white furs. She stroked their cheeks, their hair. “Such pretty children,” she whispered.

“Children often take the wrong move,” she said. “They go wandering in winter. They seek the deeper snow, for their snowmen, for their games. They take the wrong path. They become lost souls. They find themselves in my kingdom.”

The boy whimpered, looked down, chewed his trembling lips. “Who are you?” Allie whispered.

“I am the Snow Queen. I rule the ice and snow and bitter winds. I am the queen of frozen hearts. Touch my cheek, feel the ice there.”

Allie reached out, touched the Snow Queen’s perfect white skin.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered.

“Touch my lips, feel the frost there.”

Allie touched and sighed.

“My brother’s so scared,” she said. “He wants so much to be home again.”

They looked at the silent trembling boy.

“No need for fear,” said the queen. “You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Allie.

“Look into my eyes. See the endless winter there.”

“Yes,” said Allie.

The Snow Queen smiled.

“So pretty,” she whispered. “Such clear clever eyes.”

She wrapped Allie in her arms, led her away from the boy.

“Many children come,” she said. “They shiver, whimper, whine and cry. They want green valleys, cozy villages, little homes with fires burning.” She fondled Allie’s cheek. “I dream of a winter child, a child who wants to stay with me.”

She reached down, lifted a jagged piece of ice, held it before Allie’s face. “See how beautiful it is?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Let me rest it on your cheek. Feel its perfect bitter cold.”

“Bitter perfect cold,” said Allie.

The Snow Queen snapped a tiny fragment from the ice.

“Turn your eyes to me, my child.”

Allie turned her eyes. The music squeaked and wailed. The Snow Queen gently slid the ice into Allie’s eye.

And Allie’s evil started. She learned the magic: how to make small things disappear, then larger things. Her evil grew. She became bored by her brother. She pointed her finger at him and sent him from the world.

During the intermission Mum went on about how wonderful Allie was, how terrifying. Beyond her, through the knots of adults drinking tea, I saw Bobby Carr. He leaned in a doorway, watched me, smiled softly. He winked, beckoned me with a backward movement of his head. I turned away. He was a disease, like Allie said. He kept on watching, smiling. I made my way through the people toward him.

“What?” I whispered.

He raised his eyes and grinned, then stared at me. “You’re dead,” he said.

“Eh?”

“Askew’s back. You’re dead.”

“Where is he?”

“Somewhere. And he’s asking about you.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Asking. About. You.” He smiled. “And. You’re. Dead.”

I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out into the corridor. I shoved him against the wall, against a painting of an ancient valley of ice.

“You’re a disease,” I said. “Where is he?”

“Somewhere.”

I shoved him hard against the wall.

“He’s come back full of Hell,” said Bobby. “And he wants to see you.”

He took out a drawing from his pocket, unfolded it.

“He gave me this for you.”

I turned it up to the light. It showed both of us, Askew and me. We were in a cave. We were almost naked. We had knives in our fists and we faced each other across a blazing fire. The names of the dead were scratched into the walls. From the edges of the dark, dozens of skinny children watched.

“If you tell, he’ll kill us both,” Bobby whispered.

“Kill” I said. “Ha!”

“Yes, kill. Him and Jax. Tell nobody.”

“You worm,” I whispered.

Then I saw Chambers watching us from the far, dimly lit end of the corridor.

“Tell nobody,” Bobby said again; then he hurried toward the lobby and the night.

“All right now, Christopher?” said Chambers, coming toward me.

I shoved the drawing into my pocket.

“Yes, sir.”

We heard Burning Bush calling that the second half was about to start.

“It’s scary stuff, eh?” said Chambers.

“Yes, sir.”

He contemplated me. “It’s very strange, Christopher. This desire we have to be scared, to be terrified, to look into the darkness.”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked along the corridor through which Bobby had disappeared.

“It can of course lead us astray, Christopher.” He looked into my eyes again. “As you know very well yourself, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiled. “Keep the darkness on the stage, eh? Keep it in books. They’re the places for it, eh?”

“Yes, sir.” He touched my shoulder.

“Come on, Christopher. Time for Alison to terrify us again.”

We pushed through the door. I saw Mum searching the crowds for me, fear beginning to haunt her eyes.

The play began again, but I was lost in my own thoughts, my own fears. I felt the sweat on my palms and the quickened beat of my heart. I knew that Askew would call me soon, that he would choose the time and place. And I knew that eventually I would go into the darkness with him, that it would be my task to bring him home.

P
ast midnight. Couldn’t sleep. Sat at my desk, tried to write Lak’s tale, tried to get him across the crags, to find the warm cave of his lost family. I couldn’t write it. I stared out into the wilderness. I squinted, saw the shapes of skinny children playing by the river in the moonlight. Stopped squinting, the skinny children disappeared. Looked up at the three drawings: me; Silky; me and Askew in the cave. Whispered my grandpa’s song:
“When I was young and in me pri-ime . . .”
Fingered the ammonite, the pony, the fossil bark. Closed my eyes, saw Silky flickering at the corners of my mind. Prayed for Grandpa. Smelled woodsmoke, bodies, sweat, opened my eyes again, saw her, Lak’s mother. She crouched in the corner of my room in her animal skins. She held out the colored pebbles to me. Her mouth opened, closed, silently formed the words:
Bring my son back. Bring my baby back.
I looked away, looked back, she didn’t disappear. Looked out, saw the dark hunched shape, the black dog. Askew.

I watched. He didn’t disappear. I pulled my clothes on, tiptoed out into the night. No sign of him. I hurried across the crackling snow toward the river.

“Askew,” I whispered. “Askew!”

No answer. I looked around me. Nothing. Pulled my jacket close.

“Askew!”

Across the wilderness, the one light in our street was the reading lamp on my desk, shining down on the tale of Lak, illuminating the hunched form of his mother crouching against the wall. I shivered.

“Who’s this?” I heard.

“Who’s there?” I said. “Askew?”

There were little whispers, little giggles, little thin voices.

“Who’s this? Who’s this? Who’s this?”

There were children all around. I saw them at the corner of my eye. They peered at me. They were skinny, half-naked. Pale bodies, great staring eyes in blackened faces.

“Who’s this?” they whispered to each other. “Who’s this?”

They giggled.

“Kit Watson,” they whispered. “Christopher Watson, aged thirteen.”

I turned and turned, trying to see them true, but then Askew spoke, and there was silence, just Jax’s growls.

“Down, boy!”

His voice had deepened. His face had darkened. His shoulders were broader. He wore heavy layers of dark clothes. His head hung forward, his hair was filthy and wild.

“Askew.”

“Mr. Watson.”

“Where you been, Askew?”

“Away.”

“Your mother’s ill with worry. Your baby sister . . .”

“And him?”

“Him, too,” I said. “He wants you home again.”

“Ha!”

I trembled. I saw the tiny faces, peeping over at us from the river’s edge, heard the thin breathing again, the fearful whispers.

“I’ve come for you, Kit.”

“Me?”

“You. You’re the only one.”

I stared, pulled my coat close again.

“You see them,” he whispered. “Don’t you, Kit?”

The eyes above the frozen snow, watching, goggling. The hiss of their breath, their whispers.

“You do,” he said. Jax growled.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“And you see other things. Things that don’t exist for other eyes.”

“Yes,” I whispered.

He stepped toward me. “This is because you’re dead, Kit. You see through the eyes of the dead. Here you are, among the dead.”

“Askew, man. That’s stupid.”

A murmur from the children.

“Kit Watson,” they whispered. “Christopher Watson, aged thirteen.”

Askew laughed. “Remember, Kit. John Askew, aged thirteen. Christopher Watson, aged thirteen. Written in stone beneath the trees. It waited for you.”

“It was long ago, Askew.”

“Things from long ago keep coming back and coming back. The earth can’t hold its dead. They rise and watch us. They draw us to them.”

“Askew, man.”

“What brought you here to Stoneygate, Kit?”

“My grandma died, and . . .”

“Death drew you back. Death called you to it. Christopher Watson, aged thirteen. Even your gravestone waited for you, just as it waited for John Askew, aged thirteen.”

He leaned forward, gripped my wrist.

I gripped the ammonite.

“I want you to come with me, Kit. Come with me. Come and properly play the game called Death.”

“Askew. Let me go.”

“I could show you things, Kit. Things that’d give you all the stories you’ll ever need.”

His grip tightened. The dog growled. The children whispered in fright. He started to pull me.

“This is why you’re like me,” he said. “Because we know about the darkness of the past, because we know about the darkness of the dead.”

“Yes,” I said. “But we also know about the light of the present, the light of the living. We could play the game of Life together, Askew. Be my friend. Come back to Stoneygate. Come back to the living.”

He grunted like a beast. He pulled me tighter. I felt the violence in his grip begin to overcome the yearning in his eyes.

“You!” he whispered. “Bloody you!”

I struck him with the ammonite at the center of his brow. I struck again. He reeled backward, blood already flowing to his face. I started to run, slithering and sliding on the snow. I heard the dog running at my heels. I gripped the ammonite, prepared to strike again; then Askew called:

“Jax! Leave him!”

I leapt the fence, hurried to the gate. I stood there, heard his deep voice following me:

“I’ll call you, Kit Watson. You know that, don’t you? And when I call, I know you’ll come.”

Turned, looked back, saw nothing but moonlight on frozen snow.

I tiptoed back into the house, into my room.

Lak’s mother crouched against the wall. She sighed with the relief of my return. She held the stones out, formed the silent words,
Bring him home.