Rich Shapero (14 page)

Robbie watched her slide the lower skirt
down.

"Don't stare, silly."

"Why?" Robbie asked, removing his
shirt.

"It's what you do in Too Far."

Robbie put his hands in the pockets of his
pants.

"That's how Dawn and the Dream Man
are," Fristeen added. She still had her back to him.

"Want some Cheerios?" Robbie
brought his fists forward.

Fristeen gave an embarrassed laugh and
turned, and he dropped them into her cupped hands.

They hopped through the pillows and
followed the rill. Robbie felt strange at first. A branch scratched him, and
some flies sniffed his rear. But it was great to feel the sun and the
breeze—not just on your face, but all over. And running naked in the wild was a
new kind of thrill that made Too Far even more secret. Their self-consciousness
faded, and by the time they reached the Pool, it was gone.

"Look," Robbie cried, pushing
through the reeds.

The dragonflies were back—dozens of them,
zipping every which way, crossing the water or following the shore.

Fristeen drew beside him.

"They're the thoughts of the Dream
Man," Robbie explained. "They come from his head."

"They're
crazy."
Her eyes
darted.

The feverish flight paths knit a mercurial
web.

They didn't speed up or slow down. All were
going at full steam. One stopped, hovering with purpose. What did it want? Then
suddenly it was somewhere else—just like a thought.

Robbie shuffled closer, water to his
ankles, shoes sinking in muck.

"They move faster than your
eyes," Fristeen said, right beside him.

In that respect too, they were just like
thoughts. Even if you picked one and gave it all your attention, you couldn't
hold on. You struggled behind, trying to keep it in sight.

"There," Fristeen whispered.

One had landed on a seedhead right in front
of them.

Robbie drew an involuntary breath. The
dragonfly's head ticked as the giant eyes fixed on something. Two bristling
forelegs parted the seedy sheaf. Then the monster's face opened and plates slid
apart, and from the sides of its mouth, two claws reached out, like some
creature from outer space.

It gulped its prey and sped away.

They looked at each other.

"Strange thoughts the Dream Man's
thinking," Fristeen muttered.

They scanned the far shore of the Pool.

"He's scary alright," Robbie
said.

"Do you think he's here?" She
raised her brows. "In the black trees?"

The challenge sparked between them. They
shivered, clasped hands, and started around the Pool's rim.

When they reached the low mound, they
searched the sedge till they found the path. And then they headed down it.
Robbie led the way.

It was muddy and puddled, and it tacked
without warning. You couldn't see past the next clump of willows. Robbie
paused, turning, listening. When they reached the black trees, he stopped.

At their feet, a brave parnassia raised
elegant white blooms. A lone spruce leaned over it, inviting them forward with
leprous arms. They stood together, scanning the dark trail to where it
disappeared, imagining who had passed there. And with what wild feelings, and
what wild thoughts. Robbie glanced at Fristeen. Her arms prickled with goose
bumps.

"Dare you," she whispered.
"You first—"

He took a deep breath and stepped forward.

The path switched this way and that,
skirted a seep, crossed a dip lined with coltsfoot, and then rose. The black
trees leaned together, huddling close on either side. They were tall and thin,
and lichen hung from their limbs.

"Robbie—"

Fristeen had stopped beside a tall spruce.
It was covered with scales, but there was a place, rustred, where a few had
peeled off. She touched the raw spot and closed her eyes.

"It's thinking about
her,"
she whispered.

Robbie nodded. "They came this
way."

For a long moment, they stared at each other,
testing their resolve.

"Dawn's our friend," Fristeen
said. "But
he's scary."

"He'll listen to me," Robbie
said.

That seemed to settle it.

Robbie faced forward and they continued
down the path.

A hundred yards farther, a wall of tree
bones barred the way. You could see through it, but you couldn't pass. Then
they realized that the tangle wrapped them on either side. Without knowing it,
they had wandered into the Cage. Backtracking, they found a way around. A
narrow gully reconnected with the trail.

From there, the way descended into a Hollow
in the hills. A veil of cloud drew across the sun. The slopes grew steeper and
the shade grew deeper, and the water that pooled here was black, not red.
Something had happened to the black trees here—they were charred and armless.
And the soil was barren—it too was charred, except where some affliction spread
scarlet stains. Strange odors wafted from the puddles, sweet but sickish, and
the things that grew here weren't flowers or grass. Mushrooms blotched purple;
bloated boletes; fungus thumbs, slimy and white, without caps. The water looked
tainted—oily rainbows swirled on the gleaming black.

"Fristeen," Robbie hissed.

He darted from the path, taking cover
behind a spruce.

She scuttled after him.

"What?"

Robbie pointed.

In the depths of the Hollow, a dark blot
appeared through the trees.

"See the wall?" Robbie whispered.
"And the roof?"

The wall and roof were perfectly black.

"It's where they live," Fristeen
said.

"Yep." Robbie scanned the woods
on either side.

They listened. Silence. Stillness.

"C'mon," Robbie whispered.

He crept through the spruce beside the
path. As they drew closer, a small cabin came into full view. Flames had
charred it. But however severe the blaze might have been, the Cabin hadn't been
destroyed. Dead spruce boughs lay curled on its roof, and a black lagoon was
aproned around its front.

Robbie stopped. He bent and grabbed a rock.

Fristeen crouched beside him.

For a moment, he imagined the lagoon
swimming in mist, while the roof of the black Cabin broke its surface, rising
as if from a dream. He hurled the rock. It struck the Cabin wall with a
thunk.

They waited, watching, listening.

Robbie drew himself up, and the two
approached slowly. The trees around the Cabin were burnt the worst—most were
shorter than a grownup. And behind the Cabin, in the bowl of the Hollow where
the blaze had been hottest, the earth was ember-red. Fire moss flowed down the
slopes to meet the lagoon, and as the breeze twitched its seedheads, the embers
glittered.

The lagoon was shallow in places, and there
were duckboards to follow. They crept over them in silence, seeing repellent
things: creatures wriggling through the muck, or beneath, sending bubbles up;
blooms swooning from thin stalks, anchored by pale roots twisting in the slime;
or standing stiff in it, waxen and quivering.

The Cabin loomed before them. Where the
flames had licked deep, the black logs were runneled and slick. In places, the
beam ends had been gnawed to the frame. Twenty feet from the threshold they
stopped. Should they try the door? Should they knock? Or just turn and race
back?

There were smoky panes on either side of
the door. Robbie pointed and they scrambled for the nearest, crouching in the
weeds beside the blackened wall. It was blistering hot, and the breeze had
vanished. The marsh vapors were thick and burned in their throats. They traded
looks and rose together, shoulder to shoulder, peering over the sill.

Charred walls. A bed with a dark blanket. A
brazier and a flue, and a pile of wood split for a fire.

"They're not home," Robbie
whispered.

"Let's go in."

"It might be locked," he said.

But when he edged closer, he saw there was
no lock on the door. Just a rope handle hanging from a black hole. Robbie put
his hand against the door and pushed. It made a choking noise and swung open.

They peered inside. Then they crossed the
threshold.

The interior was dim, and the smell of
smoke was thick. To the right of the door was a small table, and on it—two
bottles. Robbie picked one up, and Fristeen raised the other. The liquid in
Robbie's was clear. Fristeen's had an amber hue. When they set the bottles
down, they saw a large tawny feather. And lots of candles—fat ones, thin ones,
short and tall—each with a puddle of wax at its base.

Fristeen picked up the feather and ran her
finger over it. "Needles," she whispered.

Among the candles lay a clutch of Needle
wands bristling with prickers.

"This is where they sleep." She replaced
the feather and stepped toward the bed.

Candles lined a small shelf above it, and
there were others, suspended in midair, hanging from the dark rafters on
strings. Where the stovepipe met the roof, the planks had burnt through. You
could see blue sky between them. Robbie ran his hand over the wall. The jagged
char crunched beneath, and when he looked at his palm, it was streaked with
black bars. He noticed an axe by the woodpile. The light from the window
glinted on its blade.

"They have a trunk," Fristeen
said. It was at the foot of the bed, and she was kneeling beside it, her hand
on the lid.

"Better not."

She gave him an anxious look. "Should
we wait for them?" She stood.

Everything about the Cabin seemed strange.

Then Robbie saw the eyes. "Look."

On the wall above the door was the head of
a beast. Its long face gazed down, brown eyes staring. Its fur was singed from
its neck to its ears, and its great basket of antlers was scorched and sooty.

"It's a moose," Fristeen said.

"Hands." Robbie held his own out,
palms up, fingers curled like tines. "That's his name."

There were candle stubs affixed to Hands'
points.

"I don't like him." Fristeen eyed
the beast with mounting dread.

"Sh-sh-sh." Robbie listened. Was
someone coming?

Fristeen was beside him, gripping his arm.

"We better go," he whispered.

They opened the door and slid out, closed
it behind them, and hurried back over the duckboards and across the lagoon.
Robbie saw clearly now where the fire had raged. It seemed a fitting end for
the ragged spruce—maybe this was the fate of all the trees in Too Far. He
glanced back, imagining the Hollow consumed by flames. Had the Dream Man been
outside, watching? Or—

A squeal—the Cabin door opening. No, just
an armless pole creaking in the wind.

They struck the path, and returned the way
they came. When they reached the Pool, they didn't linger, but circled it and
headed back. Their clothes were where they left them.

They stopped at the Two-Tree to catch their
breath. Robbie turned and scanned Too Far. You could see the Pool. But the path
was lost in the trees, and the charred Cabin was sunk in its Hollow—from the
Two-Tree, it couldn't be seen.

The rest of that day, they spent in the Great
Place, talking about the Cabin and the Hollow, and what it all meant. It was
nearly time for dinner when Robbie got home.

Mom was in the kitchen.

"I'm back," he shouted, on his
way to the bookcase. He pulled books out and thumbed the pages till he found
what he wanted. Then, as he examined the photos, he stepped toward the kitchen.

Mom was fixing dinner as usual, but she
looked strange. She was wearing a shiny blouse, and a necklace with a metal
thing dangling in front. Her pants were so tight, you could see the shape of
her legs. And she had makeup on—lipstick the color of Jim's plastic car, and
stuff around her eyes that made them look hard and dark.

"Mom?" Robbie showed her the
page.

She eyed him suspiciously. "That's a
moose."

"Yep."

"Well? What?" She took soup bowls
from the cupboard.

"Have you ever seen one without legs
or a body?"

"A trophy, you mean?" She
laughed.

"What's that?"

"People kill moose—"

"Do they burn them?" He regarded
her uncertainly.

"Mostly they shoot them. Put your book
down and take these to the table."

"Shoot them?"

"With rifles. Robbie—"

He was studying the photo. "Some of
them catch on fire."