Rich Shapero (19 page)

"How long has it been?" Dad
mused. He took Mom's hand.

She regarded him fondly.

"We used to wander around in the
woods," Dad told Robbie. "Just like you. In California. Your mom
could get pretty wild—"

Robbie expected Mom to object, but she
didn't.

Beneath the litter, the fallen twigs
cracked beneath Dad's heavy steps.

"It was a wonderful time," Mom
said.

Robbie could see the pain in her eyes.

"We had an idea," Dad said. He
acted like he was speaking to Robbie. "Everywhere we went, everything we
did— It all fed this idea: that we could shed the parody of life we'd both
grown up with. That we could find a truth—" Dad peered at Mom.

Mom glanced at Robbie, a tremulous smile
dawning.

"A truth we could measure against big
mountains and tall trees." Dad faced Mom. "And we would find it by
looking deeply into wild things—the sky, the earth, our own nerves, the veins
of leaves—"

"The eyes of our child," Mom
murmured.

"And this truth," Dad said,
"would be something we would never find in a suburb or on a city street.
Remember?" The last he spoke softly.

Mom nodded. "Our
cabin-in-the-wild," she said.

Just then a thrush whistled, and when they
turned to look, the wind blew and all the leaves flashed, and the thrush flew
away.

Dad pointed at a stand of yellowing birch.
"The leaves are turning."

"Yearning, yearning, yearning . .
."

They'd reached He Knows.

"The dark and the cold." Mom eyed
the fall color with dread.

"So old, so old, so old . . ."

Robbie could see the weariness in his
parents' faces.

"Dreams slip away," Dad said.
"If you let them."

"Forget them, forget them, forget them
. . ."

Mom sighed. "Everything's
changed."

"Late, late, too late, too late . .
."

"Dad, Mom—" Robbie felt helpless.

"Stop, stop, stop, stop . . ."

Dad reached the stream's edge. "Look
at that," he said.

"Back, back, back, take them back . .
."

***

The rest of the day passed without note.
Mom took Robbie to the school to get registered, and after that she wanted to
buy him some clothes.

But that night, as soon as Robbie
surrendered to sleep, Hands' palms slid beneath him and carried him off. The
clouds were sighing, the wind was sighing, and Hands was sighing too. Through
gaps in the billows, the black trees appeared, gliding beneath them. The
rushing sound reached him, rose to a roar, and then the stormy sky opened, and
the Dream Man was before him in all his glory. The rotating hordes filled the
heavens with a luminous vortex, a billion thoughts, all racing wildly, an ocean
of voices, untamed and unceasing—

Now's the chance,
Robbie thought.
Ask him.

"We want to stay here," he said.
"With you and Dawn."

"Too Far is a way station," the
Dream Man replied. "This forest is my greenhouse, Too Far—where I cut and
trim."

Hands swooped down, and the Dream Man
swooped with him, grazing the spruce tops, dipping into a deep swale where
sickly trees leaned on either side. Where the swale narrowed, the soft mosses
had been burnt away, and the trees were all armless, black poles arrayed round
a Hollow with a bog at its rear. There was the charred Cabin huddled in the
shadows, blackened logs gleaming, fallen boughs curled on its roof.

"My department, my lab. Where I strip
bodies off." The Dream Man spoke without omen or haste. "What remains
goes with me—through the spectral tides, to the sunset lakes. Here, Robbie.
Look."

As they hovered there, the Dream Man came
closer. At the center of his eye, the thoughts were densest: a forge heaving
with jeweled bodies and spouts of crushed wings. And out of this forge rose a
smoky pane. When Robbie gazed through it, he was peering over the sill, and the
Cabin was burning and Dawn was in flames. Her moan was her soul taking wing as
the smoke twisted up—a dream, longed-for, fulfilled—now rising to join and be
always with him.

"Just a place of departure," the
Dream Man said. "Nothing more. See yourself here, son. You need to be
sure."

The smoky pane flashed, and there Robbie
was: naked and wondering beneath the dark blanket, watching Hands float through
the roof and take his place on the wall.

"Fristeen—" he said.

And she appeared beside him, her hand
clutching his.

"Will Hands come—"

"No. His job is here."

"Will we—"

"Hush," the Dream Man whispered.
"Just lay still and listen. This is something to fear—the worst flesh can
endure. I'm going to rain fire down— There's no way but this. You're only
dreaming."

Robbie was trembling, his breath fogged the
air. Or was it Hands' steaming nostrils or the logs on the grate? The brown eye
was wild like never before, seeing, through their windings in the hills of Too
Far, some other struggle. Hands knew what was coming—

"Now," said the Dream Man.

The roof was pierced by a myriad rods
shooting down— arrows liquid and burning—shafts dripping gold, trailing
feathers of flame. And they all drove through him, hissing and straight—a
hundred giant needles and a torrent of pain. Shrieks in his ear, the fletch
running wild—

Hands' fur was scorched, his nose raw and
smoking. His antlers were glowing, the points aflame. His ancient eye raged.
Robbie, through his agony, found it and reached for its strength. White-rimmed,
crazed, thirsting for unimaginable things—thoughts no one knew about, or were
afraid to think. It was the mind of the Dream Man in that bestial face. And
Robbie—what remained of him—dangled on the thread of that gaze.

Beneath, the pierced bodies lay limp as
sheets, while their flesh answered the arrows with scarlet spears. Bloody
flames rising, hot and ready. All that yearning together was now rising into
the mystery of dream. The grim time was past. Young hearts and black trees, an
impossible maze— All that was over. He and Fristeen lived in the flames. And as
sharp-tongued flames, they would find their own way.

"No," the voice whispered, hollow
and low. "Hands is dead. Your flames are dying."

Robbie saw it was so. The brown eye was
lifeless. The thread he hung from was about to break. And Fristeen—where was
she? Suddenly, the Cabin upended and began to float.

But no—it was he who was lifting, and he
was nothing but smoke. His mind was a wisp drawn this way and that, twisting
and rising, a sheaf of scarves reaching up and out. And a thought became two,
and then six and ten. Flesh was too rigid to permit their flight, but in the
smoky web the thoughts came to life—they grew beads and jewels, giant eyes cyan
and lime, and they sprouted see-through wings, like puzzles made of glass. The
wings whirred, the thoughts glittered and darted, testing the limits of a
strange new world.

This web, with all Robbie's thoughts in it,
passed through the roof, and a fierce sky spread out. A vast purple velvet
studded with stars, and in the center: clouds black and doomful with a glowing
core. As the winds bore you closer, you could see the core turning—the eye of
the Dream Man, powerful and knowing, watched you approach.

Alien scarves wove through him, finding
gaps in his smoke. And he heard Fristeen's thoughts mixed with his own.
Gladness he felt, tenderness and mirth—a joy full to bursting—then panic.
Terror yanked them together, but the weave rode the wave, and exhilaration
budded, and a bracing gust blew them up. Again, fear and relief—the relay
continued as they rose—and the cauldron of dreams grew closer and closer.

Fristeen,
Robbie thought.
Fristeen, oh Fristeen.
Together they felt the bounty of release.
All their jewels had wings and they were rising together, inseparable at last.
From a distance, the surround of torn clouds had seemed motionless. But now
they saw how it writhed, and they heard it as well—a great mass of souls, adrift,
wandering, some apart, some alone. All had come to deliver their precious
gifts, to release them at last to the master glow. Here it was: a vortex
married to an endless dawn, and the hurricane never stopped, and the dream went
on.

Only thoughts?
Robbie wondered.

"Nothing more," the voice
answered from its blinding cave. "Is this what you want?"

Robbie felt Fristeen beside him, still
close, but once again divided. They were no longer rising. They were drifting
aimlessly in the turbulent sky. The earth below was lost in darkness, and
clouds were closing over the dwindling eye.

"At the Cabin," the deep voice
said. "I'm waiting."

***

There was a next morning, and it came with
a shock. Robbie opened his eyes, saw a curtain beyond his elbow and a ceiling
above. At a distance—not so far, when he sat up—he could hear Dad talking.

Just a dream,
he thought. A
moment of relief. But something was wrong. He wanted to cry. Was he sad he'd
come back? It was cruel of the Dream Man—to frighten him like that. He put on
his clothes while he fought with his feelings. He thought of himself with
Fristeen on that bed, burning up. In the world he'd awoken to, it seemed
heroic. But he wasn't a hero, he was just a boy.

Robbie turned to face the giant brain on
his wall. Just a dream. Fristeen knew nothing about it. Not a thing.

He stepped into the living room in a daze.
Mom shuttled plates from the kitchen. Dad was stuffing things in his daypack,
about to leave.

"Don't go," Robbie said.

"Mmm?" Dad turned.

"I have to—"

"What?" Dad asked.

"Some cereal?" Mom spoke over her
shoulder on her way back to the kitchen.

"I had a dream," Robbie started.
"Sit down. Please."

"I'm late already," Dad shook his
head.

"I just want to—"

"Can it wait?"

"There's a man who lives—where dreams
come from—"

"Robbie—"

"Please." He grabbed Dad's wrist.

"I wish I could." Dad turned
away.

"I mean it— Don't go, Dad. Don't
go!" Robbie's voice cracked. He dug in his heels and tugged at Dad's arm
with all his strength.

"Robbie—" Dad was angry.

"No," Robbie cried. "No,
no!" He screamed and held on, and he wouldn't let go. The Dream Man, the
Cabin— He was on that bed, turning to smoke—

"Good god—" Mom ran from the
kitchen.

"No!" He was screaming, "No,
no!" There were too many secrets—more than he could bear.

Dad dropped his pack. "He's
hysterical—"

"What's wrong?" Mom rushed toward
him.

Robbie crumpled and fell in a heap at their
feet.

Mom bent, grabbing his shoulders. Dad knelt
beside her.

Robbie barely saw them. He was in the Clearing
with Fristeen, and she was joyous and whirling, her hands trailing. "Who
cares?" she whispered, and as she turned, her hands opened, letting go.
Robbie's hands did the same. The rigor left him, and his body went limp.

"Robbie?" Mom put her hand to his
forehead.

Dad slid his palms beneath him.
"Hot?"

Mom shook her head.

Dad lifted Robbie with both arms and laid
him on the sofa.

Mom lowered herself and put her cheek on
his chest. "Let's take him to the hosp—"

"Let him rest." Dad put his hand
on Mom's shoulder.

Strange,
Robbie thought.
They were like a
family now.

He remembered a moment when the three of
them had stood on the deck that first winter, just after they'd moved into the
house. They had coats on, and Mom and Dad were kissing. It was the middle of
the day and you could see the stars.

He took a deep breath. "I'm
okay," Robbie said.

"What did you want to tell me?"
Dad asked him.

Robbie's lips parted, but nothing came out.
It seemed unexplainable.

"I'm sorry," Dad said. "Me
too," Robbie mumbled.

"A little more rest, and we'll get you
something to eat." Mom glanced at Dad, begging him to stay.

Robbie turned, facing the back cushion.
"Okay," he said.

***

Later that day, he was with Fristeen. They
sat together on the crest of Where You Can See, feeling the breeze.

"It hurts. A lot," Robbie said.
"And you never come back."

Fristeen listened intently, twirling a
stray lock. "The Cabin's so scary. Does it
have
to be
there?"