Rich Shapero (23 page)

"Robbie—"

He leaped onto the bank and scrambled along
it to where the willow stubs formed a strand. They were biscuit-colored now,
stiff and dry. "Here! Over here, Fristeen." He started along the strand,
hanging onto the dead stubs, slipping on their wobbling roots, trying to keep
himself from plunging into the bog. Fristeen saw him and started edging along
Big Sponge toward him.

"That's it," Robbie hissed. His
feet were slipping, his arms shook. The willow stubs cracked as his weight
shifted and he clutched at others, trying to hang on.

"I can't feel my feet," Fristeen
moaned. "It's Shivers—"

"You're almost there," Robbie
said, balancing at the end of the strand. "Can you reach that plant?"

Still clinging to Big Sponge, Fristeen eyed
a tuft of sweet gale and lunged. It came away in her hand and she sank, her
head vanishing beneath the surface. She came up choking, eyes wild.

"Grab my hand," Robbie cried,
reaching, the willow boughs snapping beneath him.

"I can't! It's Shivers—" Fristeen
was panicked. "He's holding onto my legs!"

Robbie swung out and hooked her arm with
his own, expecting the willows to break any moment, pulling Fristeen out of
Shivers' clutches, up onto the strand. The branches cracked all around them,
but somehow they held. Fristeen hung panting beside him, shuddering and
drenched, whimpering with pain. There was blood on her face.

Robbie led the way back along the strand.
Breathless and shaken, they hurried through the viburnums and climbed the slope
to the Two-Tree without a word. At the top, they clung to each other, clasped
hands and continued down.

When they reached Used-to-Be, Robbie
stopped.

Fristeen looked wretched. Her face was
streaked with blood.

She saw his concern and she raised her
hands, feeling with her fingers. The broken stubs of the willow had cut her,
and she winced as she found the open wounds. At the corner of her left eye was
a gash, and there was a larger one below her right cheek. A crescent cut
crossed her nose, and a flap of flesh had lifted.

"We should clean them," Robbie
said.

He found some damp sphagnum behind
Used-to-Be, and used a wad of it to mop the cuts.

"She's not protecting us
anymore," Fristeen murmured.

"This one's not bleeding," Robbie
said.

"I'm so sad."

"She didn't know," Robbie said.
"She was somewhere else." Then he had that awful feeling again—that
sickness in his chest. He was looking at Fristeen's face, and the sickness was
coming back. All the joy that had its source there— They weren't like the
Needle scratches that would be gone the next day. These cuts were deep. And
this pain—you couldn't kiss it away.

Suddenly, trills and twitters filled the
branches. A flock of chickadees examined them, calling excitedly—sorry, caring,
or just curious—it was hard to tell. It helped, a little. Fristeen smiled, and
when the flock drifted through the branches, she peered after them.

"Can we?"

Robbie nodded, and she led the way.

To Used-to-Be's right, the fireweed had all
gone to seed, and the way lay open. It was a place they'd never been. They
ascended a low rise and a stand of birch appeared, barren and bony, trunks
chalk-white. They stepped among them and Robbie put his hand on one. It was
cool to the touch. When he looked at his fingers, they were covered with white
powder.

"They're coming apart," Fristeen
said.

Everywhere you looked, the trees were
tattered.

"The Peeling Place." Robbie tore
loose a scroll of papery skin.

The chickadees seemed to know it well. They
tseeked to each other as they wandered through the ghostly grove, coming to
rest in the crown of a big birch with a slash across its front.

"Look," Fristeen pointed.

"It's feeling like we do," Robbie
said.

"Let's sit there."

They could see the deep wound as they approached—the
bark was jagged on either side, and down in it, the brown heartwood was
seeping.

So they sat beneath the Hurt Tree, arms
linked, holding each other close.

It got colder. Robbie thought of Shivers,
and of what life would be like without Fristeen. For a moment, Mom's winter
dread infected him. He imagined he lived in a world of darkness, that all the
bright growing things had vanished forever, and the joys he'd known that summer
would never come again.

"Robbie—" Fristeen's eyes
searched his. "We're going to stay married, aren't we? Your mom—" She
caught her breath.

"Mom doesn't matter."

"Sometimes I think—" Her voice
was despairing. "What?"

"I'm not like Dawn," Fristeen
said. "I want to be sunny, but when bad things happen—" She started
to cry. "Robbie—" She shook her head. "My light's going
out."

Her words pierced him, but gazing into
those eyes he knew so well, he could do nothing but smile.

She frowned, then laughed.

The chickadees trilled and the Hurt Tree
braced them. Robbie just smiled, and Fristeen understood. You could hurt badly,
and still be glad to be alive. Fristeen's face—it was as beautiful as ever.
Each cut was like a pair of tiny lips. And that great sun inside her— It might
be sputtering, but it would never go out. They would always be together.

She put her head in his lap, and he held
her with both arms, and they listened to the chickadees while the light leeched
away.

***

It was as Robbie expected. He could see
Mom's silhouette in the window as they reached the bottom of the Hill. Fristeen
hurried through the shrubs. When he was halfway across the deck, the back door
flew open and Mom rushed out.

"Why, Robbie? Why? Why? Why?"

She dragged him across the living room and
they fell together on the floor.

"Answer me," Mom shrieked.

Robbie couldn't find his voice.

"Answer me!" Mom shook her head
savagely, and then her lips puffed out and she was bawling miserably, falling
apart.

"Mom—" He just stared at her.
"Mom—" Why wasn't Dad here? He would know what to do.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Mom
struggled with her breath. "I'm overreacting—"

Something terrible is happening, Robbie
thought.

"I've quit." Mom closed her eyes
to see her thoughts more clearly. "I've quit."

"Your job?"

She nodded, then broke again, sobbing
quietly to herself.

"I had to see her," Robbie said.
"I just had to." He slid his hand in his pocket the way Dad might do.

Mom shook her head. "It doesn't
matter." She tried to smile. "It's over now."

Robbie's fingers felt the leaves. He didn't
realize what they were till he drew them out. A sprig of rouged blueberry,
creamy lettuce lichens and a pair of sphagnum rosettes with velvety stalks.

Mom's expression was quizzical, then she
melted as he reached up and planted them in her hair. Fresh tears wet her
cheeks, grateful tears.

"You're beautiful, Mom. We'll be
okay."

"Yep," she blurted, and she
laughed adoringly. "It will be easier— Once all this is behind us."
She gazed around the sad house. "We're leaving," she said.
"Going back to the States. Maybe Thursday—just a few days."

Robbie stared at her.

"I've started to pack." Mom
kissed him. "We'll stay with Grandma. Till things make more sense. Did you
cut yourself?" Mom frowned.

"No—"

"You've got blood on your hands."

***

Sleep didn't come quickly, but by midnight,
Robbie was deep in a dream.

He knew where he was—the Peeling Trees were
all around him. The sky was dark gray, and he could hear distant rain. A pale
ground fog covered everything to the level of his knees, and the trees rising
above it were trembling, as if trying to uproot themselves. But none of them
could move, and neither could he.

A familiar rumble rose through the
woodland. A motorcycle and rider appeared, speeding toward him, wheels gliding
smoothly beneath the blanket of fog. It's Duane, Robbie thought. But when the
cycle roared up, spitting leaf litter and gravel, it was Grace who was
straddling the growling machine. She shook her hair in the breeze, gave an
exhilarated sigh, and regarded him with her sparkling eyes. She wore Duane's
jacket, and she'd brought the rain with her. Robbie could hear the drops
tapping on the hard leather, while the beady-eyed animals squeaked and snarled
within.

"I heard you talking about him,"
Grace laughed. "I saw the target you tacked on the laundry room
door."

"Shivers?"

"One night, he came to visit. And— I
couldn't send him home." Grace eyed Robbie with deep emotion. "I knew
it would happen. I told you—"

"What?" Robbie said numbly.

"My Romeo, dear. My Romeo!" Grace
beamed, and held her hand up. "We're married now. See my ring?"

Her finger was cut clean around, and lumps
of blood glittered in a band of white pus.

"I'm taking her away—" Shivers'
voice rose from the fog.

Grace saw the recognition in Robbie's face.
"You're old friends."

"He's a monster," Robbie told
her. "He eats people. You can't go away."

Grace was surprised. "Why not?"

"You have to stay and take care of
Fristeen."

Grace laughed.
"You're
doing
that."

"He's almost a man," Shivers said
acidly.

Suddenly, the ground fog was gathering, bunching
before Robbie, drawing in from the borders of the grove. It billowed and
towered, sucking air up, dripping and giving off odors of canker and mold. The
lumpy brow mushroomed, the sagging nose pushed out, and deep in the dark eye
holes, white balloons grew—shriveled at first, bulging as they filled with
noxious gas. His chin lay coiled over an expanse of soaked moss.

"Nice job," Shivers wheezed. He
cracked his chin to the side.

The moss was floating, and there was a
gaping hole, like the hole at Big Sponge. On a giant fan of dead willow leaves,
Fristeen lay floating, naked and stiff. Her eyes were open, frozen in mute
despair, and around them the cuts from the willow stubs were crawling, bending
and twisting like purple worms.

"She's doing just fine," Grace
frowned. "Don't you think?"

Shivers nodded. "I like her
better
this way."

"Well," Grace smiled at Robbie.
"It's almost over. You'll be along shortly?"

"Yes," Shivers said. "I'll
be along."

With that, Grace revved the motorcycle and
roared away through the trees.

Almost over,
Robbie thought.

Then he realized that Fristeen's willow
barge was sinking. The water crept over the crinkled wales and the stern went
under, turning her ankles green. He cried out and fell to his knees, trying to reach
her, but his feet were like a tree's, rooted in the earth. Water poured into
the barge now, swamping it completely, and Fristeen was sinking, her face
gazing up at him. Robbie felt himself shuddering from head to foot. Was it the
fog, or what he saw as the water closed over her? Fristeen was cold, joyless as
a stone. Her likeness to Dawn was gone for good. The white mouth was around him
now, and everything was mist. Shivers swallowed him whole, and began to chew.

The end. . . the
end. . .
Just like He Knows said.

Robbie's senses faded. He heard Shivers'
juices, inexorably churning. And then another sound rose and obscured even
that. A rushing, a rushing—

Could it be— Could it be—

Yes! A great rushing, not of the wind, not
made of dead chill and Shivers, but of feverish life, joyous and frenzied,
powerful enough to sweep all fears away.

The Dream Man was speaking!

"I'm here now, Robbie. Be calm.

"Why haven't I come? I'm impatient,
covetous—sometimes I'm crazed. I plot and move on, my restless thoughts race.
It's autumn—I scorch the forest in my haste. Raze it! Make it blaze! I will not
wait. Yellow's my disdain for those left in my wake. Russet my regret, and gold
my relief— For the passing dream, Robbie, puts an end to all. To be free, you
see, means always leaving, or returning to the place where leaves never fall.

"Dream, Robbie. Dream. Put poor
Shivers out."

All at once, the Dream Man's heaven seemed
very close. Robbie could feel himself floating way up in the sky. He could hear
the stars bursting to life, he could smell their sparks.

"Mysteries endless, wonders unceasing.
No season of dying and no thought of return. A new life to lead, new air to
breathe; a soul mixed with your own. Her name is Fristeen.