Unthinkable (24 page)

Not really you,
said the cat mildly. The Mud Creature. He
smiled, showing his teeth. Though, as you have already said,
knowing that changes nothing in the game you must now
play. Does it?

Fenella rubbed her eyes wearily. “No.”
You still must go forward.
“I will.” She felt confused, so confused, but at the same

time grimly determined. Perhaps the queen had been right,
to send Padraig so that Fenella had to see him, talk to him.
There was one more task. She would do it. All the horror
would not matter then, because, at long last, she would die.

_{In the human realm,}
it was late afternoon. Half the
bright, withering leaves still clung stubbornly to the trees,
but the other half had fallen to the ground to be blown
about and scuffed underfoot. As Fenella walked, she tried
to avoid stepping on the leaves.

Fenella had Ryland draped so that his body lay in her
arms while he faced backward over her shoulder. Her only
concession to disguise was a shabby gray cap that Ryland
had nosed out on the street. She had tucked up her hair
under it.

Perhaps she wanted to be found, she thought. But though
she had seen one police car, it had driven sedately past her.
Before returning, she had spent an hour discussing the
third task with Ryland, but Fenella had not found an obvious solution. Hope was a slippery concept.

Also, the more time passed, the more anxious Fenella became, thinking of her family and of what they were going
through. It was unbearable not to know what was happening. Yet now that she was in the human realm, she could not
imagine how she might find out.
Part of her wanted simply to go to her family and tell
them about the tasks. But her mind went blank when she
tried to think out the repercussions. She could hardly ask
them to volunteer ideas for ways in which she might destroy them.
She moved slowly down a wide, attractive street lined
with maple trees. People were out and about, but she looked
to the trees. These maples were not sentient like the tree fey,
but perhaps they were aware of her passing. She longed to
think so. She put a hand on the bark of an especially large
maple. She stroked the tree, running her fingers over its
trunk, admiring the ridges that showed how it had grown.
This tree was not so very old, perhaps a hundred years, and
it was strong and alive and so beautiful.
She thought about taking one of its leaves that had fallen
to the ground, of putting it in her pocket. But if she had
been worthy of even that small comfort, she would still have
her own leaf. So she did not.
She walked on. As twilight fell, she found herself in a
town center crowded with stores clustered around a parking lot. It looked familiar; perhaps she had been here before.
She had a vague memory of Miranda walking beside her,
talking.
To her left, next to the parking lot on an island of green,
grew a thick little copse of trees. Instinctively Fenella
stepped closer, stooping beneath the low branches. She
found herself in a sweetly private bower, big enough only
for the empty park bench placed invitingly there.
This was not a private spot, of course. It was at the edge
of a parking lot, and when Fenella squinted through the
leaves, she could see the lot and its cars outside. She could
hear them too. But still, somehow, the screen of trees made
the little shelter feel private, and she realized it would be difficult, especially in the growing darkness, for people outside
to see in.
She sank down thankfully on the bench.
Ryland curled up in her lap with his eyes closed. Fenella
stroked him and watched the lights of the cars in the parking lot. Cars came and cars went. Gradually more cars went
than arrived, and the lot emptied. The streetlamps came on.
The footsteps of the people on the street sounded less frequently. Fenella thought about getting up and moving on,
but she still didn’t know where she would go or what she
would do.
And it felt safe and sheltered on the bench within the
trees. Even peaceful. Absently, she put one hand up behind
her and touched the rough bark of the trees. Oak. She let
her fingers linger a long moment, caressing.
Full dark settled in. The streetlamps outside the bower
gave sufficient light to see by.
Destroy hope?
In her lap, Ryland’s body rose and fell with his breath.
Maybe he really was asleep.
“As long as there is something that you want, you would
still have hope,” Fenella muttered aloud. “To have no hope
would mean you have no energy left to want anything. How
can anybody want nothing? Even when I was with Padraig,
there were still things I wanted. Things I hoped for. Even
now, at this moment, I want. That means I hope. Doesn’t it?
Can you want without hope? No. You cannot. When I want
death, I hope for death. Right?”
In Fenella’s head, Ryland’s voice stirred.
“I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.”
“What?” said Fenella.
Ryland repeated the words.
“But what does it mean?”
She felt Ryland shrug. Human poetry. A man named T. S.
Eliot. Did you think you were the first to ponder these questions? Ryland’s breathing resumed the even tenor of sleep.
Fenella wondered about this poet who had tried to
school himself to hopelessness and lovelessness; who had
placed all his faith in waiting. The stillness the dancing. That
sounded quite fey. No wonder Ryland liked it.
But the lines of the poetry did not, to her, sound hopeless.
For who could dance and remain entirely without wanting,
entirely without hope? This particular poet, perhaps? No,
for his poem was an attempt to instruct himself in hopelessness. It was not success.
How long she sat on her bench trying to be still and wait
without hope, Fenella never knew. At some point she closed
her eyes. Feeling shielded by the trees, she might even have
slept. But suddenly, someone sat down heavily on the bench
beside her.
Instantly her body knew who it was. Her eyes snapped
open. Her skin tingled, and her fingers went cold, even buried as they were in Ryland’s fur.
She felt afraid to look at Walker Dobrez, but there he was.
Beside her. Saying nothing. But she could tell that nothing
inside him was quiet.
Eventually, she turned her head to him. There was enough
light to see that his brown hair hung ragged around his ears
instead of in its usual neat ponytail. The expression in his
eyes was hard. He lifted one large hand and she saw that he
held in it an oak leaf. Fenella’s hand went to her mouth.
It was her leaf.
He held it out to her.
Ryland, in her lap, was watching Walker too. Walker
spared the cat a single glance before returning his attention
to Fenella.
“Leave us alone,” Fenella said to the cat.
Ryland obeyed, as he must, leaping lightly to the ground
and disappearing outside of the little copse of trees.
She took the leaf, careful not to touch Walker. She cupped
the leaf in her palm. It was emitting its gentle, soothing
pulse. It was alive again! What did this mean?
“I found the leaf in the cab of my truck.” Walker drew a
hand through his hair. “It wanted me to come here. So I did.”
He paused, and then burst out: “Who are you, Fenella? What
are you, that a leaf gives instructions about you to me? Leo—
do you know what you did to him? It was on purpose, wasn’t
it?” His anger and bewilderment wound through the words.
Fenella held her whole body tight. She said nothing.
“I told everyone it was an accident. But I know it wasn’t.
You were planning something all along—you used me for
my truck. Didn’t you? First you used me to learn to drive.
Then there’s the dog. You were after Pierre, right? You were
trying to kill a dog! What kind of monster are you? Then
you changed your mind and you did—what you did. And
then you ran away!”
Fenella bit her lip.
“What does that make you? A user, a liar, a coward, and a
murderer.” Walker’s cheekbones stood out in his face.
“Yes,” Fenella said, into the silence. “I did it all. You are
completely correct.”
Walker ripped his hand through his hair again. “I know
I am.”
Then he muttered, “And yet. This leaf. And you. I look
at you—your face, your eyes, the way you move. I listen to
your voice. Something in me can’t believe it. I don’t want
to believe it.” He shook his head. “Maybe this is a nightmare
and I’ll wake up any minute.”
Fenella held the oak leaf up to her cheek. “What about Leo?”
she asked Walker steadily. “Tell me what happened after I ran
away.”
“He’s on life support at the hospital. They did blood
transfusions. They were talking about surgery. But realistically, there’s little hope.”
Fenella’s heart leaped, however. Leo was still alive? There
was little hope, Walker had said. But that meant there was
some hope. The third task was about hope.
Then her mind splintered. If Leo lived, would that mean
she had failed at the second task? But even if he died,
Soledad and Lucy and Zach would still love him. So how
had she destroyed love, exactly? The queen had said she had
succeeded. Padraig had been withered. It didn’t make
sense.
Walker said, “I told the police I was the one driving the
truck. I said that I lost control, trying to avoid hitting Pierre.
Do you understand, Fenella? I covered for you. I took responsibility before the police and your family. Everyone thinks it
was an accident. My fault, my accident. Not yours.”
Fenella doubted it. Her family knew things about Fenella
that Walker did not.
Still, he had lied for her to the police. Around an obstruction in her throat, Fenella managed a single word. “Why?”
Walker’s hands clenched. “You know how I feel about
you. Don’t pretend you don’t.” He paused. “But that’s not
why.” He looked down at his hands, and then directly at
her. “There’s something deeply wrong with you, Fenella.”
“Really, you think so? Beyond my being a liar and a murderer and so on?” She didn’t know how she’d managed
sarcasm, or even why she had bothered. She didn’t mean
the sarcastic words. She was still amazed. Walker had lied
for her!
“I’m talking about you being damaged. I’m talking about
the kind of damage that causes you to do the things you do.
That’s the only reason I’m here. I think you’re mentally ill.
You must be. I think you need help.”
The oak leaf pulsed in Fenella’s hands.
Walker continued steadily, “At the same time, Fenella—
and hear this, because I mean every word: I hate you.” He
stood up. He loomed over her, and the closeness of the trees
around them somehow amplified his size. “I was feeling this
even while lying to the police and to your family, even while
covering for you, even while telling myself that you’ve got to
be mentally ill. Something terrible must have happened in
your life before, to hurt you, to make you unstable. Abuse
of some kind, maybe.”
She sat still and silent, watching him in the dimness. And
listening.
“I’m also afraid of you,” Walker said starkly. “I’m afraid of
what I feel. I’m afraid of what I did. Do you understand? I
lied. I lied to the police and to everyone else. For you. I lied
for you!”
She nodded; a small movement of her head. It seemed
to satisfy him in some way. He sat down again by her side.
“Just now,” he said hoarsely, “I followed a leaf to find you.
A leaf that acted like a compass, and you’re the North Pole.
So, there you go. You’re crazy, you’ve made me crazy, and
you’ve turned the whole world around me insane. Did you
burn that house down too, by the way? Right. I can see by
your face that you did.”
“I’m sorry,” Fenella said.
It was of course entirely the wrong thing to say. He exploded again. “You’re sorry? You’re sorry? God! What am I
doing here? I should get in my truck and drive back home
alone. I should do it this minute. I will do it! I’ll drive away
without looking back, and then I’ll never think of you for
the rest of my life. No! First I’ll haul you to the police, then
I’ll walk away. No! Before that, I’ll force you to face Soledad
and Lucy and Zach and Miranda. I’ll make you tell them
what you’ve done.”
Walker was breathing hard. “Then I’ll take you to the
police.” He snatched her wrists and held them manacled
in one hand. “After that, that’s when I wipe you out of
my mind. That’s when I walk away forever from the sociopathic, beautiful, leaf-attracting monster that you are.
You’re sorry, you say. Sorry!”
She could explain until the world came to an end, and
he would never believe or understand. He was crushing her
wrists. If he broke them and her bones healed themselves
before his very eyes, what sort of monster would he call her
then? Fenella had a vague curiosity about it. She wondered
if he remembered that he had seen her arms heal, instantly,
from cat scratches, on the day that they met.
Incidentally, he had also just called her beautiful.
She heard her breath coming hard and fast between her
lips. Walker’s face was bare inches from hers, his breath
smelling faintly of mint.
He was breathing as rapidly as she was.
By her wrists he pulled her closer, right up against him.
Heat poured off his body. His gaze pierced her in the darkness, cold and hot at once. “That’s what I want. You’re going
to come with me and—”
Fenella dropped the oak leaf. She scrambled on top of
Walker, settling onto his lap on the park bench, her skirt
riding up. Her hands were trapped between them by his
grip on her wrists. His other hand rose to her shoulder,
grasping it, and made to push her away.
She was desperate for contact, for warmth. She tried to
push her body against Walker’s, but her arms were in the
way. That was all right, though, because there were still his
legs beneath hers, his thighs long and taut and muscled, and
it felt so right to be on his lap.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll go with you if you want. But first,
this is what I want. I have to have it. It’s the one thing I want
before I die.”
She set her mouth on his.