Rich Shapero (10 page)

"There," Robbie cried. Through
the battered alders was a flapping sock.

They scrambled amid the downpour, clinging
to the Dot Tree branches, sliding on the wet slope, instantly drenched. A stiff
wind blasted over them, numbing them both, but the wind cleared the mist, and
again Robbie cried out.

"The ridge—" He clambered up on
hands and knees, and Fristeen did the same. They got their feet beneath them and
burrowed through the branches, threading up the incline toward Where You Can
See. The crest was swimming in fog.

"Robbie, Robbie—"

He yelped, and their desperation turned
into breakneck abandon. Wailing and shrieking, they dashed to the high point
and along it at full speed, weaving through the drifting muzz. They seemed sure
to go plunging down one side or the other—then the mist would shift and they'd
spy the way. There—the gate. The gate!

They passed between the stumps, spluttering
with relief, clutching each other, hugging and stumbling, rolling down the
incline, cheek to cheek. Crying? Laughing? Oh, plenty of each.

As they came to rest, a fierce wind struck
the slope. A thick sheaf of litter rumpled before them, built to a wave, then
reared straight up. Shivers' sodden features emerged from the pasted leaves.

Fristeen screamed. Robbie staggered back.
Shivers hung there, ravening them, eye orbits sucking, his prehensile chin
snapping at the ground like a whip.

"A great romance in the offing,"
Shivers croaked. " '
Can I see yours?'"
His humor was
gone.

"You're in our way," Robbie
bellowed.

"More than you know," Shivers
said venomously. "I'm your goose bumps, and—" to Fristeen "—your
peachfuzz pricking up." Then to both: "I'm the shivers between you.
Every sigh, every giggle passes through
me."

"You nasty old man—" Fristeen
shook with rage.

"Your sage chaperone," Shivers
corrected her.

Robbie grabbed Fristeen's hand and
struggled forward. They had to cross the stream. Shivers' maw opened and a
torrent of mulch whirled out. Through the flying leaves, Robbie caught sight of
the log. As they scrambled toward it, Shivers' great visage flew apart. Robbie
reached the log, straddled it and started across. Fristeen was right behind
him.

The wind let them get halfway, and then it
came blasting between the banks and the log started bucking. They jockeyed and
clung, but the thrashing mounted. Robbie was thrown off and Fristeen let go,
and they fell together into the murky stream. The current wasn't strong.
Fristeen lifted herself and gave Robbie a hand, and they clambered up the steep
bank.

As they reached the top, the rain ceased
abruptly and a fog curled round them. Shivers was in it, squeezing their soaked
bodies with icy claws, chilling them to the bone. Robbie heard Fristeen's teeth
chattering.

"Cold, little saplings?" Shivers
hissed.

"Make him stop," Fristeen begged.

"You're like all the other babes in
these woods." Shivers grew mordant. "For a summer, your leaves flutter
with another's. You imagine you're kin to the stars. But the same sap that
inflames you, freezes and splits you. And the older you grow, the deader at
heart."

The mist was impenetrable. Robbie's hands
were numb. He knew he was stumbling forward—he could see his thighs moving. But
his legs had lost their feeling. They seemed no longer to belong to him.
Is this
what it's like?
he wondered.
When you're about to die?
One hand stretched back to someone who cares for you, the other reaching for a
place you can't see. In your ears, the rustle of limbs against leaves, audible
shadows in the land of the blind.

"Call it love if you like,"
Shivers said softly, "but it's just decomposing. You sprouted alone, and
you'll wither alone. The only peace in this world is inside me."

"He Knows?" Robbie shouted.

"Close, close, close . . ."

"Are we near the edge?"

"Wet, wet, wet, wet. . ."

Before Robbie could figure out what He
Knows meant, his heel slid on the soaked mulch. He landed at the bottom of a
pit on his hip, groaning with pain.

"Robbie!"

Shivers was coiled in the pit with him.
Robbie could feel his slimy head probing and stretching, crawling over him like
a bloated worm. The stench made him gag. He lurched upright, struggling to
stand, clawing his way up the side of the pit. When Fristeen saw him, she
grabbed his arm.

"There—" She pointed, leading the
way through the brush, putting the stream bed behind them. His hip hurt badly,
but he did his best to keep up.

When they reached the Fallen Down Trees,
they spotted the marker through the mist and scrambled beneath, and when they
rose on the far side, it was barely drizzling and the Bendies were in the
clear.

"The cloudburst is over. But let's not
say farewell." Shivers spoke to their backs. "We're tight now. I've
got my gums in you, and I'm starting to chew."

By the time they reached the Clearing, the
dinner hour was past. Mom would be angry, Robbie knew, and Dad would have to
calm her down. He and Fristeen said their goodbyes quickly. So much had happened.
The giants across the Pool were still looming before him. And when he put his
hand on the doorknob, it was shaking as if Shivers had hold of it. He wasn't
certain what he would tell his parents, but he couldn't wait to see them.

When he walked through the door, neither
was in the living room. Except for the white candles, the dining table was
clear. Robbie glanced through the kitchen entry and saw Mom standing by the
sink. She wasn't doing anything, just gazing through the window with a stick of
celery in her hand.

"Mom?"

She jumped, then sighed and turned to face
him. "Daniel Boone's back," she said, as if from a distance.

"Is Dad here?"

"Not yet."

Robbie saw the covered pots on the stove.
"What's for dinner?"

"Linguine casalinga," Mom said.
She smiled, coming back to herself. "The way Grandma makes it. Hey—you're
drenched." She knelt, regarding him at close range.

Could she see the agitation in his eyes?

Robbie threw himself into her arms and
hugged her tightly. So often it seemed that Mom didn't understand. But there
were things Mom understood best. Sometimes you just wanted a squishy breast to
cry on. Sometimes you didn't want to be brave.

"Oh Robbie—" Mom kissed him and
cradled him.

"Will you help me change?"

Mom laughed and nodded, and they started
down the hall.

"It gets cold in the forest," he
told her. He shivered reflexively. "Know what me and Fristeen found? A
place where the trees are black and the water is red."

Mom stepped into his room, sat on his bed
and drew him close. "Robbie—" She peered into his eyes, searching.
"You still love me. Don't you?"

Mom seemed about to cry.

"Of course, Mom."

"I know you think I'm screwing up. I
think so too, sometimes. I'm sorry I'm always forcing rules on you."

Robbie didn't know what to say.

"We thought we wanted the same
thing," Mom said.

He patted Mom's hand. She seemed so small.

"It was wonderful. Our little home in
California—the rolling hills and the oaks— The weather was warm, and the
people—" The words caught in her throat. "It wasn't remote enough for
your dad." She paused. "We had our
vision—"

"The cabin-in-the-wild," Robbie
said. "Dad still thinks—"

"I know what Dad thinks," Mom
said. She looked beyond him. "I wish you had a wider circle of friends.
It's hard to meet other moms. The people here
are ...
so different.
I guess Alaska is a little more than I can take."

"Mom?"

She met his stare.

"Should I put some dry clothes
on?"

"Yes," she smiled, "let's
get those things off."

When they finished, they returned to the
kitchen and Mom put food on three plates. They carried them to the table and
sat down.

They didn't eat right away. They waited.
Robbie twisted his fork in the noodles and listened for the sound of Dad's car.
Finally, they both started to eat. They didn't say anything and they ate
slowly. From time to time, Robbie glanced at Dad's food. You could see steam
rising up, and then the steam stopped.

Dad had been late before, but Mom acted
like this was different. She was sad when they began to eat, and she got sadder
and sadder. She stared at her noodles as if they were all their arguments piled
in front of her, tangled together.

When they were done, they bussed the dishes
and put Dad's food in the fridge.

Then Mom put him to bed.

Robbie lay there for awhile, listening. He thought
he might hear the sound of Dad's car in the drive. But he was wrong. The only
sound was Dad's voice echoing in his bedroom. "Goodbye," it said.
"Goodbye, goodbye . . ."

***

Something raised him from his fitful sleep.
Robbie opened his eyes and found himself drifting. Not on the ground, but high
above it—on his back, facing up. It wasn't day or night. It was a strange
mingling of both, like what they'd seen at the Pool. There was a spot of sun,
and it was blinding. But it burned at the back of a dismal cave, and the sky
all around it was leaden and gloomy. Around the cave's rim, dark cumuli were
bent—the ghosts of giants risen—once monstrous, now spent.

"Dream, Robbie. Dream," a deep
voice said.

Robbie peered into the cave, and saw
thoughts stirring within.

"I'm here," the Dream Man said.
"Looking down from heaven. At the back of your mind."

The cave was an eye, a cauldron glowing and
alive—a brazier of embers, lemon and blue, coals beat to powder, circling,
circling. And the cauldron was tipping, daring to pour, and Robbie was soaring,
lifted straight toward it.

"Where am I?" he wondered.

"Look down," the Dream Man
replied.

In the spectral light, Robbie saw the black
trees.

"The place you disappear to—when you
dream."

"I've never—"

"Oh you have, you have," the
Dream Man assured him. "You just don't recall."

The deep voice was smiling. It wanted to
soothe him, but Robbie was scared. A rushing sound reached him, some fury of
motion from the churning eye. Was it powder? Liquid? A hurricane of stars? Or
rivers of minnows in a giant jar?

"Are you real?" Robbie asked.

"Are thoughts real?" the Dream
Man mused. "Would I be any less real if I lived only in your mind?"

Robbie kept rising and the rushing grew louder.
The giant eye was opening wider and wider, the strange element within seething
and sparking as it turned before him, seeing him, knowing him as no mere human
might.

"Are you dreaming? Right now?"
the Dream Man asked him.

"I guess I am."

"Is your body along?"

"No. It's at home. In bed."

"It's a mercy the gold can be drawn
from the rock. That body on the bed is a frail little thing. The world it
clings to is better off shed. Look, Robbie," the Dream Man said softly.
There was care in his voice, care and love. "Look into my eye. What
matters more—your brain, your head, or the ideas inside?"

The first spinning streams left the
cauldron flying, and a pinwheel of turquoise and gold lit up the cloudy gray.

"A new universe," the Dream Man
said. "Remember?"

The eye seemed to explode, a great whirling
galaxy of stretching stars— No, dragonflies! An uncontainable horde, spinning
and glittering, batting feverish wings—a furious mind with a billion ideas,
each taking its own path to a new reach of the sky.

"That's what you want, isn't it?"
The Dream Man boomed. "To set your spirit loose? To wander perfectly
free?"

The Dream Man knew. Robbie wanted that more
than anything in the world.

"To go wherever thought leads?"
This last, the Dream Man spoke with great fondness, like a blessing.

Robbie felt such joy, he thought his heart
would burst. The first dragonflies struck him, and were dashed into jewels that
burned and smoked.

"Do I have it?" asked the Dream
Man.

"Have what?" Robbie cried.

"The idea," the Dream Man said.

The great cauldron loomed closer, and the
living whirlpool churned. The rushing of wings deafened Robbie's senses—

"What idea?" Robbie murmured.

The Dream Man laughed. "The idea of
you."

***

Robbie sat up in bed. It was morning, and
sun was filtering through his curtains.