Swan Song

by Robert R. McCammon

  She hadn’t told any of them about her dreamwalking. Hadn’t said anything about the word “swan” and the hand prints burned into the trunk of a blossoming tree. How, then, could Robin Oakes know—unless he had gone dreamwalking, too?

  “Wait!” she cried out. Her voice echoed like a bell within the cavern. Both Paul and Hugh were jolted from their sleep. Most of the boys awakened at once, already reaching for their guns and spears. Robin stopped in mid-stride.

  She started to speak, couldn’t find the words. She stood up and approached him, holding the glass circle up. “What did you see in this?”

  Robin glanced over at the other boys, then back to Sister, and shrugged.

  “You did see something, didn’t you?” Her heart was pounding. The colors of the ring pulsated faster as well. “You did! You went dreamwalking, didn’t you?”

  “Dreamwhat?”

  “Swan,” Sister said. “You saw that word written on the tree, didn’t you? The tree that was covered with blossoms. And you saw the hand prints burned into the wood.” She held the glass in front of his face. “You did, didn’t you?”

  “Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “Not any of that stuff.”

  She froze, because she could see that he was telling the truth. “Please,” she said. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “I ... slipped it out of your bag about an hour ago, when I woke up,” he said in a quiet, respectful voice. “I just wanted to hold it. Just wanted to look at it. I’ve never seen anything like it before, and after what happened with Bucky ... I knew it was special.” He trailed off, was silent for a few seconds as if mesmerized again. “I don’t know what that thing is, but ... it makes you want to hold it and look down inside it where all those lights and colors shine. I took it out of your bag, and I went over and sat down.” He motioned toward his own bed of leaves on the far side of the cave. “I wasn’t going to keep it very long, but ... the colors started changing. They started making a picture—I don’t know, I guess it sounds kind of crazy, right?”

  “Go on.” Both Paul and Hugh were listening, and the others were paying close attention as well.

  “I just held it and kept watching the picture form, kind of like one of those mosaics they used to have on the walls of the orphanage chapel: If you looked at them long enough, you could almost swear they came alive and started moving. That’s what this was like—only it suddenly wasn’t just a picture anymore. It was real, and I was standing on a field covered with snow. The wind was blowing, and everything was kind of hazy—but damn, it was cold out there! I saw something lying on the ground; at first I thought it was a bundle of rags, but then I realized it was a person. And right next to it was a horse, lying down in the snow, too.” He looked sheepishly over at the listening boys, then returned his gaze to Sister. “Weird, huh?”

  “What else did you see?”

  “The big dude came running across the field. He was wearing a black mask, and he passed about six or seven feet right in front of me. Scared the hell out of me, and I wanted to jump back, but then he’d gone on. I swear I could even see his footprints in the snow. And I heard him yell ‘Swan.’ I heard that as sure as I hear my own voice right now. He sounded scared. Then he knelt down beside that person, and it looked like he was trying to wake her up.”

  “Her? What do you mean, her?”

  “A girl. I think he was calling her name: Swan.”

  A girl, Sister thought. A girl named Swan—that’s who the glass ring was leading them to! Sister’s mind was reeling. She felt faint, had to close her eyes for a moment to keep her balance; when she opened them again, the colors of the glass circle were pulsating wildly.

  Paul had stood up. Though he’d ceased to believe in the power of the ring before Hugh had saved the young boy, he was now almost trembling with excitement. It didn’t matter anymore that he couldn’t see anything in the glass; maybe that was because he was blind and would not look deeply enough. Maybe it was because he had refused to believe in anything much beyond himself, or his mind was locked to a bitter wavelength. But if this boy had seen a vision in the glass, if he’d experienced the sensation of “dreamwalking” that Sister talked about, then might they be searching for someone who really was out there somewhere? “What else?” he asked Robin. “Could you see anything else?”

  “When I was going to jump back from that big dude in the black mask, I saw something on the ground almost in front of me. Some kind of animal, all crushed and bloody. I don’t know what it was, but somebody had done a number on it.”

  “The man in the mask,” Sister said anxiously. “Did you see where he came from?”

  “No. Like I say, it was kind of hazy. Smoky, I guess. I could smell a lot of smoke in the air; and there was another smell—a sick kind of smell. I think there might have been a couple of other people there, too, but I’m not sure. The picture started fading and drifting apart. I didn’t like that sick smell, and I wanted to be back here again. Then I was sitting over there with that thing in my hands, and that was all.”

  “Swan,” Sister whispered. She looked at Paul. His eyes were wide and amazed. “We’re looking for a girl named Swan.”

  “But where do we look? My God, a field could be anywhere—one mile away or a hundred miles!”

  “Did you see anything else?” Sister asked the boy. “Any landmarks—a barn? A house? Anything?”

  “Just a field. Covered with snow in some places, and in others the snow had blown away. Like I said, it was so real I could feel the cold. It was so real it was spooky ... and I guess that’s why I let you catch me putting that thing back in your bag. I guess I wanted to tell somebody about it.”

  “How are we supposed to find a field without landmarks?” Paul asked. “There’s no way!”

  “Uh ... excuse me.”

  They looked over at Hugh, who was getting up with the aid of his crutch. “I’m really in the dark about all this,” he said, once he’d gotten himself steadied. “But I know that what you believe you see in that glass you take to be a place that truly exists. I imagine I’m the last person in the world to understand such things—but it seems to me that if you’re looking for that particular place, you might start with Mary’s Rest.”

  “Why there?” Paul asked him.

  “Because back in Moberly I had the opportunity to meet travelers,” he replied. “Just as I met you and Sister. I assumed travelers might show some pity for a one-legged beggar—unfortunately, I was usually incorrect. But I remember one man who’d come through Mary’s Rest; he was the one who told me the pond there had gone dry. And I remember ... he said the air in Mary’s Rest smelled unclean.” He turned his attention to Robin. “You said you smelled a ‘sick’ odor—and you also smelled smoke. Is that right?”

  “Yeah. There was smoke in the air.”

  Hugh nodded. “Smoke. Chimneys. Fires for people trying to keep warm. I think the field you’re searching for—if there is such a place—may be near Mary’s Rest.”

  “How far is Mary’s Rest from here?” Sister asked Robin.

  “Seven or eight miles, I guess. Maybe more. I’ve never been there, but we’ve sure robbed a lot of people who were going in and out. That was a while back, though. Not so many travel this way anymore.”

  “There’s not enough gas in the Jeep to make that distance,” Paul reminded Sister. “I doubt if we’d make a mile.”

  “I don’t mean seven or eight miles by road,” Robin corrected. “I mean that far overland. It’s southwest of here, through the woods, and the going’s rough. Six of my men scouted a trail over there about a year ago. Two of them made it back, and they said there wasn’t anything worth stealing in Mary’s Rest. They’d probably rob us if they could.”

  “If we can’t drive, we’ll have to walk.” Sister picked up her satchel and slipped the glass ring into it. Her hands were shaking.

  Robin grunted. “Sister,” he said, “I don’t mean any disrespect, but you’re crazy. Seven miles on foot wouldn’t be what I’d call a
real fun thing to do. You know, we probably saved your lives stopping your Jeep like we did. You’d be frozen to death by now if we hadn’t.”

  “We have to get to Mary’s Rest—or at least I do. Paul and Hugh can decide for themselves. I’ve come a hell of a lot further than seven miles to get here, and a little cold’s not going to stop me now.”

  “It’s not just the distance, or the cold. It’s what’s out there in the deep woods.”

  “What?” Hugh asked uneasily, hobbling forward on his crutch.

  “Oh, some real interesting wildlife. Things that look like they were hatched in some mad doctor’s zoo. Hungry things. You don’t want one of those things to catch you out in the woods at night.”

  “I should say not,” Hugh agreed.

  “I have to get to Mary’s Rest,” Sister said firmly, and her set expression told Robin her mind was made up. “All I need is some food, warm clothes and my shotgun. I’ll make out okay.”

  “Sister, you won’t make a mile before you get lost—or eaten.”

  She looked at Paul Thorson. “Paul?” she asked. “Are you still with me?”

  He hesitated, glanced toward the gloomy light at the cave’s entrance and then at the fire the boys were starting by rubbing two sticks together. Damn! he thought. I never could do that when I was a Cub Scout! It might not be too late to learn, though. Still, they’d come so far, and they might be so close to finding the answer they sought. He watched the fire spark and catch, but he’d already decided. “I’m with you.”

  “Hugh?” she prompted.

  “I want to go with you,” he said, “I really do. But I have a patient.” He glanced at the sleeping boy. “I want to know what—and who—you find when you get to Mary’s Rest, but ... I think I’m needed here, Sister. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt useful. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” She’d already decided to talk Hugh out of going, anyway; there was no way he could make the distance on one leg, and he’d only slow them down. “I do understand.” She looked at Robin. “We’ll want to be leaving as soon as we can get our gear together. I’ll be needing my shotgun and the shells—if that’s all right with you.”

  “You’ll need more than that to make it.”

  “Then I’m sure you’ll want to return Paul’s gun and bullets to him, too. And we can use whatever food and clothes you can spare.”

  Robin laughed, but his eyes remained hard. “We’re supposed to be the robbers, Sister!”

  “Just give us back what you stole from us, then. We’ll call it even.”

  “Anybody ever tell you you were crazy?” he asked.

  “Yes. Tougher punks than you.”

  A faint smile spread slowly across his face, and his eyes softened. “Okay,” he said, “you’ll get your stuff back. I guess you’ll need it more than us.” He paused thoughtfully, then said, “Hold on,” and he went over to his bed of leaves. He bent down and started going through a cardboard box full of tin cans, knives, watches, shoelaces, and other items. He found what he was looking for and returned to Sister. “Here,” he said, placing something in her hand. “You’ll need this, too.”

  It was a small metal compass that looked like it might have come from a Crackerjack box.

  “It works, too,” he told her. “At least, it worked when I took it off a dead man a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Thanks. I hope it’s luckier for me than it was for him.”

  “Yeah. Well ... you can have this, too, if you want it.” Robin unbuttoned the brown coat from around his throat. Against his pallid skin he was wearing a tarnished little crucifix on a silver chain. He started to take it off, but Sister touched his hand to restrain him.

  “That’s all right.” And she pulled her woolen muffler away from her neck to show him the crucifix-shaped scar that had been burned there in the Forty-second Street theater long before. “I’ve got my own.”

  “Yeah.” Robin nodded. “I guess you do.”

  Their coats, sweaters and gloves were returned to Paul and Sister, along with their guns, bullets for Paul’s Magnum and shells for Sister’s shotgun. A can of baked beans and some dried squirrel meat wrapped up in leaves found their way into a duffel bag that was returned to Sister, along with an all-purpose knife and a bright orange woolen cap. Robin gave both of them wristwatches, and a search of another cardboard box of booty yielded three kitchen matches.

  Paul siphoned the last of the gasoline from the Jeep’s tank into a small plastic milk jug, and it barely wet the bottom. But the jug was securely sealed with tape and put down into the duffel bag, to be used to strengthen a fire.

  It was as light as it was going to get outside. The sky was dingy, and there was no way to tell where the sun was. Sister’s watch said ten twenty-two; Paul’s said three thirteen.

  It was time to go.

  “Ready?” Sister asked Paul.

  He looked longingly at the fire for a moment and then said, “Yeah.”

  “Good luck!” Hugh called, hobbling to the mouth of the cave as they started out. Sister lifted a gloved hand, then pulled her collar up around the muffler at her throat. She checked the compass, and Paul followed her toward the woods.

  6l

  “THERE IT IS.” GLORY pointed to the hulk of a gray-boarded barn half hidden within a grove of trees. Two other structures had collapsed, and from one of them protruded a crumbling red brick chimney. “Aaron found this place a while back,” she said as Josh walked with her toward the barn and Mule tagged along. “Nobody lives out here, though.” She motioned toward a well-worn trail that went past the decayed structures and deeper into the forest. “The Pit’s not too far.”

  The Pit, as Josh understood it, was the community’s burial ground—a trench into which hundreds of bodies had been lowered over the years. “Jackson used to say a few words over the dead,” Glory said. “Now that he’s gone, they just toss ’em in and forget ’em.” She glanced at him. “Swan came mighty close to joinin’ ’em last night. What’d she think she was doin’ out there?”

  “I don’t know.” Swan had lapsed into unconsciousness when they’d gotten het to the shack. Josh and Glory had cleaned her hands and bandaged them with strips of cloth, and they could feel the fever radiating from her. They’d left Aaron and Rusty to watch over her while Josh fulfilled his promise to find shelter for Mule, but he was half crazy with worry; without medicine, proper food or even decent drinking water, what hope did she have? Her body was so broken down with exhaustion that the fever might kill her. He remembered her last words to him before she’d faded away: “Josh, I’ve gone blind.”

  His hands gripped into fists at his sides. Protect the child, he thought. Sure. You’ve done a real fine job of that, haven’t you?

  He didn’t know why she’d slipped out of the shack last night, but it was obvious she’d been digging in the hard earth. Thank God Mule had had the sense to know she was in trouble, or today they’d be taking Swan’s body to the—

  No. He refused to think about that. She’d get better. He knew she would.

  They passed the rusted remains of a car—minus doors, wheels, engine and hood—and Glory pulled the barn’s door open. It was dark and chilly inside, but at least the wind was blunted. Soon Josh’s vision grew accustomed to the gloom. There were two stalls with a little straw on the floor and a trough in which Josh could melt some snow for Mule to drink. On the walls hung ropes and harness gear, but there were no windows an animal might crawl through. It seemed a safe enough place to leave him, and at least he’d be sheltered.

  Josh saw what looked like a pile of junk on the other side of the barn and walked over to examine it. He found some broken-up chairs, a lamp without bulb or wiring, a small lawn mower and a coil of barbed wire. A mouse-eaten blue blanket covered more junk, and Josh lifted it away to see what was underneath.

  “Glory,” he said softly. “Come take a look.”

  She walked over beside him, and he ran his fingers across the cracked glass screen of a television
set. “I haven’t seen one of these in a while,” he said wistfully. “I guess the ratings are pretty low these days, huh?” He punched the on-off button and started to turn through the channels, but the knob came off in his hand.

  “Not worth a damn,” Glory said. “Just like everything else.”

  The TV was supported on some sort of desk with rollers on it, and Josh picked up the set, turned it around and pulled the pressboard off to reveal the tube and the jungle of wires within. He felt about as dumb as a caveman, peering into a magic box that had once been a commonplace luxury—no, necessity—for millions of American homes. Without power, it was as useless as a stone— probably less so, really, because a stone could be used to kill rodents for the stewpot.

  He set the TV aside, along with the other junk. It was going to take a smarter man than he to make juice run through wires and boxes show pictures that moved and spoke again, he mused. He bent down to the floor and found a box full of what looked like old wooden candlesticks. Another box held dusty bottles. He saw some pieces of paper scattered on the floor and picked up one. It was an announcement, and the faded red letters said Antique Auction! Jefferson City Flea Market! Saturday, June 5! Come Early, Stay Late! He opened his hand and let the announcement drift back to the floor and settle with a noise like a sigh amid the other pieces of yesterday’s news.

  “Josh? What’s this thing?”

  Glory was touching the desk with the rollers on it. Her hand found a small crank, and as she turned it there was the rattling noise of a chain moving over rusted gears. The rollers turned as achingly as old men revolving in their sleep. A number of rubber-cushioned pads were activated by the hand crank, coming down to press briefly against the rollers and then return to their original positions. Josh saw a small metal tray affixed to the other end of the desk; he picked up a few of the flea market announcements and put them in the tray. “Keep turning the crank,” he said, and they watched as the rollers and pads grasped one piece of paper at a time, fed them through a slot into the depths of the machine and delivered them to another tray at the opposite end. Josh found a sliding panel, pushed it back and looked into an arrangement of more rollers, trays of metal type and a dried-up series of spongy surfaces that Josh realized must have once been ink pads.