The Year of the Storm

by John Mantooth

  Mom glanced at the couch and nodded. “He’s not dead, is he?”

  “No way.”

  “Danny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I can’t go. This place . . . it’s a dream. I—I need to just go back to sleep.”

  I waved her off. “We can talk about that stuff later. Just trust me for now.”

  She did say one more thing, though. One more thing that I still think about a lot these days. “Okay,” she said. “It’s a deal. We’ll talk about it when we get home.”

  She never lived up to her promise. We didn’t ever talk about it again. Still, those words stay forever on my mind because she said them at all.

  Listen:

  We’ll talk about it when we get home.

  When we get home. It meant that somehow, she’d found it within her to believe again, to trust, to accept that things were pretty much rotten—no, worse than rotten; they were shitty—but she’d also accepted that she didn’t have to just deal with them either. Because it’s so easy to get complacent, isn’t it? It’s so easy to fear improvements, because improvements equal change and change equals believing in a world that you can’t quite see yet.

  When we get home.

  —

  We heard him stirring in the cellar before we left, a rat trapped in a cage. When Mom raised an eyebrow at the sound, I shrugged it off. Our choices were limited now. We had to move quickly and hope we could find our way out of this place before Sykes found his way out of the cellar.

  I wished Tina were here to guide us, and I briefly wondered if showing her the cellar had been a mistake. She’d disappeared after without a word. Maybe it was too sudden to be faced with all that. Sometimes you need time.

  It didn’t matter, though. Tina wasn’t here, and I’d have to find it on my own. I started off through the dense trees, trying my best to go in the direction of the quicksand.

  We made pretty good time through the swamp. Mom and Anna were silent, and I was thankful for that. So far, both followed me without complaint, despite the sometimes knee-deep water we were slogging through.

  After a while, I began to wonder if I was going the right way. Back home, in the woods, we would have been there by now. Things were different here, I reminded myself. Time for sure. Distance probably too. I kept forging on, scrambling up to a relatively dry bank lined with water lilies. It was beautiful, the kind of thing Mom would have wanted to take a picture of in better times. I squeezed between two ancient, kudzu-covered trees when I heard her.

  “No.”

  That was what Anna did when she didn’t want to go somewhere. She’d say no and just sit down. I turned—disappointed, but not surprised—to see her sitting right in the swamp water, her dress billowing out like a lily pad, soaked brown all the way up to her shoulders.

  I splashed back into the water and went over to her. “Anna,” I said, “I’m going to pick you up and carry you. I know you don’t like it, but I have to do it. I’m sorry.” I reached for her, and she immediately began to wail, beating her fists against my back. I put my mouth next to her ear and said, “Brady. Brady Bun-ch.”

  She didn’t even seem to hear. She was tossing her head wildly. I had to hold her off me to keep her head from colliding with mine.

  I struggled forward, back toward the bank, her writhing in my arms. I marveled at her strength. It took all I had to hold on to her to drag her up the bank, and still she screamed and beat on me. One of her fists hit my face, but I ignored it. I wasn’t letting go.

  A few more steps and I saw it. It looked exactly the same as it looked back in the real world, just as it had the day Dad and I stood nearby thinking of happier times. The creek that ran behind it was similar. It was close, but not exact. The quicksand, as far as I could tell, was identical down to the gritty moistness that looked just solid enough for someone to step on who didn’t know any better.

  “Why have you brought us here?” Mom said.

  I took a deep breath and put Anna down. “Remember when I talked about trusting me?”

  Mom just stared. “You don’t expect me to . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head.

  “It’s the way out. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the only way out of here. It’s how Seth left.” As I spoke, I was acutely aware of the time we were wasting. Sykes would eventually work his way out of the cellar, and when he did, he would come here first.

  “Who is Seth?” Mom said. “And why do we care what he did? Oh, Jesus, I knew this was a mistake. Sometimes, Danny, sometimes you just can’t go back home again.”

  I grabbed her. “It doesn’t matter how far you’ve fallen, Mom. You can always come back home.”

  I tried to drag her toward the quicksand, but she stiffened her body and dug in. I couldn’t move her.

  “No. I’m sorry, Danny. I’m sorry, I can’t be the mother you want me to be.”

  A wave of something hit me then. It was big and loud and it crashed down all over my head, knocking me off balance. Understanding. I couldn’t help Mom any more than I already had. The rest was up to her. And once I accepted this, I felt a sadness, but I also felt a peace. Mom had vanished because she wanted to. I didn’t know where she’d gone or with whom, but she had done it of her own will, and if she was going to come back home, she’d have to do that of her own will too. I’d found a way to reach her, to shake her hard, but she’d have to do the rest.

  I dropped to my knees, sobbing. My mother had left us. Had she left Anna too? She’d certainly tried. But Anna was otherworldly when she wanted her way. She possessed some kind of cosmic power that would not be denied, not even by her own mother.

  —

  Sometimes life is all about timing because if I am honest with myself, I’d come to the realization that we can only save ourselves. I was ready to believe that when it happened.

  Sykes showed up.

  From behind us, at the edge of the deepest trees, there was a clatter that sounded like a water buffalo trying to find its way out of a deadfall. Splashing and sticks breaking and moaning. Yeah, the moaning, it’s still with me to this day.

  He came out of the trees, shuffling sideways, and I saw that the last fall must have broken his back or neck or something central because he wasn’t quite put together right anymore. From the waist up, he was turned crooked. His legs went one way and the rest of him faced to the right, and if I hadn’t been so damned angry and scared, it would have been funny, a piece of physical comedy worthy of the Monty Python skits Cliff and I used to laugh at. But instead of laughing, I reacted.

  The quicksand seemed to vibrate in front of me. A snake was near the edge, as if deciding whether to slip in. I watched it, hoping it would go and give me that little extra boost I needed, but it was taking its sweet time, and there was no way to be certain if it was going there or not. And even if it was, what did that prove? That I had about as much sense as a snake? No, this wasn’t about sense or reason or thinking. This was about belief. Climbing out of the slip had always been about belief.

  I went for the quicksand. I’m not sure if I thought about it at all. It was instinct. I went because in the end, when push finally came to shove, I had faith—enough anyway—after all.

  Three steps was all it took and about three seconds to regret it.

  I expected Anna, at least, to follow me. This was a mistake. The look of abject terror on Anna’s face told me that.

  Sykes was still coming, and Mom and Anna could do nothing but run from him. The problem was only one of them was running: Mom. Anna was standing, her fingers in her ears, as Sykes ambled within arm’s reach of her.

  Mom and I both screamed for her, but it was too late. He had her in his grasp, his leering face inches above her own, and I could see the look of fear wash over her like one of the thunderstorms she dreaded so much. She began to convulse in his arms.

  All this while I was sinki
ng. The quicksand was up to my knees. I lunged forward, but I was so firmly entrenched, I couldn’t even make myself fall forward. Somehow, the effort seemed to accelerate the quicksand, and it pulled me harder. I was up to my waist in an instant.

  “Mom,” I said. “Please . . . only you can decide. If you do, take my hand. Please, Mom.”

  The look on Mom’s face was utter anguish.

  Anna screamed again, and I heard Sykes laughing.

  I sank more, now trying to tilt my head back to avoid the muck creeping over my chin. So much for Cliff’s science about only going halfway down. Thinking that gave me some hope too, because it was clear that science didn’t apply here, at least the science that Cliff knew.

  With a great effort, I was able to turn my head toward Anna, where Sykes held her aloft like a rag doll.

  I turned just in time. Otherwise, I might have missed it.

  It was a thing of beauty. Like shards of light sliced in long, thick sheets, the girls came.

  At first, I didn’t even recognize the lights as emanating from the girls. But when they knocked Sykes back, they materialized—girls from pure, white-hot energy. They were like wild cats that had been caged for too long and had forgotten their power. Imagine two tigers that had run wild for much their lives in the jungle, only to be subdued by cruel men and brought into captivity. Any fool could see the power they possessed, but the poor things, driven to apathy from their time inside a cage, had no idea of their own power. These girls were like that. They were bound by nothing, not even gravity, but they didn’t know it. One day, they realize the cage has never even been locked, and with the slightest push, they could be free, and opening that cage door is like opening a valve. All the pressure is released. They are free to explode and become who they are. For the girls, the cage had been their own fear, and the release set loose a blast of righteous anger, pent-up fury that literally swooped, blazing, across the sky.

  This was what I saw in the moments before sinking under the quicksand. The girls flew at Sykes with a rage so pure, I swore they left streaks in the evening sky that might never fade. All that animosity, aimed squarely at Sykes. I couldn’t help but wonder at the justice in that moment. Their very essences seemed to scream through the dusk that he would not hurt Anna like he’d hurt them. It’s one of the images I come back to again and again: the raw power, the burning truth. Witnessing something like that changes you in a way that a therapist can never understand. A moment like that transcends reality, memory, rational thought. It felt primal, like God’s own justice falling from the sky.

  When they came at him, Sykes dropped Anna and fell back, stunned, untouched, at least physically, but I realized as the quicksand took my mouth that power, real power, wasn’t physical anyway. Real power was all about confidence and faith. And somehow, the girls had found theirs at last. Tina’s visit to the cellar, her remembering . . . I’m sure it helped her, but I am equally sure she and Rachel also acted out of a kind of loyalty to Anna. She’d come here because they called, much as they had come here because of Seth.

  I watched as Mom hugged Anna close, and the girls swarmed over Sykes, keeping him on the ground through force of will, apparently. I tried to call out, to tell Mom it was going to be okay, that she just needed to take the next step. I wanted to tell her to follow me back home, but the words died in the thick mud.

  My nose was next; I felt the grit tickling my upper lip, and then coating it. It felt odd—cool and sticky and calming somehow. My eyes remained riveted on the scene that was playing out in front of me. Rachel and Tina were laughing now, and it sounded like carnival music, full of peculiar angles and absurd joy. They were also floating higher than I’d ever seen them float, surrounded by shimmering lights, two loose conglomerations of fireflies, twinkling in the dusk. The hems of their dresses caught fire and fell like flaming rain.

  And then their bones dropped like brittle sticks into the quicksand.

  My ears were filling up with mud and the sound of hundreds of souls talking all at once somewhere far away, heard through a wall. The last image I saw before the gritty wetness closed my eyes was of the girls, shouting at Mom and Anna, telling them something. Then they were gone and all that remained were the trees and all the secrets they hold among their clustered branches.

  And then they were gone too.

  —

  There is a between place. The trees know it. It happens at dusk at that perfect moment between light and dark, when the air is festooned with shadows and the atmosphere is heavy with possibility. Here things are in balance, the world is a slate, without even the slightest traces of the scarred markings you used to believe dictated the way of things. Here, memory is like a stylus that you can use to roam wherever you please.

  This is what I found in the quicksand. A place free of the laws of physics, bound by nothing except the limits of memory, hope, and imagination. Imagination most of all. There is a temptation to stay, to live out an infinite life poised on the brink of infinite possibilities. Who knows how long I might have savored the power if I had not felt a hand grasp mine.

  Instantly, I knew I wanted to go back home because that hand belonged to Mom, and even though I couldn’t see her, I knew she and Anna had decided to join me. Maybe the girls had talked her into it, but I doubt that. More likely, she had decided for herself, decided to give her life one more chance.

  Then I heard the high buzz of cicadas and the crackle of electricity. Men’s voices, search parties, and the aftermath of a brutal storm, one that I’d narrowly escaped. I listened to it all, picturing the scene perfectly, even down to Sheriff Martin’s squad car, which I saw overturned among trees shredded like mulch.

  This was my place, my home.

  I woke up.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  When I opened my eyes, I’m not sure what I expected. What I got was darkness, pure and silent. It took me several moments to realize where I was, to realize that I was back where I’d started inside the storm shelter. I tried to get up, but my body was weak, my mind cloudy. It felt like I’d just awakened from a weeklong nap.

  Gradually, I worked my way up to my feet and steadied myself on the ladder. I started to climb when I remembered Pike. He’d been near death when I left the last time, and then when I came back, he’d been gone. Or at least, I thought he had. Suddenly, I wasn’t exactly sure of anything.

  I paced the shelter two times over and it was empty.

  This was good, right? I tried to convince myself. No body meant he was still alive. Still, something nagged at me. Where were Anna and Mom? I remembered—if only vaguely—them joining me in the quicksand. We’d done it. We would be a family again.

  But we weren’t. I was alone.

  Trying to hold off my tears, I climbed the ladder on unsteady legs. My ribs and head hurt. My nose was bleeding. When I opened the hatch, the daylight burned my eyes so badly, I had to close it again. Wincing, I opened it back up just a crack and stuck my head out. In the distance, I saw a line of men trekking through the woods. They had dogs and one of them had a rifle. They were looking for someone.

  They were looking for me.

  I closed the hatch, shaking. They could find me after I knew where Mom and Anna were, after I’d determined if Pike was alive. Not until.

  I went back down the ladder and lay on the ground. I slept. This time, I know it was sleep because my dreams were dreams, and when I woke up, the world hadn’t changed a bit.

  Well, maybe that’s not quite true. A miracle was waiting for me when I woke up.

  —

  Miracle. I don’t think Dwight cared for that word much. He once told me he thought it strange that I’d use it to describe Pike’s return. After all, hadn’t he abducted me? Left me for dead in the storm shelter?

  I told him it hadn’t been like that.

  He nodded. Smugly. Son of a bitch.

  There are things about th
e slip, about fourteen, that I’m willing to consider, to question. Indeed, treading back through those memories is like navigating a rocky sea of unanswered questions. I can accept this. I have to accept it. To do otherwise would be foolish. The swamp, the girls, all of it was open for debate; even if I leaned one way or the other, there was always something waiting to sway me back. But Pike? His honesty, his genuineness, his true desire to help me? No, I don’t question this. He wanted to help me. He believed the story he told.

  Sometimes, that’s all that matters.

  —

  There are bad days. More, lately, than ever before. Days when I remember the swamp like a distant dream, and on these days I hit the bar right after work and drink until I’m sleepy, until I can’t think of anything except dragging my ass home and climbing into my warm bed. If I’m lucky I’ll go right to sleep and dream nothing that I’ll remember. But sometimes, even the alcohol isn’t enough to keep my mind away, and I make the case in my head, a slow and painful kind of litigation, a weighing of facts versus memory. I build scales inside my head and heart. Try to strike a balance that I can live with. But eventually, I give up. The balance between what I remember and the physical world governed by universal and tenable laws is either too ethereal for grasping or it does not exist at all.

  So where does that leave me? To answer that question honestly, I have to consider my greatest fears—that I have in the course of my life slipped away from any universally accepted definition of sanity. Either that, or all of us have been wrong about everything, every notion, every law, every piece of this great pie we accept as reality.

  And that’s when I remember the storm. The magic that it carries. If there’s magic in a storm, why can’t there be magic in a storm shelter? Why can’t there be magic in anything, really? We don’t know.

  None of us really know, and finally, I think this is the only comfort I have.

  —

  Walter Pike shook me gently. He had a flashlight sitting behind him, and his long shaggy hair glowed in its beam, illuminating his haggard face. Haggard, but kind. One of the kindest faces I’d ever seen.