by T. J. Klune
The earth is scorched and smoldering, smoke rising out of a small crater in the center of the clearing. Black char radiates outward through the clearing, long streaks of black against the green and brown of the forest floor. Flecks of orange and red flash but don’t ignite. Toward the center of the crater, the scorch marks change, become less random, more defined. The lines across the crater are angled. Each line looks to serve a purpose, like it has meaning, a distinct reason for being. I view each line, moving my eyes faster, only to realize I’m looking at it too small. I’m focusing too closely. My gaze widens. And now I see the full picture.
Stretched out from the center of the crater, charred into the earth, are the imprints of wings, great wings that appear to be fifteen feet in length each. The tips are jagged and sharp, the width greatest at the end, spilling out from the crater, black lines slashed into green. I look down the length of them, toward the center of the crater.
And there lies a man.
Not. Fucking. Possible.
I almost fall down the hill, I’m leaning so far over. I catch myself before I roll head over heels to the bottom of the steep incline. I can’t process what I’m seeing as it’s so far fucking beyond the realm of possibility, so far fucking past the idea of probability, that my mind can’t fathom it. Without thinking about why, I reach back and pull the blue feather from my jeans and clutch it in my hand. It feels hot. It feels like it’s shaking, but that might just be me.
Do you believe in the impossible? my father’s voice whispers in my head again.
I don’t. I don’t believe in the impossible. It’s not real. A man did not just fall from the fucking sky and land in the middle of the forest in Roseland, Oregon. I did not just see this. This did not happen. And even if it did happen, there is a fucking logical explanation for this. The FBI agent. The government. Of course! They’re testing some weapon. Some kind of flying weapon thing and it just crashed and that is all. The pilot is probably hurt and needs my help.
That’s it, I tell myself. Also, ignore the feather in your hand that came from a dream. Plausible deniability.
I stumble down the hill, half running, half sliding on the grass. I reach the bottom and stutter to a stop, unsure what to do. That wild, earthy smell assaults me and I’m horrified as it makes me hard, going straight to my dick. And it is an assault, because I can’t stop it, and I don’t want it. So much is crashing through my head that I can’t focus, I can’t make sense of anything, and that smell is making it worse. I stop myself from opening my mouth and sucking in as much air as possible.
I walk to the edge of the crater. Even this close, I can still make out the shapes burned into the ground, and it shorts my mind again. But this close I’m able to see the man. My gaze falls upon him and I am lost.
Fiery red hair, cut close to the scalp, almost buzzed short. Eyes closed, dark lashes against pale skin. His nose is flat and angled, like it was broken at some point and not set correctly. There is a smattering of faint freckles across the bridge, dotting to the cheeks. Lips slightly parted. Dark stubble covering his cheeks and chin, above his mouth, like rust. Neck exposed, pale skin that is almost like milk.
Clothes? There’s… something. A vest? A cape? Sleeveless, strong arms spread on the ground. A bronze band strapped around the left arm near the shoulder. Clear definitions of ropey muscle under deep red hair that grows thicker toward his forearms and then thins on the back of his hands. Hands that are twice the size of my own. His legs are exposed mid-thigh down, covered with red hair that looks like fire covering muscle. Feet as large as his hands.
Who is this? What is this?
A groan comes from the red mouth, low and rough.
I scramble back as quickly as I can, suddenly sure that I don’t want him to see me, sure if he does, I’m dead. My mind is screaming at me to run, to run so very fast. Why the hell did I think it was a good idea to follow something that had fallen out of the sky? I turn and plan to do just that, to run until I’m back up that hill and down the other side, until I’m at the river that I’ll cross so fast it’ll seem like I’m walking on water. I’ll get in my truck and get the fuck out of here and go back to Little House and pretend none of this has happened, that this is all some fever dream that I’ll eventually forget as I get back to my perfectly quiet and mundane existence. It doesn’t matter that I’m clutching a feather in my hand that came from a nightmare, squeezing it so that the bristles poke against my flesh. It doesn’t matter that I’m haunted by something I don’t believe in. It doesn’t matter that I’m drowning in this river. None of this can be real.
Another groan comes from the man (Man? I think desperately. Man?). Even though I’ve convinced myself to run as fast as I can, I hesitate at the low moan, my feet seeming to stick to the ground. Run! I shriek at myself. Run, you son of a bitch! But I don’t. I slow as I approach a tree that has been partially uprooted on the edge of the clearing. It’s tilted at a precarious angle, its thick trunk looking as if it would only take a gentle push to send it the rest of the way down. It’s this tree I stand behind, pressing my back up against the rough bark, hearing the high-pitched whistling sound coming from my mouth. My skin, still damp from the river crossing, feels like it’s crawling with electricity. This can’t be happening, I tell myself. This isn’t happening. I’m dreaming. I’ve fallen asleep at the store and I just need to wake up. I hit the back of my head against the tree. A dull pain. It’s not enough. Wake up. I hit my head again, harder. Wake up. Again, the pain bright. Wake up!
I’m still in the clearing.
Then there’s movement, from behind me.
I follow the angle of the tree toward the ground until I come to the partially exposed roots. I crouch down and peer through the maze of dirt and roots, seeking protection. The shallow crater is visible, and as I watch, the man sits up. Incredibly, the black lines that had been burnt into the ground around him also rise from the ground, as if they’re attached to him. Flecks of scorched earth fall to the ground, like it’s snowing ashes. They look like burnt bones, remains of something that should be glorious instead of ominous. A feeling of dread rolls through me and my teeth begin to chatter. Sure he can hear them even from the distance that separates us, I grab my jaw to hold my mouth still, ignoring the way my hand shakes. My grip bites into my skin and I know I’ll be bruised there tomorrow, but the pain pushes through the fog that had descended ever since I decided to come to mile marker seventy-seven. It’s like a light has pierced through the shadows and covered me completely, to the point that it’s like I’m blazing.
He grunts as he pushes himself up from the ground, looking massive and terrifying. The burnt black rises with him, cascading down his shoulders, fluttering and twitching. He’s big, far bigger than I first thought. He has at least six inches on me and outweighs me by a good hundred pounds. The vest that had been covering his torso falls to the side, exposing half of his chest. Deep auburn hair covers the skin on his pectorals, and I have a brief moment to wonder what it would feel like to touch him before my heart starts jack-rabbiting as he opens his eyes and looks straight at where I’m hidden.
Sure he’s seen me, I freeze, still clamping my hand over my mouth. A tiny whimper escapes me and he narrows his eyes. But then he looks away, over his shoulder, at the black suspended behind him. He reaches up with one gigantic hand and touches the left one (wing, wing, wing) and cocks his head. Then, an oddity: he rolls his shoulders as if working out a kink and proceeds to shake his whole upper body like a dog shaking off water. Another sound escapes me, a short bark of hysterical laughter that is immediately silenced when the burnt black behind him breaks off and swirls up behind him like it’s caught in a tornado. It spins briefly before exploding outward, then raining down and landing on the forest floor.
He looks toward me again. And begins to walk up the side of the crater.
It would probably be a good idea to run, I think to no avail. My feet still won’t move.
He reaches the top of the crater and st
ands there scanning the clearing before him. He looks skyward and closes his eyes. His lips move and there’s a low rumbling sound coming from him, but I can’t make out the words. I strain to hear because it suddenly seems important that I know what he is saying, that I should know each of the words pouring out of his mouth. My father’s voice whispers in my ear, telling me to listen, that I just need to listen. I lean forward further and my nose brushes against a paper-thin root strand. It tickles. My nose scrunches up. No. No! You don’t—
Too late. I sneeze. It sounds as loud as a gunshot.
I look back up. The clearing is empty.
Alarms begin ringing in my head. Get the fuck outta here! I scream at myself. Run and don’t look back! I spin around and stand, looking over my shoulder as I begin to run. One step, two steps, three—
I crash into something amazingly solid, knocking me off my feet and onto my back. My head raps against the ground and there’s a bright flash. I groan and reach up to hold the back of my head.
A deep chuckle from above me. I open one eye in a half squint.
The man from the crater stands above me, peering down at me like I’m the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. His head is turned slightly to the left, his dark eyes appearing black in the moonlight that is poking through the clouds. He’s grinning, showing strong teeth, and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to eat me alive. Then he speaks and turns my world upside down.
“Benjamin Edward Green,” he says, his voice flowing over me like warm water. He sounds absurdly happy and this causes my stomach to twist in knots. “Twentyone years of age. Born February 17, 1991 under an amethyst moon at 2:32 in the morning. Parents are Lola Ann Green and Edward Benjamin Green.” As he says my father’s name, a brief shadow crosses his eyes, but it’s gone before I can be sure it’s there. I can’t be sure any of this is happening. “Grandparents are Gerald and Linda Green and Mark and Sarah Fisette.” He stops and watches me.
“Uh.” That’s all I can say because my mind has begun to fracture a bit. As much as I don’t believe it to be so, as much as the last twenty-four hours has been surreal (Oh, it goes back further than that, I think, detached), I can’t ignore the man standing above me. I can’t ignore his voice, that voice that I refuse to believe is familiar, but know to be so. It comes from some far-off place, like it’s a dream—
you shouldn’t be here
—that I can’t be sure I’ve woken up from. He’s still watching me, waiting for some kind of response, but I’m somehow at the river in my dream, still feeling his arm wrapped protectively around my chest, his massive body pressing against my back—
you will drown
—like I need to be saved, like I’m precious and need to be held. My eyes begin to burn because—
i cannot allow that to happen
—part of me doesn’t want this to be a dream. Some small, secret part of me wants this to be real, to have him standing above me and be real because it would mean I am not alone anymore, that even though I’m pretty sure he’s going to kill me, I wouldn’t be alone. My thoughts are suddenly getting muddy, a light haze falling over my vision. Too much, I think. This is all too much.
He leans over and his grin widens. So many teeth. “Benji,” he says, and he sounds so fucking happy that I ache down to my bones, causing me to shudder. He reaches out and touches my right hand, a look of wonder on his face, his dark eyes flashing. I follow his gaze and see the feather still in my hand, bent oddly and ruffled, but still there, somehow.
He looks about to speak again, but then he snaps his head up as he rises quickly, staring off to the west toward Roseland as if he’s been spooked, like he hears something I cannot. I half expect his ears to twitch and stand up away from his head. He’s tense now, his shoulders stiff. I want to ask him what’s wrong, but I don’t dare. That sharklike grin is gone, replaced by a growing scowl.
“What is it?” I hear myself ask hoarsely as my vision begins to tunnel. “What’s wrong?”
“Others,” he snaps, his ire evident on his face. “They’re coming. I can see their threads. It’s time to leave.”
“I’m tired,” I say quietly, and my voice sounds so far away. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can make it back across.” I close my eyes and start to fall.
Before I’m gone completely, I feel strong arms gather me up, clutching me tightly. As I’m swallowed by the dark, I hear a voice that says, “I will take you safely across the river.” And it follows me down until I’m gone.
In the dark, this is what I hear:
Big Eddie says, “By the time we finish, it’ll be so cherry. You just wait and see, Benji. When we’re done, she’ll purr and gleam, and when the sun hits her just right, your heart will jump in your chest and you’ll know what love really is. And it will shine.”
Nina Fisette says, “There was a time that was blue, when the air around me just blew. We knew he was blue, and knew what to do. I see it, all around. What did you do? He’s blue and what did you do?”
A new voice, a strange voice. “Gonna get you across the river and get you away because they’re coming and I can’t tell who they are. Why can’t I tell who they are? Why is nothing working? Oh, Father, can you hear me? I am but your humble servant. Help me protect Benjamin Edward Green. Help me to do what I must to keep him safe.”
A woman says, “This is Janet Tadesco with Channel Four Action News. I’m at mile marker seventy-seven on the Old Forest Highway just outside Roseland. As you can see behind me, emergency crews are working to remove a pickup truck that appears to have lost control and flipped into the Umpqua River. We’re told the driver and sole occupant was forty-seven-year-old Edward Green from Roseland, who was pronounced dead at the scene. At the moment, it is unclear just how long Green was in the Umpqua and whether or not his death was caused by the impact or if the river played a factor. We’ll have more as this story develops.”
My father: “Ten years old already, Benji? Pretty soon, you’re going to be all grown up and will probably be bigger than I am! You’re going to be a big guy and you will take this whole world by storm. Just you wait.”
Pastor Thomas Landeros says, “Into the ground we lower a man who was a husband. A father. A friend, both to us and this community. God’s plan may not make sense to us right now, and it may even make us angry, but rest assured there is a reason for all things, even if that reason is hidden from our eyes. Isaiah 41:10 reads: ‘Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee; Yea I will help thee. I will uphold you with the right hand of my righteousness.’”
A deep voice, a strong voice that is already growing more familiar: “That water was cold! Shit. The truck. Oh, I love that truck. Looks like I’m going to have to drive. Unless you want to wake up and take over. That would be great, right about now. I’m not sure how good I’m going to be at driving. I get the idea, but sometimes things are harder than they look.”
My mother says, “He’s gone, Benji. Oh my God, Big Eddie is gone. I don’t know how it—oh, Christ. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. My heart—oh, how my heart hurts.”
Christie Fisette says, “You can sleep now, finally. We’re going to stay here as long as you need us. Sometimes it’s harder to ask for help the more you need it. So there is no need to ask us. We know what you need. You sleep and let us carry you for a while.”
Big Eddie says, “And then I got down on one knee and—Lola, you stop hitting me! Ha ha ha! Benji should hear this! He’s old enough now! So, as I was saying, I got down on one knee and I said, ‘Lola Fisette, I don’t have a ring right now. I don’t have a lot of money right now. I actually don’t have a lot of anything right now aside from my big dick, but if you promise to marry me, I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life.’ And you know what she said? She looks me straight in the eye and says, ‘Your dick ain’t that big!’”
Sheriff Griggs: “I’m sorry, Lola. There just doesn’t appear to be evidence of foul play involved. It loo
ks like Big Eddie just got distracted on his way out of town and lost control. There’s just not any indication that he was run off the road, and believe me when I say we looked. I’d not close the book on this matter if I wasn’t 100 percent sure. You’ve known me since we were kids, and Big Eddie knew me longer. We all grew up together, along with your sisters. You know I am a man of my word. I promise you.”
Mary Fisette, overheard: “I know he loved you, Lola, but he worshipped the ground Benji walked on. There is nothing Big Eddie wouldn’t have done for him. But he’s not here and you are. And you need to help him. You’re losing him, Lola. It’s been almost two years since the accident, and Benji is pulling further and further away. You’ve got to do something before it’s too late. He’s drowning, honey, and I don’t know how much longer he can last. You lost your husband, but he lost his father, the only one he will ever have.”
That strong voice: “Okay, how hard can it be? You’ve seen people do this for decades. Just put that key thing into the slot thing and move the stick thing to the ‘D’ thing. I can do this. I am a driver. I can do this. Bless me, Father. Please.”
Big Eddie says, “You are my son, the only one God saw fit to give me.” Big Eddie says, “You must be strong. You must be brave.”
Big Eddie says, “Wake up. You gotta wake up, Benji. He’s come down from On
High because you called him and you’ve got to wake up. He’s been waiting, yes, but you helped bring him here, down to this place. You’ve got to help him. He’s going to act big, he’s going to talk big, but deep down, you two are the same. You must remember this. You are the same. You grieve. You think yourself alone. He will need you as much as you’ll need him. It’s almost time for you to stand. It’s almost time for you to stand and be true.”