Rich Shapero

by Too Far

  Robbie laughed. Long droopy things hung from the leaf clusters, covered with golden dust. "Shake them, shake them."

  So they shook the branches, and the air sparkled as they descended. The Dot Trees were merry and liked that very much.

  At the bottom of the slope, they came out onto a small meadow.

  "What's wrong?" Fristeen asked.

  "I'm thinking," Robbie said, turning.

  "About what?"

  "Getting lost." He eyed Fristeen's hair. Her bows were too small to see through the leaves. "Maybe—" He ran his hands through the paper and fabric adorning her dress.

  Then he noticed: he was wearing white socks. He sat down, removed a shoe, and took one off. He tied it to a Dot Tree so it was in clear view.

  "Perfect," she exclaimed, turning to embrace the meadow before them. "It's the Perfect Place."

  Robbie regarded her. "It's perfect because you're here."

  Fristeen glowed. They held hands and crossed the lush flat.

  At its edge, wands rose from the soil, crankled and thin. They were heading right through them when Fristeen cried out.

  "They're covered with needles."

  Robbie yelped as one jabbed his leg.

  He could see now—every wand was bristling—so they backed out and scouted along the edge of the patch. The plants grew thickly, there were impossible tangles, but Robbie found a place where a shadowy tunnel seemed to go through.

  He dropped to all fours and wriggled forward. Fristeen followed close behind. The tunnel turned and dipped and rose toward the light. A stray needle stuck Robbie and he sucked his breath. Then his elbows emerged and he scrambled out.

  "Made it." He gave her a victory grin. "Some of your things came off." He eyed her dress.

  "It scratched you." Fristeen touched the scarlet squiggle on his arm.

  "Yep."

  She bent her head and kissed it.

  Robbie reached out and stroked her hair. When he gazed into her eyes, they deepened and the stars didn't shift. No hide-and-seek now—no laughter, no fear. Just hope, and hurts that must be shared. The one you yearned for was here, and she yearned just like you did. Joy made love smile, but pain made it pure.

  "Look—" Fristeen turned her head up.

  Robbie peered into the sun.

  "White," she said.

  "Yep." It blasted your eyes.

  "Now close," Fristeen said.

  "Red," Robbie announced.

  "And white," Fristeen flared her lids. "And red," closing again. "And white and red, and white and red—"

  "And white and red—" Robbie joined in.

  Faster and faster, open and close—your head was full of flashes, a pot boiling over. And then it did, and you fell down, clutching blindly for the other, euphoric and giggling.

  Before they left, Robbie removed his other sock and marked the spot.

  From there, a ledge stretched on the level, awned with thin aspens. They hurried along it, leaves Jiggling above. A breeze cooled them and pleased them, and then they reached water— not a lot, just a Trickle—and they hopped across.

  Something rasped in their ears.

  Robbie scanned the trees. A squirrel was scampering along a branch. When it reached the end, it rasped again.

  "What do you want?" Robbie asked.

  The squirrel just stared.

  "Is it Shivers?" Fristeen wondered.

  The squirrel wiggled its nose.

  Robbie shook his head. "He's talking to us."

  The squirrel twitched its tail, shrilled and made a chucking sound.

  "What did he say?" Fristeen laughed.

  The squirrel sprang from its perch into an alder nearby and went vaulting through the leaves.

  '"Follow me,'" Robbie cried, and went racing after him.

  The pursuit led them splashing through Trickle. The water kinked and raveled, and then suddenly it vanished and the ground dropped before them. They were on the rim of a bowl surrounded by low willows. On the branch of one, the squirrel sat, gazing down. The bowl was full of leaves.

  "It's a secret place," Robbie said.

  Overhead, a lattice had been woven by the trees' pale arms, and at every joint catkins were bursting, like a web of cracked pipes spraying liquid sun.

  "What's that, over there?" Fristeen pointed.

  Through the tangle of boughs, a hundred yards distant, dark islands seemed to drift. The trees on them were spiky and black, and each grew to a point. And there was space in between them, as if profusion was banned there, or some scourge had struck.

  The squirrel chattered, calling their attention back.

  "It's where you hide," Robbie said, remembering the words of He Knows.

  "How far down does it go?"

  Robbie dropped to his hands and knees. "Let's see." He started to descend.

  Before long, he was thigh-deep in twigs and leaves. "It's crunchy on top," he tossed the litter in the air, "but it's soft beneath." Then he kicked up his feet and slid to the low point. "Come on," he cried.

  Fristeen skied on her bottom to join him. Robbie pushed the leaves aside to make a space, and once they'd bedded in, he covered them over.

  "It's warm," Fristeen giggled, squirming against him.

  "Sh-h-h. We can't make any noise."

  She bit her lips to seal them. Robbie caught his breath. Her red lips, and the white teeth pressed deeply— The sight set something churning inside him. "The Hiding Hole," he whispered.

  "Nobody knows," Fristeen said.

  "We can do whatever we want." He looked into her eyes.

  "What should we do?"

  Out of nowhere it came to him. "Count your teeth."

  "Alright," she consented.

  "Lay back."

  She did as he said.

  "Now open your mouth."

  Her jaw parted and her teeth appeared.

  "Okay. Here I go."

  He began to count, using his forefinger to touch each one. They were hard and gleaming, with strange pits and points. They were all fascinating, but when he reached the first molar, other sights distracted him. The insides of her cheeks were silky and smooth, and led back to a cavern that descended into darkness. You could roll a marble down there, like the one he lost down the bathroom sink. Her tongue lay limp, like a little pillow, but when he touched it, it twitched and curled around his finger. That gave him a jolt.

  "How many?" Fristeen wondered.

  Robbie blinked. "I forget."

  "Crazy boy." She poked his belly.

  He laughed, pinched her nose and slid back beside her.

  "Can you really fly?" Fristeen raised her finger and drew a trail through the clouds.

  "In my dreams," Robbie said.

  "Will you show me how?"

  "Sure. It's easy to glide and turn," he explained. "And if you want to come down, you coast. Getting up there—that's the hard part. You have to catch the wind just right."

  "You need wings—" She made a skeptical face.

  Robbie shook his head. "Arms work fine."

  She laughed. "I'm going to kiss you again." She raised herself, shook the leaves from her hair, and was halfway to his cheek when his expression stopped her.

  "Fristeen—"

  She waited for him to speak.

  "Let's sleep together," Robbie said.

  "Here?"

  He nodded.

  She thought for a moment. "Okay."

  A coarse rasp sounded above them. The squirrel was hunched in the willow lattice, watching, and as they spotted him, he launched through the branches, chattering for all he was worth.

  "He'll tell everyone," Fristeen warned, then she curled next to Robbie with her cheek on his shoulder. "That's nice."

  Strands of her hair webbed his face. He could feel her breath.

  "Did you ever have a girl for a friend?" she asked.

  "No," he said. "Did you—"

  She put her hand on his chest. "You're the first."

  Robbie could feel her warmth all d
own his side, and then her lips pressed against his cheek. His hands were trembling. He had a presentiment, a feeling of anticipation unlike anything he'd experienced. Something really important was happening, but he wasn't sure what. "When you love someone, and you're sleeping with them—" He could barely speak. "You put your arms around them."

  "You do other things, too."

  "Yep." Robbie took a breath. "You kiss their lips."

  "They're here," Fristeen said.

  "Who?"

  "Listen," Fristeen whispered.

  Robbie listened, but he couldn't hear anything.

  "Mister Squirrel and his friends." She lifted her shoulders and gazed around the Hole, pointing at different places on the rim. "Mousies and weasels— And nosy Miss Fox." She squealed, scooped some leaves up and hurled them at the lattice.

  "What do they want?"

  "We're the show," she fretted. "They've come to watch."

  Through the falling leaves, Robbie saw them—snouts probing the lattice, whiskers twitching, beady eyes eager to see.

  They settled on branches, crouching, hanging, chins sunk in crutches, teeth bared and grinning. Word had traveled fast.

  "What should we do?"

  "Don't let them." Fristeen shook her head. "They'll have all kinds of bad thoughts. Don't let them see anything."

  "Get down," Robbie said. He grabbed her and drew her back beside him. Then he used both arms to sweep the leaves over them.

  "That's good," she said, and she swept leaves too.

  "Sh-sh-sh—" Robbie stopped her and turned his ear to listen.

  The forest was suddenly quiet. Not a creature peeped.

  "I'm scared," Fristeen whispered.

  Robbie rustled his arms around her middle. She did the same, and they pressed each other close. His heart rose and he put his lips to hers.

  "Oo-oo-oo," said the wild things. "Ah-hh-hh-hh."

  Robbie glanced up. They were craning forward, bobbing their snouts. There was clicking and grunting, then heads turned as they conferred.

  "See?" Fristeen whimpered. She pulled him back down and continued heaping leaves, covering their heads, burying them completely.

  "It's okay."

  She was clasping him desperately, chest heaving. When he touched her cheek, he could feel her tears.

  "They think I'm like Grace."

  "We're hiding." He stroked her temple. "It's okay."

  "Dream boy—" She barely got the words out. Her tears came in a flood.

  They lay in each other's arms for a long time. The animals grew bored. A couple of them spit insults at the squirrel.

  Gradually, peace grew around them like a soft cocoon.

  On the rim above, branches clacked in the wind. Or was it the sound of the beasts departing? Their fur was sleek and the sun in the west flashed on their backs. One hitched its whistle to a flying breeze. That was the last thing Robbie heard. Or had he already dozed off?

  In a gray limbo, midway between asleep and awake, backlit clouds rotated in the gathering darkness. Where he lay, day was ending. It was damp and dreary, and the gloom was encroaching. But there, in that distant place, something promised awaited him. A great exultation. A dream like no other. The clouds were dissolving now, rays of fierce light speared through—glints of an eye, giant, all-seeing. A fierce flowering of the energy he felt with Fristeen. And Dad's great understanding, magnified a thousand times. Magic of magics, secret of secrets. Fearfully strange, but familiar, too. Like a memory rising from deep within you. Or an invisible companion, finally spied.

  "Not that it matters," a deep voice murmured. "When you dream, there's no outside or in. Your mind is an unimaginable bloom. A willow catkin as big as the moon. With billions of anthers, shaking pollen like stars. It may seem strange, but in this boundless place— You're not alone.

  "I've been watching. I know what you want and who you are.

  "Your home is a prison. Your mother's a drone. Those wild seeds of your father's will never get sown. Fate sent you Fristeen, and you like to explore. 'The cosmos,' Dad says. Baby steps, Robbie. Baby steps—nothing more.

  "When your baby teeth are gone, who will you be?

  "One who waits to be eaten? Food for despair? Or one who broke free?

  "Look into my eye. I'm your dreams reaching out. The Fristeen you yearn for, that thrill, that ache— When you're full to the brim with her? That's just a taste. I'm here. I'm waiting. But I'll be moving on soon.

  "This time is yours—summer's ahead. Until the trees yellow, the dreams are on me. No thoughts of leaving. Not yet. Just feel free. Dream, Robbie. Dream. What shall it be? A pram up Raging River to where day and night meet? A cable-ride in a basket between Venus and Mars? A flight through the heart of an exploding star? You and Fristeen— Take every chance, awake or asleep. Find the door, spring the hatch, pry the gap between sill and sash.

  "Dream, Robbie, dream. Right here, right now. Anything you choose. Crack the sun open and paint your face with its yolk. Cast the fragments from you and turn the world to smoke. Pull the tacks from the night and roll the sky up. A new universe? Say the word—I'll make one for you. You, just you and little Fristeen. I'm the Dream Man. Bid your curled body goodbye, and come with me."

  4

  They woke to a gray sky. Fearful the weather might turn, they hurried back. It was harder to see the needles, and they got badly pricked. By the time they reached He Knows, the cloud cover was like a finger painting, all dark knots and windings. They parted at the bottom of the Hill. Robbie felt Fristeen's presence even after she'd disappeared down the path.

  Then he was standing there, facing the back door, alone.

  Trudy will be furious, he thought.

  Sure enough. She was on the sofa, and when he stepped across the threshold, she closed her pocket mirror with a snap. "You brat—" She lunged and got hold of him.

  He went limp, slipping through her hands onto the floor.

  "Bear, bear—" He rocked with delirium.

  "You'll wish one had," she sneered, looming over him.

  Robbie sighed and raised himself.

  "First, you'll scrub out the tub. Then you can paint my toenails. Just wait, wonderboy. You'll be locked up all summer."

  She was right, Robbie knew. Mom would be merciless. He ground his teeth and headed for his room.

  Then he felt Trudy's hand on his shoulder.

  When he looked back, she was scowling. Under the mop of red curls, he could see the white flag in her eyes.

  They sat at the dining room table and talked things over. It would be better, Trudy said, if Mom and Dad didn't find out. Robbie agreed. He promised not to tell where he had gone, and she promised to keep his absence a secret. Trudy called on Jesus as a witness and they shook hands. Then she fixed him a sandwich.

  He ate in silence, examining the living room as he chewed. The stove was there, and the woodpile beside it. The reading chair. The glass-top table. He stood and circled the room, still chewing, wondering what had changed. On the mantle was the picture of Mom by Old Faithful, the flower of glass beads that Grandma made, the rocks Dad found who knows where. Robbie felt like a stranger.

  He wandered down the hall, peering into his room and Mom and Dad's. Trudy was in front of their dresser putting away laundry. It was all familiar, but the house seemed different. It was stark and vacant, as if the people who lived there had just moved in. They won't be staying long, Robbie thought. He laughed. Where did that idea come from?

  ***

  The pact with Trudy opened the way. Mom was gone three days a week, and on those days, Robbie did as he pleased. He made Fristeen promise not to come to his house, but he didn't tell her why. Sometimes she waited in the shrubs for him. Other times he found her at home.

  It was always exciting when Grace was around. She'd say things that surprised you, or do things you didn't think grownups would do. She liked seeing him, even early in the morning, and she didn't fuss if she wasn't dressed. She'd bend over and he'd see her bottom, or h
er robe would fall open and he'd see her breasts. They were hard and pointy, not round and squishy like Mom's. And what was best—she didn't have rules. She never intruded—Fristeen made sure of that.

  Often Grace was gone and they had the house to themselves. They both liked to draw. They'd tear open a grocery bag and spread it out on the floor.

  "An eye?" Fristeen guessed.

  Robbie nodded. It was all he remembered of him. The stranger hadn't come again. "Something I dreamed."

  There was a puzzle of a princess Fristeen was working on. They pieced her face together. Then they filled in the sunrise behind her, and the baby in the crystal ball. Sometimes Robbie brought his marbles, or his bow and arrows. They'd play inside till the time felt right to turn their minds to more serious things. Then eyes would meet and a daring look would flash, and they'd be out the door, beating toward the forest.

  They might forge a new path and do real exploring. Or visit familiar places—there was always something to see. Every day that passed, the branches reached farther and the leaves grew thicker. The perfect weather seemed like it would never end. Shivers? There was no trace of him—maybe he'd vanished for good. One day they rolled onto their backs beneath the Jigglies, and Robbie gazed up and hissed through his teeth.

  "What are you doing?" Fristeen giggled.

  Robbie kicked his feet. "Making them grow."

  "You can't do that—"

  He hissed again and pointed excitedly. The sun was blinding, the wind up there steady—the high tips of the Jigglies were going wild.

  "They're not—" Fristeen began.

  "Look," Robbie cried.

  She gasped in amazement—he was right. The branches grew longer as she watched. Leaves were shooting out like water from a hose.

  A cloud covered the sun one afternoon, and Robbie feared Shivers might be stalking them. But Fristeen knew better. She raised her arms, touched the hot gold with both hands, and gave a great push. And the sun rose from its nest into clear sky.

  "Have you ever had a secret friend?" Fristeen wondered.

  "Just you," Robbie said.

  "I'm not really secret." She gave him a mysterious smile.