by Too Far
"I had a dream too," he said.
"Really?"
He nodded. "I saw the man."
Fristeen's jaw dropped. "With the head that's too tall?"
"Yep. He came and got me last night when I was sleeping. The Dream Man."
"The Dream Man?" Fristeen whispered.
"He's the god of Too Far."
Fristeen was dumbstruck. Then the truth blossomed in her eyes. "She's in love with him."
They stood there imagining it. A sigh passed through the aspens high above.
"Are you sure?" Robbie frowned.
"Sure of what?"
"It seemed like he was hurting her. Really bad."
Fristeen shook her head. "It was just like I said. Dawn told me. She wanted him to. But she wouldn't say why. Embarrassed, I bet." Fristeen giggled. "She's mad about the Dream Man and his spooky brain."
***
It was a perfect day and the woods were inviting, but when they hunched beneath the Bendies, they felt like bending all the way. It had been a busy night and they were both exhausted, especially Fristeen. So when they reached the Fallen Down Trees, they crawled inside and took a nap. Robbie had another dream—a funny one, for a change.
He dreamt he was wandering in the forest with Fristeen. They came upon a weathered log. It was like Used-to-Be, except that it had broken off five feet above the ground, and was still clinging to its stump. As they passed, the log shifted and Mom's face rose from its ragged shoulder.
"Well, hello," Mom said with a cheery smile. "Where have you been?"
"That's not your business," Fristeen replied.
Mom shrugged her shoulder. "Just curious." She looked from Fristeen to Robbie. She seemed genuinely interested.
Robbie gave Fristeen a wink. "Ask away."
Mom saw the displeasure in Fristeen's face. "I don't get around much," she explained with an unassuming expression.
"That's a shame," Fristeen said drily.
"Before the storm, I had a fine view." Mom glanced up the bole of a nearby birch. "I can't see much now, with my top in the dirt. I miss having leaves." Her sigh turned into a laugh. "Oh, I'm the happy sort. There's always something going on, right here." Her eyes flashed. "This break in my side? Rain leaked through it. Conks grew on my bark. Then ants arrived. They built a fine nest, which brought woodpeckers. See these holes? That was exciting." Mom laughed. "Well, you see what I mean." She gazed around her. "All these unbroken trees— they've got more to look at. And with legs, you go anywhere you please." She eyed Fristeen with admiration. "That's my dream."
Fristeen nodded at Robbie. How could they be mean to her? "What can we tell you?" Fristeen said.
"What about yesterday?" Mom wondered.
"You had to be there," Robbie laughed.
Mom groaned.
"We climbed a slope," Robbie told her. "And at the top there was a tree with two trunks. Then we found a way down the other side—"
"And?"
"And we reached this forest with a lot of black trees."
"Black?" Mom frowned. "Do they come in black?"
"Yep. Gods live there."
"Big as clouds—" Fristeen chimed in.
"They do whatever they think of," Robbie told Mom.
"Such as—" Mom's eyes were wide.
"They go naked," Robbie said, "and they grunt—"
"—and scream—" Fristeen said.
"And some die—"
"But they want to—" Fristeen started laughing.
"And some have tall heads." Now Robbie was laughing. "Their brains never stop growing—"
"How could—" Mom caught her breath. "Why would they—" Her gaze shifted from side to side, as if something ominous was advancing on her. "I have so many questions— It's a bit confusing." Her head was sliding back behind her shoulder. "I'm going to have to think about this."
They continued along.
"Poor thing," Fristeen said.
"'They built a fine nest,' " Robbie recalled Mom's words. "She's just sawdust inside."
A stillness descended on the forest.
"She's got a good attitude," Fristeen said.
When they awoke, it was late in the day. Clouds were gathering, and He Knows had his doubts, so they returned to the Bendies and explored on their bellies. There were a hundred exotic things to see: green shield bugs and striped flies, little plants with pairs of pink bells, and flowers that were tiny white stars. You could lick your fingernails and the stars would stick. Then they found a plant that had ears like a rabbit, so they whispered Too Far secrets in them, and plugged them with grass.
It was a great afternoon.
And it was a great night, too. When Robbie got home, Dad was there.
***
It was like Dad had never been gone. No, it was better than that. It was like before Mom and Dad started arguing.
Dad ran out onto the deck and picked him up and spun him around by his arms.
"Dad's back—" Mom was gleeful. "Dad's back."
Then Mom kissed Dad—Robbie saw her gratitude and relief. Dad laughed and said, "I missed you both so much." He kissed Robbie and Mom, and then Mom kissed Robbie, and they had a group hug.
"Look at us," Mom said, taking in the three of them, the house, and the Hill with its trees. "We really have something here." She gave Dad a wistful look.
Dad smiled a real smile. "We haven't done too bad."
"And for dinner," Mom said, rolling her eyes, "we've got everybody's favorite—macaroni and cheese."
"Great," Robbie shouted, and they went inside.
They all helped carry the food to the table, and when they sat down, Robbie let Mom serve him, like she did when he was younger. Dad said the prayer his own mom had taught him, and Robbie remembered it and backed him up. They hadn't done that together for a really long time. They ate and they talked, and—best of all—there wasn't a moment that Dad sank from sight. You could see everything in his face—he was all outside.
"Where were you today?" Dad asked.
"Same old place," Robbie said. "How about you?"
"Mm?"
"Last night," Robbie said.
"Oh, same old place," Dad laughed. "At the department. You have to do that if you want to be a doc. Sometimes you work all night long. Hey, I've got an idea. Tomorrow—let's go to Creamer's Field."
"That would be wonderful," Mom said. "Wouldn't it, Robbie?"
"Sure."
"The geese," Mom said. "Remember?"
"Yep. They're great," Robbie nodded. The geese were for toddlers, but why spoil the fun?
For a moment, his parents' voices faded. Robbie imagined picking up his old life where it had left off. There wasn't any world beyond the Clearing, and his only playmates were kids like Jim. He brushed his teeth, and it wasn't so bad, because Dad was with him, talking as they brushed, and they were talking about brains and nerves, and things they both liked so much. Mom was cheerful, and she wasn't so tired that she wanted to sleep all the time. And at night, they'd talk about the cabin-in-the-wild Dad would build some day. It was a simple life, like the one Mom-the-log led in his dream. Robbie basked in the memory of it, but he knew it was all pretend. Things weren't going to be like that again.
He hoped Mom and Dad would be happy, of course. But he wasn't the same Robbie, and it wasn't just that he was older. He'd changed. He was self-reliant, and he'd learned how to be brave. He'd been tested by Shivers, and crossed into Too Far. He was in love with Fristeen, and he lived now to explore.
The Robbie that Mom and Dad knew— He was gone.
"I'll get dessert," Mom said, rising.
"Dad and I agree—" Robbie glanced at Dad. "We're lucky to have a mom like you."
"Robbie—" Mom blushed.
When she turned, Robbie gave Dad a meaning look.
As Mom's footsteps faded, Dad regarded him uncertainly.
"Mom got pretty upset," Robbie said. "I had to calm her down."
Dad seemed at a loss for words. "Thanks," he said at last.
>
7
For Robbie, the days that followed were serene.
Dad's return ushered in a new era of harmony, and the little house was, once again, a welcoming place.
Mom read one of the books Jim's mom had given her. She sat on the sofa and disappeared into her thoughts, and that made her happy. Afterward, when she shared her thoughts with Dad, he smiled. Robbie wondered if he was just being nice, but then he looked at her that special way and kissed her temple. Dad only did that when he loved what you were thinking.
One night after dinner, Mom was putting the wash away.
"Robbie?" She was calling from his room, and she sounded flustered.
"What?"
Mom stood by his dresser. "Your socks are gone."
"I used them," he confessed, "to mark the way."
The most amazing thing happened—Mom didn't get angry.
"You'll need some new ones. For markers, I've got clothes we can shred. Loud colors? Or is white better?"
Robbie's leash remained long and loose, and he had no cause to tug on it. He was with Fristeen nearly every day. They talked about Dawn and the Dream Man a lot.
Robbie told Fristeen all he knew about the Dream Man. How commanding he was, but gentle too. He lifted you like a tuft of willow down, and bore you away without hurting you in the least. Robbie figured out what happened to the Dream Man's head. He didn't have a skull, like people do. It was more like a jar. And it didn't have a top, it was open to the air. So his dreams could go anywhere, anytime—they weren't trapped inside his mind.
"He's so serious," Fristeen said. "Dawn likes him that way."
They were climbing through the scrub one day, headed for the Great Place. A breeze was at their backs, and Fristeen was humming like she so often did.
"I like it when you hum," Robbie told her.
"I can hear Dawn's song," Fristeen said, "in the wind and the leaves. When Dawn is singing, I hum along." There was reverence in her voice. This was one of Dawn's deepest secrets.
"Whenever you're happiest, Dawn remembers. She hears the little sounds you make, and puts them in a song. Not what you say. Just, those little sounds." Fristeen's voice softened. "I hear us when Dawn sings. You and me, Robbie. Because of her, everything good that happens never goes away."
They crossed the Great Place in silence, and climbed the slope above Used-to-Be. The Two-Tree rose before them. They approached it and peered down.
The green viburnums descended. The black trees spread out. And there was the Pool, blood-red in the sun.
"Dawn married him," Fristeen said. "That's what we saw."
Robbie thought about that.
"They're together now," she mused, scanning the hills.
"Or off on a dream," Robbie said.
"I can hear her singing," Fristeen reminded him.
"Want to go down?"
A stray breeze struck them and sent shivers up their backs.
"It's their honeymoon," Fristeen said, considering. "They want time to themselves."
So they turned away. During the two weeks that followed, they returned to the Two-Tree, but they didn't enter the black trees. It wasn't that they were afraid— They didn't want to bother Dawn and her Dream Man. And it was so blissful in the realm of green leaves.
It was hot in late June, and still hotter in July. They were masters of their kingdom now, all the places they knew so well. They sighed and sank into them, wearing them like soft pajamas, content to idle and laze. They would stretch out beneath the Jigglies with honey on their fingers, and the lemon butterflies would come to perch and dance. Or they'd sit and rock together atop Where You Can See, and watch the wind sweep in waves through the mirror trees. The leaves were shards that each gust would shake, and the crowns heaved like swells on a shattered lake.
The forest continued to change. The Dot branches were so bushy, you could barely climb through them. Spikes rose from the fireweed around Used-to-Be, and magenta blooms burst out. The canopy got so thick, the forest was like one big tree. When you looked up at the trunks, you couldn't tell which boughs bore the leaves.
One day, Robbie decided it was time to climb a tree to its top. They stood in the Great Place together, gazing up, and imagined how he might. But there was nothing to hold onto—even the lowest Great branches were impossibly high. They settled for the Bendies and found one with knobs, and he shinnied halfway up it, hanging on for his life. A breeze caught him and he cried out, Fristeen screaming below, and the bough swung him wildly, heart racing, eyes dazzled— It was a victory and they celebrated, whirling till they swooned. And then they shouted out the details, and He Knows spread the news.
At night, Robbie opened his window and fell asleep to the sounds—ticks and chirrups, shrills and caws. Was the Dream Man with him? In the late hours, a distant echo eddied in Robbie's ear. A memory, most likely. Dawn didn't visit Fristeen, but for her also, there was a mysterious reminder outside. After hours white and blinding, the sun dipped for a brief time and painted pictures of Dawn with orange juice and jam. Like postcards from far away. When either of them got one, they would share it. They spoke of their gods fondly, as if they were relatives in the States.
Then the rain came. And with it, came trouble. Not so much for Robbie. At home, the merriment had faded, but his parents seemed at peace. Things were busy at the lab, and Mom was scribbling in her journal like she used to. But Fristeen was upset with Grace, and Robbie had to help her through that. They spent every day together, and they had the house to themselves. Grace was gone a lot—even at bedtime, or in the morning when Fristeen got up. Fristeen didn't know how to cook or do the wash, and it was creepy being in the house all night by yourself.
"Grace just doesn't care," Fristeen would say. Then she'd be sorry she was angry, and feel bad about that. Grace was a great mom, in lots of ways. When she was gone, she didn't forget you. She'd bring back some kind of surprise. And even when you were furious, she didn't get angry herself. She just wanted to make up.
It rained for six days, and on the sixth, Robbie rose early and left first thing. As he crossed the deck, he recalled the week he'd spent fogging the window. What a baby he'd been. You put on your jacket and go where you like. If it rains, you get wet. Simple as that.
Fristeen was waiting. They hugged and kidded, and then huddled in her room with crayons and birch curls they'd found in the Great Place. The bark was like paper, and when you flattened it on the floor, you could write your thoughts down. It even had lines. When they finished, they fished Robbie's bow and arrows out from under her bed. They'd taped an ugly likeness on the laundry room closet, and the prize was a kiss if you hit Shivers' nose.
After that, they sat by the window and played "Follow Your Thoughts." Of the games they'd invented, Robbie liked that one best.
"It's okay indoors. But I'd rather be outside." He eyed the wet woodland through the speckled pane.
"Me too," Fristeen nodded.
"It's safer here. The forest can be dangerous."
She made her eyes wide and grinned.
Robbie laughed. "It's fun to think about things that scare you—before they happen. Or after they've scared you, when you know you're safe. But right when it's happening—"
Fristeen understood. "It's no fun at all."
"Isn't that strange?"
Just then, someone banged on the front door.
They stared at each other. The banging came again.
"Angel?" a man growled.
"Duane," Fristeen said.
"Pretend we're not here."
Fristeen shook her head.
She strode toward the door and Robbie followed. Fristeen twisted the knob, budged the door and peered through the gap.
"Where's Grace?" Duane said.
Beneath the black slash of hair, Robbie saw the suspicious eyes shift, trying to look inside. Duane's shiny coat was streaming. He was soaked. The rain hissed on the hot parts of his motorcycle, parked in a puddle on the drive.
"She's not home," Fri
steen told him.
"Open the door."
Fristeen quivered. "You can't come in."
"Shit for breakfast—" Through the gap, Robbie saw Duane's coat swell, then the little animals inside it were yapping and squealing, and the hair on Duane's head was whipping back and forth. "It's raining out here!"
Fristeen was wide-eyed. "You can't come in," she yelled, holding the knob tight.
Duane kicked the door with his knee.
"If you brought something," Fristeen said, "slip it through."
A moment of silence. Duane stepped to one side and neither could see him. They waited, breathless, listening to the rain. Then a brown pill bottle pushed through the gap.
"Save a few for Grace," Duane said.
Fristeen didn't respond.
"We're in love, you know," Duane added drily.
"You'll do anything for nookie," Fristeen said with contempt.
Another silence.
"You're right about that," Duane muttered.
More silence. He cursed and kicked the door again.
Then they heard the gravel crunching.
A moment later, Duane's motorcycle rumbled away through the rain.
Robbie was pale. "What's nookie?"
"I don't know. Something Grace has." Fristeen raised the pill bottle." 'Duane is special,'" she mimicked her mother. "The only thing special about him is these."
She hurled the pill bottle down, and red capsules sprayed across the floor.
Robbie saw Fristeen's face twist into a fearsome mask, then she shrieked and lunged, kicking mattresses and blankets aside. When she reached the kitchen door, she beat her fists against it. Then she stopped and wrenched it open. Robbie followed her in, stunned, unsure what to do.
Fristeen swept her arm toward a package of soup crackers on the counter, and they went flying around the room. Then she jumped onto a stool and flung the cupboard doors open. A can of beans and a jar of peanut butter—that was it.
"She's so busy!" Fristeen raged. "She always thinks she's in love—" Her fists were clenched, her arms crashed onto the cupboard shelf. "But she never is!" She pounded the shelf again and again.
Then she drew a stuttering breath and her arms went limp.
Robbie thought she might fall. He reached out and grabbed her. She was shaking. As he helped her down off the stool, she turned her face away.