Rich Shapero

by Too Far

  The lagoon was shallow in places, and there were duckboards to follow. They crept over them in silence, seeing repellent things: creatures wriggling through the muck, or beneath, sending bubbles up; blooms swooning from thin stalks, anchored by pale roots twisting in the slime; or standing stiff in it, waxen and quivering.

  The Cabin loomed before them. Where the flames had licked deep, the black logs were runneled and slick. In places, the beam ends had been gnawed to the frame. Twenty feet from the threshold they stopped. Should they try the door? Should they knock? Or just turn and race back?

  There were smoky panes on either side of the door. Robbie pointed and they scrambled for the nearest, crouching in the weeds beside the blackened wall. It was blistering hot, and the breeze had vanished. The marsh vapors were thick and burned in their throats. They traded looks and rose together, shoulder to shoulder, peering over the sill.

  Charred walls. A bed with a dark blanket. A brazier and a flue, and a pile of wood split for a fire.

  "They're not home," Robbie whispered.

  "Let's go in."

  "It might be locked," he said.

  But when he edged closer, he saw there was no lock on the door. Just a rope handle hanging from a black hole. Robbie put his hand against the door and pushed. It made a choking noise and swung open.

  They peered inside. Then they crossed the threshold.

  The interior was dim, and the smell of smoke was thick. To the right of the door was a small table, and on it—two bottles. Robbie picked one up, and Fristeen raised the other. The liquid in Robbie's was clear. Fristeen's had an amber hue. When they set the bottles down, they saw a large tawny feather. And lots of candles—fat ones, thin ones, short and tall—each with a puddle of wax at its base.

  Fristeen picked up the feather and ran her finger over it. "Needles," she whispered.

  Among the candles lay a clutch of Needle wands bristling with prickers.

  "This is where they sleep." She replaced the feather and stepped toward the bed.

  Candles lined a small shelf above it, and there were others, suspended in midair, hanging from the dark rafters on strings. Where the stovepipe met the roof, the planks had burnt through. You could see blue sky between them. Robbie ran his hand over the wall. The jagged char crunched beneath, and when he looked at his palm, it was streaked with black bars. He noticed an axe by the woodpile. The light from the window glinted on its blade.

  "They have a trunk," Fristeen said. It was at the foot of the bed, and she was kneeling beside it, her hand on the lid.

  "Better not."

  She gave him an anxious look. "Should we wait for them?" She stood.

  Everything about the Cabin seemed strange.

  Then Robbie saw the eyes. "Look."

  On the wall above the door was the head of a beast. Its long face gazed down, brown eyes staring. Its fur was singed from its neck to its ears, and its great basket of antlers was scorched and sooty.

  "It's a moose," Fristeen said.

  "Hands." Robbie held his own out, palms up, fingers curled like tines. "That's his name."

  There were candle stubs affixed to Hands' points.

  "I don't like him." Fristeen eyed the beast with mounting dread.

  "Sh-sh-sh." Robbie listened. Was someone coming?

  Fristeen was beside him, gripping his arm.

  "We better go," he whispered.

  They opened the door and slid out, closed it behind them, and hurried back over the duckboards and across the lagoon. Robbie saw clearly now where the fire had raged. It seemed a fitting end for the ragged spruce—maybe this was the fate of all the trees in Too Far. He glanced back, imagining the Hollow consumed by flames. Had the Dream Man been outside, watching? Or—

  A squeal—the Cabin door opening. No, just an armless pole creaking in the wind.

  They struck the path, and returned the way they came. When they reached the Pool, they didn't linger, but circled it and headed back. Their clothes were where they left them.

  They stopped at the Two-Tree to catch their breath. Robbie turned and scanned Too Far. You could see the Pool. But the path was lost in the trees, and the charred Cabin was sunk in its Hollow—from the Two-Tree, it couldn't be seen.

  8

  The rest of that day, they spent in the Great Place, talking about the Cabin and the Hollow, and what it all meant. It was nearly time for dinner when Robbie got home.

  Mom was in the kitchen.

  "I'm back," he shouted, on his way to the bookcase. He pulled books out and thumbed the pages till he found what he wanted. Then, as he examined the photos, he stepped toward the kitchen.

  Mom was fixing dinner as usual, but she looked strange. She was wearing a shiny blouse, and a necklace with a metal thing dangling in front. Her pants were so tight, you could see the shape of her legs. And she had makeup on—lipstick the color of Jim's plastic car, and stuff around her eyes that made them look hard and dark.

  "Mom?" Robbie showed her the page.

  She eyed him suspiciously. "That's a moose."

  "Yep."

  "Well? What?" She took soup bowls from the cupboard.

  "Have you ever seen one without legs or a body?"

  "A trophy, you mean?" She laughed.

  "What's that?"

  "People kill moose—"

  "Do they burn them?" He regarded her uncertainly.

  "Mostly they shoot them. Put your book down and take these to the table."

  "Shoot them?"

  "With rifles. Robbie—"

  He was studying the photo. "Some of them catch on fire."

  "Put the book down, wash your hands, and help me set the table." She smiled to herself and began dishing food onto platters.

  Robbie nodded and did as he was told. But he didn't like the way Mom looked, and he didn't think Dad would either.

  At the sound of his car in the drive, Mom hurried to the door, and when it opened, she hugged him and gave him laughing looks. Dad took in her costume and laughed back, but he was tired and Robbie saw the indifference in his eyes.

  "I remember that pendant," Dad told her, being polite.

  Mom hurried to finish putting food on the table, shouting directions to Robbie and apologizing to Dad. Robbie glanced at him. Dad shrugged. Neither could make any sense of it.

  Mom saved the strangest thing for last. When they sat down, she struck a match and lit the two candles on the table.

  Then she drew the curtains and turned off the lights.

  There was a long silence.

  "I can't see my food," Robbie said finally.

  Dad laughed.

  Mom's lips widened. In the dim light, her face was like a mask—etched with emotion, but frozen. Robbie couldn't tell if she was smiling or not.

  "It's romantic," she said lowly.

  "I think it's stupid." Robbie glanced at Dad.

  "A nice idea," Dad said with a conciliatory nod.

  "Please—" Mom sighed.

  "Really, I mean it."

  "You see?" Mom turned her mask toward Robbie. In the flicker, the painted lips grinned, clown-like. They twisted, vengeful, almost malevolent.

  "Felicia—" Dad's voice had a sharp edge.

  Mom was still staring at Robbie. "Go to your room."

  "He didn't mean anything," Dad said, bristling.

  Robbie felt a chill settle over the table, and he was suddenly fearful. Why couldn't he keep quiet?

  Mom rose slowly. She stood for a moment, her head lost in darkness. Then she clasped one of the candles and flung it at Dad. Next, she turned to the meal—casserole, soup, vegetables—grabbing one after the other and hurling the crockery to the floor. Dad rose in the midst of it, watching her rage and the crashing and splattering. But he didn't respond.

  Robbie stared at the lone candle, seeing it flicker, shaking with dread. It was flat on top, like the Dream Man's head.

  A sound from Mom, half-gasp, half-cry. Dad reached out and spoke in a sad voice. Mom responded, bitter and despa
iring.

  But Robbie didn't hear what they said. The rushing noise had started up. The spoon by his hand came alive, wings jackknifing out. He recoiled with amazement as the giant bug lifted, glittering turquoise and lemon, and circled the table. All the spoons were dragonflies, Robbie realized, and the knives and forks, too. Without anyone knowing, they whirred their lace wings and came and went. He heard a bit more from Dad, a little of Mom, and then the rushing sound mounted, drowning them out. The furniture vanished, or rather Robbie realized it had never been there. They thought they were on firm ground, but they were really just floating. The table—it wasn't real, and neither was the food. It was all just pretend. The rushing was deafening now. The house was careening through space. And where the living room wall was, the great eye of the Dream Man was looking in. A billion dragonflies whirred, the glowing hurricane churned, a billion thoughts interwoven, and what was real and what was not was, moment-by-moment, decided in the depths of that mind. Robbie's world, his mom and his dad— Whatever happened was up to the Dream Man.

  "A dream," the deep voice confirmed. "A bad one."

  At some point, he heard a command. "Your room. Go to your room." Was it Dad or Mom? Or the voice of the Dream Man? Did he whisper that? Yes, it was definitely him. So Robbie floated down the hall, shoes barely touching, and when he lay on his bed, he bobbed like his toy tug when Mom filled the tub. "Dream, Robbie, dream," the Dream Man said. He put his head under the pillow to blacken the night, and the Dream Man lifted him. Robbie drifted in oblivion for what seemed a long time.

  An outburst jarred him from sleep—Mom and Dad. Their voices pulled him back.

  "I'm trying," Dad insisted, but he sounded hopeless.

  "You don't care a thing for me," Mom said between sobs.

  Then the rushing roared up and the Dream Eye advanced, and it churned and devoured what remained of the house. At the back of his mind, Robbie was wondering, "Is it really that bad?" And the Dream Man answered, "You don't want to know." It was just him on his bed now, rising, weightless. And then his bed fell away, and he was on his belly, arms spread, headed toward that great vortex of light. Below—a bottomless void with a few winking stars.

  I'm frightened, Robbie thought.

  "As well you should be."

  The gyre turned, drawing him closer. Where am I going?

  "Into my mind."

  Robbie twisted his hips and teetered his arms, trying to master the currents. But they were beyond his control. The furious rush sucked him, the eddy arched over, the living plait telescoped out.

  A nightmare, Robbie thought, as the hurricane engulfed him.

  "Bad dreams are things precious the soul fears it may lose."

  The dragonfly hordes whirled around Robbie, a myriad thoughts flashing, forming chains and uncoupling, twisting and cross-linked and woven with Ys.

  "Breathe, Robbie, breathe. I want you to see."

  Robbie inhaled and a deep calm infused him. The glowing plait parted and Robbie dropped through. It was a memory, a moment, a tiny cove in the Dream Man's mind.

  He was floating above the black trees, and the Dream Man was around him, in the form he'd first seen him—a billowing cloud. But now Robbie was inside. The cumulus was suffused with dragonfly glitter, fiery trails like threads of stray thought, and the vapor itself seemed to glide forward, imbued with purpose. Then the dark mass folded in on itself, turning dense and doughy, and it fell from around Robbie's shoulders like a heavy cloak.

  There was a path through the black trees and it led to the Cabin. And the cloak settled onto it in the shape of a man—a black silhouette, naked with glints, with a head impossibly tall. He walked behind a woman, naked as well, and she had arms, not wings. And as they walked, the woman was singing, and the Dream Man was murmuring, "Dream, dream, dream, dream . . ."

  When they reached the Cabin, the Dream Man stopped and gestured her forward. The woman turned and embraced him, and his silhouette changed. The borders of his body dissolved, while his arms reached forward and his head billowed like smoke. His hands came loose and inflated like antlers, and a beast's face grew down from them, furry and long.

  The woman stepped to the door, and as she approached, it swung open. Hands entered before her and took his place on the wall. She lay on the mattress and drew the dark blanket over her. Then the Dream Man's head billowed hugely, surrounding the Cabin, and his thoughts stirred anew. Hundreds, thousands, monstrous eyes gleaming turquoise and lime, wings whirring, threads circling, their flight paths lighting the cloud from within. Billions now, more and more alive, the dragonfly gyre hissing and crackling—

  Then, in an instant, dragonflies fired inward, a thousand bright darts, and the Cabin burst into flame.

  Tapers rose up, gold and blood-orange, licking the windows. As they danced, they reached, overtopping the roof, giant tears with blue hearts, searching and meeting. A sharp cry from within, and then a long trailing moan.

  "Dream, dream, dream," the flames chanted, feeding the cloud. And through the flames soared the moan, like an answer. The woman was burning, with pain and with bliss. Her pain, Hands watched over with an understanding eye. And her bliss rose to join the one she adored. Above the Cabin, wings of smoke were unfolding.

  The woods were hushed, now thick with eyes—wild things staring with dreams in their minds, rapt and expectant as the augured rite mounted. "Dream, dream, dream," the flames chanted. And the Dream Man's deep whisper wove through it all. The Cabin grew black, and the trees nearby charred. And as the great wings spread and rose from the Hollow, every heart thrilled, knowing its master. For the deliverance of Dawn was the triumph of Too Far.

  The tortured voice faded and the flames died down. The embers blinked and the eyes dispersed. And the woods and the Cabin were silent as before.

  The Dream Man didn't wait. He led his love aloft, and he took Robbie, too. Time past or time present—who really knows. But the Dream Man, and the one he wished to wed, spent the night in his heavenly home. And Robbie was with them, and heard every word. Vows and endearments—meant for each other, or the ears of a child? Or for all who would join them? Who knows, who knows. It was late when they tired, Robbie curled between them. And the Dream Man sighed, kissed his temple and spoke. "Fear is the fire, soul is the smoke."

  ***

  Death to a dream is waking. As the morning filtered into Robbie's room, his dream slowly died. He was leaving a place of great exhilaration, falling down a dark well. The whisper of the Dream Man trailed after him, incoherent, indistinct. And then it was gone, and Robbie felt his head on his pillow, a new day prying at his lids.

  Someone was in his room, standing just inside the door. Was it Mom? Bleary, he saw her regarding him.

  "I'm sorry." Mom stepped forward and kissed his cheek. "We both are."

  Dad was behind her. He sighed and leaned over, and Robbie felt Dad stroke his hair.

  He mumbled something, and sleep rolled back over him. What a surprise—that the house was still there, and that he was in it. He drifted on the border of waking and sleep, and then he stirred again.

  Robbie yawned and sat up. The light through the curtains was blinding. He squinted, gaze wandering over the brain on his wall. Had his parents really been there, or had he imagined it? All that remained of his wild dream were vague impressions, trails of two dragonflies circling his bed. What was a brain, really? Just a head full of thoughts, waiting to be set free. It's the Dream Man they need.

  That's what happened to Dawn. She wouldn't ever wake up. Her body was gone, and all the thoughts inside her had flown to him. Robbie imagined flocks of souls converging from all quarters, their smoky forms blinking as they crossed the gray heavens, headed for the Dream Man's whirling eye. The notion so energized him that he leaped out of bed, threw his door open and stepped down the hall.

  As he entered the living room, a deep chill stole over him. Mom and Dad's anger and pain. It had claimed their house. If it could, it would take him as well.

  Trud
y was on the sofa, filing her nails.

  He hurried back to his room and changed his clothes, eager to relate what had happened to Fristeen.

  ***

  She was waiting for him in the shrubs. As soon as she saw him, she hunched over and clenched her fists. Then she was sobbing, distraught.

  "What is it?"

  "Grace," she said venomously. "Can you get me something to eat?"

  Robbie saw the shame in her eyes. "Sure."

  "There's no food," Fristeen said. "She forgot."

  "Wait here."

  Robbie got Trudy to make him two sandwiches. When he returned, Fristeen wolfed one down.

  "Did you eat last night?"

  She shook her head.

  "I didn't either. Mom and Dad had a really bad fight."

  Fristeen saw how upset he was. "Why do they do that?"

  Robbie shrugged. "Mom started it." He sniffled. "That's a lie. It was me."

  "What did you do?"

  "Still hungry?" Robbie held out the second sandwich.

  She took it and bit in.

  "I made fun of her." Robbie felt his throat tighten.

  "I bet you're sorry," Fristeen said.

  Robbie nodded and wiped his nose.

  They climbed the Hill, followed the Bendies, and scrambled under the Fallen Down Trees. Neither spoke. The trials in their separate homes returned, filling their minds, keeping them dark and apart. But it didn't take the sun and the forest long. When they reached Where You Can See, the view and the breeze brought them close. Fristeen stopped where the Dot Trees started and gave him a hug.

  "Guess what?" she said.

  "What?"

  "I had a dream last night. I'm pretty sure it's true." She combed her lip with her teeth. "Dawn came to get me. I thought we were friends, but I was wrong. She's my real mom."

  "She'd be a good one." He smiled and they headed down.

  "She can be both our moms," Fristeen said.