Rich Shapero

by Too Far

  Robbie touched the scrape that crossed his cheek, and shrugged.

  "His body's covered with bruises," Mom said.

  Dad turned back to the mail in his lap. Robbie laughed to himself. He had married Fristeen, and that was that. Invitations weren't sent.

  "How about a hike?" Dad set the mail aside.

  Mom eyed him uncertainly.

  "Robbie can show us his patch," Dad raised his head in the direction of the Hill. "Maybe we'll get a look at the bear you wrestled."

  Robbie grinned.

  "That's not funny."

  "Come on, Felicia." Dad gave Mom a deferential look.

  Robbie saw the tenderness in Dad's eyes. He was reaching out to her. Dad felt bad about what was happening.

  "Yeah, come on, Mom."

  Mom laughed.

  It was strange having Mom and Dad invading secret ground. But they didn't go far. They ambled up the Hill and looked at the view from on top, and then Robbie showed them the Bendies and the Fallen Down Trees without revealing their real names.

  "How long has it been?" Dad mused. He took Mom's hand.

  She regarded him fondly.

  "We used to wander around in the woods," Dad told Robbie. "Just like you. In California. Your mom could get pretty wild—"

  Robbie expected Mom to object, but she didn't.

  Beneath the litter, the fallen twigs cracked beneath Dad's heavy steps.

  "It was a wonderful time," Mom said.

  Robbie could see the pain in her eyes.

  "We had an idea," Dad said. He acted like he was speaking to Robbie. "Everywhere we went, everything we did— It all fed this idea: that we could shed the parody of life we'd both grown up with. That we could find a truth—" Dad peered at Mom.

  Mom glanced at Robbie, a tremulous smile dawning.

  "A truth we could measure against big mountains and tall trees." Dad faced Mom. "And we would find it by looking deeply into wild things—the sky, the earth, our own nerves, the veins of leaves—"

  "The eyes of our child," Mom murmured.

  "And this truth," Dad said, "would be something we would never find in a suburb or on a city street. Remember?" The last he spoke softly.

  Mom nodded. "Our cabin-in-the-wild," she said.

  Just then a thrush whistled, and when they turned to look, the wind blew and all the leaves flashed, and the thrush flew away.

  Dad pointed at a stand of yellowing birch. "The leaves are turning."

  "Yearning, yearning, yearning . . ."

  They'd reached He Knows.

  "The dark and the cold." Mom eyed the fall color with dread.

  "So old, so old, so old . . ."

  Robbie could see the weariness in his parents' faces.

  "Dreams slip away," Dad said. "If you let them."

  "Forget them, forget them, forget them . . ."

  Mom sighed. "Everything's changed."

  "Late, late, too late, too late . . ."

  "Dad, Mom—" Robbie felt helpless.

  "Stop, stop, stop, stop . . ."

  Dad reached the stream's edge. "Look at that," he said.

  "Back, back, back, take them back . . ."

  ***

  The rest of the day passed without note. Mom took Robbie to the school to get registered, and after that she wanted to buy him some clothes.

  But that night, as soon as Robbie surrendered to sleep, Hands' palms slid beneath him and carried him off. The clouds were sighing, the wind was sighing, and Hands was sighing too. Through gaps in the billows, the black trees appeared, gliding beneath them. The rushing sound reached him, rose to a roar, and then the stormy sky opened, and the Dream Man was before him in all his glory. The rotating hordes filled the heavens with a luminous vortex, a billion thoughts, all racing wildly, an ocean of voices, untamed and unceasing—

  Now's the chance, Robbie thought. Ask him.

  "We want to stay here," he said. "With you and Dawn."

  "Too Far is a way station," the Dream Man replied. "This forest is my greenhouse, Too Far—where I cut and trim."

  Hands swooped down, and the Dream Man swooped with him, grazing the spruce tops, dipping into a deep swale where sickly trees leaned on either side. Where the swale narrowed, the soft mosses had been burnt away, and the trees were all armless, black poles arrayed round a Hollow with a bog at its rear. There was the charred Cabin huddled in the shadows, blackened logs gleaming, fallen boughs curled on its roof.

  "My department, my lab. Where I strip bodies off." The Dream Man spoke without omen or haste. "What remains goes with me—through the spectral tides, to the sunset lakes. Here, Robbie. Look."

  As they hovered there, the Dream Man came closer. At the center of his eye, the thoughts were densest: a forge heaving with jeweled bodies and spouts of crushed wings. And out of this forge rose a smoky pane. When Robbie gazed through it, he was peering over the sill, and the Cabin was burning and Dawn was in flames. Her moan was her soul taking wing as the smoke twisted up—a dream, longed-for, fulfilled—now rising to join and be always with him.

  "Just a place of departure," the Dream Man said. "Nothing more. See yourself here, son. You need to be sure."

  The smoky pane flashed, and there Robbie was: naked and wondering beneath the dark blanket, watching Hands float through the roof and take his place on the wall.

  "Fristeen—" he said.

  And she appeared beside him, her hand clutching his.

  "Will Hands come—"

  "No. His job is here."

  "Will we—"

  "Hush," the Dream Man whispered. "Just lay still and listen. This is something to fear—the worst flesh can endure. I'm going to rain fire down— There's no way but this. You're only dreaming."

  Robbie was trembling, his breath fogged the air. Or was it Hands' steaming nostrils or the logs on the grate? The brown eye was wild like never before, seeing, through their windings in the hills of Too Far, some other struggle. Hands knew what was coming—

  "Now," said the Dream Man.

  The roof was pierced by a myriad rods shooting down— arrows liquid and burning—shafts dripping gold, trailing feathers of flame. And they all drove through him, hissing and straight—a hundred giant needles and a torrent of pain. Shrieks in his ear, the fletch running wild—

  Hands' fur was scorched, his nose raw and smoking. His antlers were glowing, the points aflame. His ancient eye raged. Robbie, through his agony, found it and reached for its strength. White-rimmed, crazed, thirsting for unimaginable things—thoughts no one knew about, or were afraid to think. It was the mind of the Dream Man in that bestial face. And Robbie—what remained of him—dangled on the thread of that gaze.

  Beneath, the pierced bodies lay limp as sheets, while their flesh answered the arrows with scarlet spears. Bloody flames rising, hot and ready. All that yearning together was now rising into the mystery of dream. The grim time was past. Young hearts and black trees, an impossible maze— All that was over. He and Fristeen lived in the flames. And as sharp-tongued flames, they would find their own way.

  "No," the voice whispered, hollow and low. "Hands is dead. Your flames are dying."

  Robbie saw it was so. The brown eye was lifeless. The thread he hung from was about to break. And Fristeen—where was she? Suddenly, the Cabin upended and began to float.

  But no—it was he who was lifting, and he was nothing but smoke. His mind was a wisp drawn this way and that, twisting and rising, a sheaf of scarves reaching up and out. And a thought became two, and then six and ten. Flesh was too rigid to permit their flight, but in the smoky web the thoughts came to life—they grew beads and jewels, giant eyes cyan and lime, and they sprouted see-through wings, like puzzles made of glass. The wings whirred, the thoughts glittered and darted, testing the limits of a strange new world.

  This web, with all Robbie's thoughts in it, passed through the roof, and a fierce sky spread out. A vast purple velvet studded with stars, and in the center: clouds black and doomful with a glowing core. As the
winds bore you closer, you could see the core turning—the eye of the Dream Man, powerful and knowing, watched you approach.

  Alien scarves wove through him, finding gaps in his smoke. And he heard Fristeen's thoughts mixed with his own. Gladness he felt, tenderness and mirth—a joy full to bursting—then panic. Terror yanked them together, but the weave rode the wave, and exhilaration budded, and a bracing gust blew them up. Again, fear and relief—the relay continued as they rose—and the cauldron of dreams grew closer and closer.

  Fristeen, Robbie thought. Fristeen, oh Fristeen. Together they felt the bounty of release. All their jewels had wings and they were rising together, inseparable at last. From a distance, the surround of torn clouds had seemed motionless. But now they saw how it writhed, and they heard it as well—a great mass of souls, adrift, wandering, some apart, some alone. All had come to deliver their precious gifts, to release them at last to the master glow. Here it was: a vortex married to an endless dawn, and the hurricane never stopped, and the dream went on.

  Only thoughts? Robbie wondered.

  "Nothing more," the voice answered from its blinding cave. "Is this what you want?"

  Robbie felt Fristeen beside him, still close, but once again divided. They were no longer rising. They were drifting aimlessly in the turbulent sky. The earth below was lost in darkness, and clouds were closing over the dwindling eye.

  "At the Cabin," the deep voice said. "I'm waiting."

  ***

  There was a next morning, and it came with a shock. Robbie opened his eyes, saw a curtain beyond his elbow and a ceiling above. At a distance—not so far, when he sat up—he could hear Dad talking.

  Just a dream, he thought. A moment of relief. But something was wrong. He wanted to cry. Was he sad he'd come back? It was cruel of the Dream Man—to frighten him like that. He put on his clothes while he fought with his feelings. He thought of himself with Fristeen on that bed, burning up. In the world he'd awoken to, it seemed heroic. But he wasn't a hero, he was just a boy.

  Robbie turned to face the giant brain on his wall. Just a dream. Fristeen knew nothing about it. Not a thing.

  He stepped into the living room in a daze. Mom shuttled plates from the kitchen. Dad was stuffing things in his daypack, about to leave.

  "Don't go," Robbie said.

  "Mmm?" Dad turned.

  "I have to—"

  "What?" Dad asked.

  "Some cereal?" Mom spoke over her shoulder on her way back to the kitchen.

  "I had a dream," Robbie started. "Sit down. Please."

  "I'm late already," Dad shook his head.

  "I just want to—"

  "Can it wait?"

  "There's a man who lives—where dreams come from—"

  "Robbie—"

  "Please." He grabbed Dad's wrist.

  "I wish I could." Dad turned away.

  "I mean it— Don't go, Dad. Don't go!" Robbie's voice cracked. He dug in his heels and tugged at Dad's arm with all his strength.

  "Robbie—" Dad was angry.

  "No," Robbie cried. "No, no!" He screamed and held on, and he wouldn't let go. The Dream Man, the Cabin— He was on that bed, turning to smoke—

  "Good god—" Mom ran from the kitchen.

  "No!" He was screaming, "No, no!" There were too many secrets—more than he could bear.

  Dad dropped his pack. "He's hysterical—"

  "What's wrong?" Mom rushed toward him.

  Robbie crumpled and fell in a heap at their feet.

  Mom bent, grabbing his shoulders. Dad knelt beside her.

  Robbie barely saw them. He was in the Clearing with Fristeen, and she was joyous and whirling, her hands trailing. "Who cares?" she whispered, and as she turned, her hands opened, letting go. Robbie's hands did the same. The rigor left him, and his body went limp.

  "Robbie?" Mom put her hand to his forehead.

  Dad slid his palms beneath him. "Hot?"

  Mom shook her head.

  Dad lifted Robbie with both arms and laid him on the sofa.

  Mom lowered herself and put her cheek on his chest. "Let's take him to the hosp—"

  "Let him rest." Dad put his hand on Mom's shoulder.

  Strange, Robbie thought. They were like a family now.

  He remembered a moment when the three of them had stood on the deck that first winter, just after they'd moved into the house. They had coats on, and Mom and Dad were kissing. It was the middle of the day and you could see the stars.

  He took a deep breath. "I'm okay," Robbie said.

  "What did you want to tell me?" Dad asked him.

  Robbie's lips parted, but nothing came out. It seemed unexplainable.

  "I'm sorry," Dad said. "Me too," Robbie mumbled.

  "A little more rest, and we'll get you something to eat." Mom glanced at Dad, begging him to stay.

  Robbie turned, facing the back cushion. "Okay," he said.

  ***

  Later that day, he was with Fristeen. They sat together on the crest of Where You Can See, feeling the breeze.

  "It hurts. A lot," Robbie said. "And you never come back."

  Fristeen listened intently, twirling a stray lock. "The Cabin's so scary. Does it have to be there?"

  "That's what he said." Robbie rubbed away a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

  "You can't go without me."

  "Nope."

  They gazed in silence at the great puzzle of leaves. Pieces of viridian, olive and lime were fit into others of emerald and jade, each bordered with black where their edges touched. Here and there, a yellow piece had replaced a green.

  "Dawn's happy there." Fristeen lifted her face to the sky.

  Robbie did, too. It was the deepest of blues, without a cloud. The realm of their gods seemed remote and benign.

  "Would you do it?" Fristeen wondered. "I don't know. Would you?"

  "One thing I'd really like," Fristeen laughed. "If you don't have a body, you don't need food."

  ***

  In the days that followed, they spoke of it often—the ordeal of fire, ascending the skies, how life would be with Dawn and the Dream Man after they'd arrived. But they didn't revisit the Cabin, and for a full week, they stayed away from Too Far.

  Summer was ending, and the woods changed quickly. The Needle Patch yellowed, then Trickle and the slope beyond the log bridge. On the Hill, the currant stems turned crimson, their leaves splashed with butterscotch, while the aspens above went from lemon to rose. A few days later, the Perfect Place flashed pure gold. When the Jigglies changed, the air was pleased— they were easy to play, these flimsy yellow leaves, and they made the most delicate yellow music. Then the Bendies let go, and the leaves fell soft and fleshy, and when you lay in their bed, your calm was deep.

  And there was an hour at the Great Place—ecstatic, unforgettable—when a great wind shook the mighty crowns and that unreachable world came showering down. All of a sudden— You were unprepared. Through the glitter you ran, a fortune scattering and only one chance to gather it. You shrieked, your arms flailed, but there was no way to catch them. Then breathless, Robbie collapsed with Fristeen beside him, and in her upraised eyes he saw the reflected cascade: leaves and more leaves, a fountain of Dawn from deep within her, just for him.

  ***

  Early one morning, the two children sat facing each other in the Perfect Place. Fristeen was eating pretzels and cheese, and some fruit Robbie had brought. Her face looked thin and her hair was tangled. Her socks were dirty and there was a stain on her shirt.

  "I want to see Dawn," she said.

  "Okay." Robbie stood.

  "Do you think she's with him? At the Cabin?" Fristeen frowned.

  "We don't have to go there." Robbie reached for her hand.

  Used-to-Be had changed—the crosses it nursed had turned purplish, and red berries spurted from the center of each. The Two-Tree still waved in the breeze, but new flags had been raised—one lemon, one peach. And then Too Far spread out before them. They were both glad to see it. Aut
umn was sad, like your home. But when you crossed the border and entered the black trees, all that ending vanished.

  The weather was sultry. The heat was pierced with tingling gusts, and the spell of forgetfulness was as strong as ever. They shed their cares with their clothes, and headed for Big Sponge, where they jumped and jumped. A small hawk appeared, looping and coasting and screeching over them. Then the rill led them through the soft pillows, amber and mauve, lime and maroon. Gusts chafed the red Pool, and wavelets were running fast to shore. They circled the rim and mounted the low rise, and they lay down on the moss, and Fristeen tried to summon Dawn.

  Again, Dawn didn't come.

  Instead, Robbie heard the rushing from a long way off.

  "The Dream Man," Robbie cried. But when he opened his eyes, the sky was blue. There were no roiling clouds and no cauldron of thoughts. Just a lone dragonfly hovering inches above his nose.

  Was it him?

  "We miss you," Robbie said.

  "I've been busy," the deep voice replied.

  "We want to be with you," Robbie assured him. "You and Dawn."

  "But we're afraid," Fristeen chimed in. "Of the Cabin, and being burnt in the fire—"

  They both sat up.

  The dragonfly darted between them, wings whirring with feverish life.

  "Dawn belongs to those who belong to her," the deep voice said. "And I—" The dragonfly zipped six feet in the air, then zipped down again, glaring at Robbie with alien eyes. "I have other places to go, other thoughts to think."

  "Stay with us," Robbie begged him. "For a little while."

  "Alright," the Dream Man said. "It happens I've got something to show you."

  Robbie stood and so did Fristeen.

  "Where's Hands?" Robbie wondered. "Don't we get to ride?"

  "He's in the lab."

  The Dream Man's voice was dark with meaning, and when Robbie looked in the direction of the Hollow, he saw a coil of smoke rising from the trees.

  "Smells like broccoli," Robbie said.

  The Dream Man laughed. They were still close.

  "Follow me," the deep voice said. And the dragonfly darted through the black spruce.

  Even though they went on foot, it was still a trail of mystery. "Look here, look there," the Dream Man whispered, and they were lost in his voice, thinking things they'd never thought, seeing things they'd never seen. The bushes in the swales were covered with berries, and they were midnight blue and safe to eat. There had never been berries that tasted so sweet. And when they crammed their mouths with them and stood on their heads, the berries popped all at once, filling their eyes with dark blue ink.