Rich Shapero

by Too Far

  Is this the way back?

  "That's up to you," the Dream Man said.

  Robbie imagined the consuming fire of his dream, and the wind thrashing in his face was, for a moment, flame.

  "Rot!" Shivers squalled, incredulous.

  Will Fristeen be safe?

  "Safe?" Shivers groaned.

  "Dawn is waiting," the Dream Man replied.

  At that, Shivers howled with mirth and contempt. "You charlatan!" he harangued the Dream Man. "You shameless fake!"

  As the ridge tended down, so did Hands. He was gliding now among whipping thickets, a shadow just visible through the flying snow.

  "Can you see him?" Fristeen shouted.

  "Down there." Robbie pointed. And they descended, hurrying after him.

  Shivers swept down, crushing the trees, pulling them up by their roots and hurling them aside. "After all this," he raged, "is there nothing you've learned?"

  Robbie shielded his face with the crook of his arm. He looked up just in time to see a large aspen heel back. Its roots raked up mud, and then a black wheel rose. Shivers was a mat of dripping earth, hanging from its arms—two root-nodule eyes, pale and bulging, and a root-spike for a nose. "Hands! Where's Hands," Shivers croaked like a frog.

  And when they'd stumbled around the wheel, Hands was lost from view.

  "Where is he?" Robbie muttered.

  They scanned the stormy woodland in vain. Then they heard a sudden clatter—Hands banging his rack against a tree. And there he was, not far away, halfway up a steep slope, turning to face them through the wind-blown snow.

  "There," Fristeen cried out, waving her arms.

  Hands bucked his head, faced the slope and rose, tines cleaving the white curtain, white streamers trailing back.

  They hurried after him, passed through a low thicket, and started up the steep rise. The storm backed off as they scrambled toward the heights, panting and stumbling. And when they reached the top, Hands was waiting aloft.

  Robbie wiped his eyes with his wrist.

  "The Two-Tree." He couldn't believe it. "Fristeen—"

  She nodded, teeth chattering, and together they drew closer.

  The mount looked different in white. But there was no mistaking the tree they knew so well. The pair of boles rose, naked and alone, standing its ground in the eye of the storm. And right at its top was Hands, looking down.

  From here, Robbie thought, they could reach the Cabin or find their way back. But when he gazed around, his confidence sank. Shivers had hold of everything. Through the lull in the flurries, you could see the border of Too Far. But the way down to the Pool was clogged with drifts. And the way back was no different. The slope descending to Used-to-Be, the thicket skirting the Great Place— It was all buried in snow. They were stranded and freezing.

  Fristeen saw it, too. She hugged him, both shaking badly. Our journey ends here, her eyes seemed to say. Two trunks from the same root, alone and bereft, frozen on the border between this world and the next.

  "Climb," said the Dream Man.

  Climb? Robbie wondered. What do you mean? He peered up at Hands, hovering above the topmost branches.

  "You will see," said the Dream Man.

  The wind was so loud, it hurt his ears. Climb? That was impossible. Wasn't it? He put his hand on the Two-Tree. It was freezing cold. It had no low branches. Just the two entwined boles, twisting as they rose.

  "Robbie—" Fristeen called, as if from a distance.

  "Climb," the Dream Man repeated.

  He put his hand on the bark, lodged his foot in a gap between the trunks, and pulled himself up.

  "Robbie!" Fristeen shrieked.

  Robbie took a breath.

  "Don't be afraid," the Dream Man said.

  "Don't be afraid," Robbie said numbly, looking down.

  Fristeen was wide-eyed, her shivering face flecked with snow.

  He found another toehold and hiked himself up. And another. Then he slipped. But the next one was good. He hugged one trunk, then the other, circling with his left arm, reaching with his right, the ground dropping steadily beneath him. Higher, higher. A flurry of snow matted his face, clouding his sight. He mopped his eyes. The first branch jutted, a few feet above.

  "You'll never reach it," Shivers whispered, trying to unnerve him.

  Higher, a precarious toehold. Then the branch was before him, and Robbie looped his arm over it. It was thick and stiff. And another higher, and the next, and the next. He reached the place where the two boles drew apart. Hands was leaning to the left, so that's the one Robbie picked. Finding footholds, grabbing on, rising, rising—

  Through the veil of flying snow, he could see the Pool now, spectral and shimmering. He reached for the next branch and pulled himself higher, and the next, and the next, working around. There were the Great trees. The crowns were white humps, like giant eggs. Above him, Hands drifted closer, lowering his long face through the blast. His antlers quivered and hummed. Closer he came, and still closer as Robbie rose.

  The branches were bendy. Hands was just above. Robbie couldn't climb any higher.

  "Now look down," the Dream Man said.

  Robbie clung to the swaying bole and searched the forest below.

  "What do you see?" the deep voice asked.

  The black spruce all moved together, and the white leafy trees, they did as well. This way and that—all the forest was shaking, every tree, every place, all speaking at once. All dim and all white, a sea of confusion. And then through it, a handful of little square lights.

  My home, Robbie thought. Its windows were glowing. And through the shifting veil, he could see a car in the drive—a police car, with its colored lights blinking.

  "Turn, Robbie, turn."

  Above, Hands put his nose to the wind, snorting steam, facing Too Far.

  A pair of squares blazed through the spindly spruce. The Cabin, made ready. And a way was clear. On its unexplored side, a ravine led down from the Two-Tree and entered Too Far. It touched a road, white with snow, that Robbie had never known was there—a little winding road that led into the Hollow.

  Will you burn us up? Robbie asked.

  "Cleanse you. Perfect you," the Dream Man replied.

  When?

  "Don't test my patience. It must be straightaway."

  Is Dawn there, too?

  "Dawn is waiting," the Dream Man said.

  Robbie turned again, saw the house he and his parents had lived in, and around it other faint lights—a world he barely knew—

  "How would we get back?"

  "Hands can carry you. If it's the Cabin, you're on your own. Be sure, Robbie. Be sure..." The deep voice trailed away.

  "Hands—" Robbie gasped. "I can't feel anything."

  The furry head dipped, the soft nose drew close. Hands used his breath to warm Robbie's fingers, while his gentle eyes gave Robbie fresh hope.

  "Grand," Shivers jeered. "Isn't he grand?" A great blast came charging out of the sky. Then a crack—the branch bearing Robbie's weight gave way. He scrabbled and clinched, swinging over the drop, then pulled himself back and slid down to the next. Down and down, branch after branch, till he was shinning and sliding down the conjoined boles.

  His feet touched the ground, and Fristeen's arms found him. As weak as she was, she had to hold him up.

  "I know the way," he answered her amazement.

  "To the Cabin?"

  Robbie caught his breath, nodding. "Dawn is waiting. Or—"

  "What?" Her eyes searched him.

  "Hands will carry us home."

  Fristeen blinked up at the floating head high above. The wind's fury had waned, but the snow was falling thicker than ever.

  Robbie stroked her cold cheek with his quaking hand. Her cuts looked purplish against her freezing skin. "You're so beautiful—" He gazed from her face to his hand and then took in their pitiful bodies, all soaked and shuddering. "We have to give up these."

  "Robbie—" Fristeen hugged him and then she was cryi
ng.

  "It's scary—" His voice choked. "I'm really afraid."

  She nodded. Then she drew back. "But we're brave," she said ardently. "We're really brave."

  Robbie saw the sparkle in her eyes, and then the universe that was theirs—just theirs—burst into sight. Through the ravages of Shivers and the terrible night, poured that golden smile. All the glory of Dawn, unvanquished, rising to bless a new world with its light.

  You could choose to leave everything for that— Leave it, or die trying.

  He reached for her hand and they started across the mount, headed for the Hollow, and the bed in the Cabin where the transforming flames would blaze.

  Hands was with them till they descended into the ravine, then he floated on ahead. The snow in the trough was soft and deep, and they sank and stumbled at every step. The big crosswinds couldn't reach them there, and for a few minutes they imagined that Shivers had left them. But then Fristeen glanced back and shrieked.

  His huge visage was right behind them, wilder than ever, lips writhing, making strange gargling sounds.

  "There's something in his mouth," Fristeen cried.

  They could see white lumps shifting between the bilious lips. And then Shivers hacked and heaved and spit them out. They came tumbling down the ravine like a pack of white spiders, and when they reached Robbie and Fristeen, they leaped and clung to their backs. They had gleaming red eyes, and teeth like glass, and you could feel their legs clawing and scratching, but if you gave them a swat, they crumbled to frost and blew away.

  "The road," Robbie yelled.

  It appeared just below them, paved with white, veering sharply. And when they reached it and took the curve at full speed, black trees rose up on either side. A great torrent of wind was shaking Too Far, whipping the thin spindles for all they were worth. The road fell before them, diving into the Hollow, and Shivers roared up behind them and dashed them down the slope.

  "That's it, boys and girls," he proclaimed. "No more candy and toys—"

  Fristeen was rolling over and over. Robbie went up and came down hard. When he stood, he felt an ache through his numbness—his shoulder was crooked, his right arm hung limp. They hurried forward, past a car blanketed with snow.

  "For what?" Shivers roared.

  "The Cabin!" Fristeen grabbed Robbie, pointing.

  Through the quaking trees, an amber beacon shone.

  Their eyes met—their freedom was waiting—the moment their dreams had so long foretold.

  "For what?" Shivers bellowed.

  But they paid no heed. They were racing around to the Cabin's front, splashing madly through the black lagoon.

  There it was— The charred walls were caked and sintered with frost. Flames and shadows danced in the panes. Above the snow-covered roof, blue smoke coiled up. A great crump sounded, and part of the roof collapsed, taking the stovepipe. There was a crash within, shouts, and then fire blazed up, washing the windows.

  "For what!" Shivers screamed. "An idiot smile and a jar full of dreams?"

  He burled up behind them and struck them both— one last burst of rage that sent them hurling, and left them sprawled twenty feet from the Cabin door.

  It swung open. In the orange and gold light, two dark figures appeared, one behind the other.

  Robbie rose to his feet, and so did Fristeen. He fought his fear and clasped her hand. "We're ready," he told them.

  They didn't look like gods. They had blankets over their shoulders, and the bigger one's head was no taller than a man's. The smaller cried out, hurried forward and knelt before them.

  The blanket opened and wings emerged. They folded around Fristeen. Dawn's features were edged by the fire.

  It was Grace, Robbie saw.

  "My baby, my baby— How in the world—"

  Fristeen's face was glazed with shock. Grace was glowing. She was covered with oil. And her eyes were like nothing Robbie had ever seen: black and wild, mostly pupil, with orange rays around them—like tear tracks or claw marks painted on her cheeks. Fristeen saw the same, and something else. Robbie followed her gaze. There were needles bristling from a tiara of wands circling Grace's head.

  The fire swelled inside the Cabin. Giant flames speared through the roof. Scarlet tapers were piercing the walls, sighing and whistling—

  "No," Fristeen whimpered. Her head turned and Robbie saw her desperate plea.

  But there was no time to react. The man was stepping toward him. Through the gap in his blanket, he was naked to the waist. His chest glinted—like Grace, he was covered with oil and painted strangely, his trunk banded purple and littered with stars. Behind him, the blaze blossomed through the doorway. The Cabin was a furnace, its insides pure flame. The man stooped, his face stubbled black. Then the lips, the smile—all so familiar. And the dream of leaving, dark and gleaming in those distant eyes.

  "Robbie," Dad said.

  He could barely hear Dad's voice over the rushing. Dad's arm shifted and something fell at Robbie's feet. In the strobe of light, he saw a crown of birch bark stripped from a Great tree.

  Fristeen had hold of Grace's wing. It was a patchwork of lichens and bark, stitched together with green yarn.

  The roof collapsed, taking the front wall, and the giant furnace was suddenly a golden mouth opening, chanting, a great song ascendant, swelling triumphant at what it saw in the sky. A dark cloud had drifted over the Hollow, livid with moonlight, and dragonflies arrowed through it from every side. Smoke from the Cabin unfolded great wings that fingered the winds, lifting. And in the center of the billowing cumuli, a glowing cauldron appeared with a crescent of froth, turquoise and lemon, spilling over its rim. The rushing mounted, growing louder and louder as the Dream Man drew near.

  Robbie imagined he'd bolted, and Fristeen was with him. Side by side, hands holding tight, they raced toward the flames. But he was moving away from them. Dad had swept him up.

  Fristeen was sobbing. Grace held her now. The sound pierced Robbie, and tears welled from deep in his chest. Instead of rising to join the Dream Man and Dawn, they were headed toward the road and the snow-covered car.

  He saw Fristeen's eyes seeking him. They gazed at each other, then together, they turned their faces up.

  The wings of smoke were no longer soaring. They were teetering, torn to pieces by an angry wind. Drifting feathers were stretching, longer and longer. All the dragonflies had vanished, and the rushing was dying. As they watched, the smoky ribbons rippled together, weaving a veil across the moon. A night full of dreams was fading from view. The livid clouds dimmed, and the cauldron drew back into the depths of the sky. And all that whistling and huffing from the wind and the flames turned into one long sigh. The Hollow, the black trees—all of Too Far—seemed to be grieving. This heaven, this glory, the promised deliverance—was not to be.

  ***

  When nothing remained of the Cabin but embers and chars, the storm left off. The skies were quiet and the earth was white. The snow-covered woodland seemed at peace. It was the peace of the dead, for Shivers lay over it, and the bright things of summer lay buried beneath. High above, a rift in the clouds let moonlight through. The humped crowns of the Great Place had all been bridged. The Great roof rose undivided, round and smooth as a chalky skull—some great creature, perhaps, that Shivers had eaten.

  As their oracle had foreseen, Robbie went away with his mother. Not long after, Fristeen went to live with a family that a man in the courthouse gave her. The two children never saw each other again. It was hard for them both, but time blunted their pain. They survived, they grew up, they found homes in the world. But they remembered the summer with each other, the places they made their own, and the gods they invented.

  And the gods remember them.

  The northern storms are fierce, and they blow to this day. Winter's cold withers the leaves, and harsh winds rattle the skeletal trees. You would think the last joy in the world had fled.

  But beside the dead woodland, life is still stirring. Swirling with br
eath. A faint hum rides the breeze.

  There's a refuge, a place winter hasn't laid waste to. Warmth is protected—steam rises from the peat. Through the whisper of loose crystals and the pulsing gusts— A familiar voice is singing of her endless love. Squeals thread the low hills, frozen in time—the echoes of children daring to wander, a sweeter life in mind. Here at the world's edge, their spirits run naked and free, watched over by gods, immune to the seasons. A place made of equal parts waking and sleep. Where a jay silhouette mounts a turret of cones, sees the first light and shrugs the snow from its wings. A place of mysteries, deep secrets and dreams—where the water flows red and the black trees lean.

  About the Author

  Rich Shapero is a writer and musician whose stories pioneer worlds that lie beyond the limits of material experience. His previous project, Wild Animus, hailed by Library Journal as "powerful and complex," includes a novel and three CDs. He lives in the Santa Cruz Mountains with his wife and two daughters.