Seven Crow Stories

by Robert J. Wiersema

  “It’s all right,” he said, from outside the trailer. “I’ve kept my word.”

  I stared at the doorway for a long moment, making sure he wasn’t lying, then turned back to the mirror, my reflection.

  He—I had already started to think of him as a he, something not me—hadn’t turned when I had. He remained standing stock still, staring at me. Zeffirelli had stepped close behind him, his hand on my reflection’s shoulder.

  For a moment, I could almost feel the hand on myself, but I blinked heavily, forced the feeling away.

  “What the hell?”

  He raised his eyes to look at me, as if he had heard. I thought it had to be a trick, some sort of stage magic that Zeffirelli kept in his trailer to freak people out. Something to do with screens and mirrors and corners. Some sort of trick.

  “Mr. Zeffirelli,” I called out as I stepped toward the mirror. There had to be some trick. If I could just figure it out—

  As my fingers brushed the cool surface of the mirror, the world lurched under my feet, a tremor so sudden and severe it buckled my knees. I clamped my eyes shut, squeezed down hard, breathing slow through my nose to right myself, to try to keep from throwing up.

  When I was finally able to open my eyes, I almost doubled over.

  At first, for a fleeting moment, I thought that everything was all right, that things were back to normal.

  But I was wrong.

  The air was different, smelling of citrus and spices, the orange light wavering, as if from candles. The mirror now reflected the doors to the bedroom and the bathroom, the kitchen nook, the book on the table.

  And I could feel the weight of Zeffirelli’s hand on my shoulder. For real.

  I whirled around, stepped back, the carpet so thick under my feet that I almost fell.

  Zeffirelli raised his hands, palms open and facing me. “It’s all right,” he said. “That’s a perfectly normal response.”

  I shifted my eyes between him and the room on the other side of the mirror. My reflection’s hand was extended, his fingers touching the surface of the mirror, his brow knit tight with confusion, fear in his eyes as they almost met mine.

  “I understand you’re confused,” Zeffirelli said.

  For some reason, the smooth, soothing calm of his voice only served to put me more on edge. I took another step back, compensating for the softness of the carpet underfoot by flexing my knees.

  “What’s going on? What is this place?”

  “It’s the other side of the mirror,” Zeffirelli said. Not the Zeffirelli standing behind me, but the Zeffirelli who stood in the doorway of the trailer behind my reflection. Me. The other me. I couldn’t tell if he was answering my question, or anticipating what the other version of me was about to ask.

  I looked at myself, waited for him to speak.

  He didn’t. He just half-closed his eyes and nodded, not because the explanation made sense, or that he understood, but because he was powerless, that mute acceptance was the only response.

  Something about his expression cut through me, lit something inside me that felt like a fuse.

  “That’s not an answer,” I said, looking at the Zeffirelli in the glass but directing the comment at the Zeffirelli a few steps away from me. “How did I get here?”

  “You’ve always been here,” Zeffirelli said, the Zeffirelli that was closest to me.

  This Zeffirelli was tall, his moustache and goatee thick, his jacket smooth and heavy, no errant threads, no tattered edges. The flower in his pocket was lush, its scent rich and heavy.

  “That’s not an answer either,” I said, half-turning toward him.

  “Isn’t it?” the Zeffirelli on the other side of the glass said. He stepped toward the mirror as he—the other me—turned toward him, both stopping to stand in almost the same positions as we did on our side of the mirror.

  “Jesus,” I muttered.

  My reflection swallowed.

  I reached up, touched the tip of my nose like I was scratching it. The other me touched his nose, then looked at me, a scowl on his face.

  I knew what he was thinking: he was mentally ordering me to stop, saying that he was in control of his actions, that he would scratch his nose when he felt like it, not when—

  “But mirrors are the same on both sides,” I said.

  “Usually,” Zeffirelli said, on the other side of the glass.

  I watched myself sigh with exasperation.

  “No,” the other me said, chopping decisively at the air with the edge of his right hand. “Always. That’s what makes them mirrors.”

  “That’s what makes some mirrors,” Zeffirelli said from my side of the glass.

  “What?” my reflection and I said, at the same time.

  Both Zeffirellis smiled.

  “Have you ever caught a glimpse of yourself in a window at night?” the Zeffirelli on the other side of the glass asked.

  “Or looked at your reflection in a still pond, like old Narcissus?” asked the one on mine.

  My other self nodded as I said a careful “Yes.”

  And for a moment, I was at the edge of the pond in Miller’s woods. It was a spring day, the sun high overhead, the sky a deep blue behind me, leaves thick and green, a light breeze tossing my hair as I leaned over the water, a space in my front teeth as I grinned.

  For a moment, I caught sight of myself in the window behind the kitchen table. Mom and dad were talking, and I had turned in my chair, trying not to hear, meeting my eyes in the glass.

  “Is what you see reflected always what’s there?” the other Zeffirelli asked.

  “Of course,” both versions of me said, at the same moment.

  “Really?” both Zeffirellis asked. “Look closer.”

  But I didn’t need him to tell me. Didn’t need the reminder. The breeze playing across the surface of the pond distorted my image, swirled sky and leaves together, and through my own face, through the blue above and behind me, I could see the shape of leaves under the surface, the shadow of the bottom of the pond somewhere distant, the shadows of unseen depth lurking just beyond my face yet somehow also within it, beyond the leaves and sky.

  Beyond my face, the darkness outside the window was almost complete. The kitchen was bright, reflected in the glass, but even mom and dad seemed far away, indistinct, like the whole world was being pulled, helpless, into the darkness beyond the glass, the darkness just behind my face, my eyes.

  We both nodded slowly.

  “Okay,” my reflection said, as if bracing himself for whatever Zeffirelli was going to say next.

  The Zeffirelli on my side shook his head. “No,” he said. “What did you see?”

  The other me looked confused.

  “In the glass,” the other Zeffirelli said.

  “In the pond,” the Zeffirelli on my side of the glass said.

  When we answered, I wasn’t sure which of us said what.

  “The bottom of the pond—”

  “The dark outside—”

  “And the shadows and plants—”

  “It seemed to be trying to come in—”

  Both Zeffirellis nodded thoughtfully.

  “You were there too, in the glass, in the pond,” they said.

  We hesitated, then nodded. Of course.

  “But how do you know,” the Zeffirelli on my side of the glass said.

  “Which of you is real,”

  “And which is the reflection?”

  It took me a moment to realize that I was standing in the plain trailer again, looking at the ornate, rich world through the mirror on the wall.

  A sudden feeling of loss gusted through me like wind through a thin coat, a cold so severe I almost fell to my knees.

  “Is the world around you the real one,”

  “Or is it the world you s
ee through the glass?”

  “Is there a real world at all?”

  I was in the candle-lit room again, the light warm and flickering, the carpet thick.

  “Or is it all what you choose to see?”

  “Is the darkness around you?”

  “Or is it in the glass?”

  “All right,” I said, lifting my head. “Stop. I get it.”

  The Zeffirelli on my side of the glass smiled. “What do you get?”

  I swallowed, looked at my reflection for support.

  “There are two of me,” I said slowly, looking at my own features, bracing myself for another correction.

  Instead, he said, “Yes.” Low and slow. “Are they the same?”

  I said “Yes,” though it felt like a guess, like it had to be wrong, like it was too easy somehow.

  But he didn’t correct me. “And what about the rest of what you see? The rooms, the people. Are they the same?”

  I shook my head. “No.” Almost confident that I was right this time.

  “Of course,” he said. I took a strange pleasure in having pleased him.

  “Now,” he said, slowly. “Which one is real?”

  I froze. I knew what the answer had to be.

  I thought of Bob waiting for me in the bleachers, the ride home on his bike, school starting in just over a week. Bob leaving. Mom and dad.

  The answer was obvious.

  But . . .

  I could smell the oranges and spices, feel the heat of the candles, the softness of the rugs underfoot. . . .

  I shook my head.

  “Both?” I said carefully, knowing that I couldn’t possibly be right.

  Zeffirelli smiled. “Exactly,” he said.

  “But I don’t—” I lifted my hand, reached toward the glass, touched my own fingers reaching toward me. “Are you saying I can just—” I fought for the right word. “—cross? I can go back and forth?”

  Zeffirelli blinked heavily, and shook his head. My heart fell into the pit of my stomach.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking at me gravely. “Narcissus drowned, trying to reach his reflection. And putting yourself through a window . . .” He trailed off, leaving a picture in my mind of blood and shattered glass.

  “But I just did.” I gestured at the mirror.

  “Here,” said the Zeffirelli on my side. “And now.”

  “Only here,” the other Zefirelli echoed. “And only now.”

  “So when you leave—” I gestured at the candle-lit room behind me. “This will all be gone.”

  “That depends on what you choose.”

  His words seemed to hang in the air, to echo inside my head.

  The Zeffirelli on the other side of the glass nodded. “One world seems more real to you now because it’s the only world you’ve ever know. The other—” he gestured at the glass between us. “—is a mystery. But—” His eyes shone. “A world of wonder awaits, I can assure you.”

  Awaits?

  “What are you saying?” The words seemed to pile up in the back of my throat. “Are you saying I can . . . Are you asking me to stay?”

  “If you like.”

  I bit my lip, looked at myself in the glass. I could stay on the candle side. Here. With Zeffirelli. With the lions. With the circus.

  I imagined someone saying, He did it, he really did it. He ran away and joined the circus, and in the mirror a smile broke over my face. But then the line registered with me, and I watched my face fall.

  I couldn’t do it. There wasn’t any choice. Not really.

  “What’s wrong?” Zeffirelli asked.

  “My mom and dad,” I said. “My cousin Bob. Everyone in town. I can’t just—” I struggled to find the right word. “Leave. Disappear.”

  For a moment, Zeffirelli seemed puzzled. Then he smiled. “Ah,” he said. “I understand your difficulty.” He pulled lightly on his beard. “Coming with us won’t mean leaving. Not really.”

  My reflection frowned, his forehead creasing in puzzlement.

  “When the circus goes in the morning, this trailer, this mirror, will lead the caravan. The mirror, and everything it contains, will be gone. But there will always be a you, here, in this little town. He will live his life as it was going to be lived, on that side of the glass. On this side . . .” He shrugged slightly. “Who knows what wonders await a boy your age?” He put his hand on my shoulder. “You have to decide which side of the glass you will live within. Which side will be real to you, and which will become a dream, a path not taken.”

  I nodded slowly.

  The Zeffirelli on the other side of the glass lifted his head. “I must tell you, though: time grows short. Our stay in your little town is almost at an end.”

  Fear twisted the features of my reflection, uncertainty in his eyes. I couldn’t look away. “What if I make the wrong choice? What if I change my mind? I’m only eleven years old!”

  Zeffirelli shook his head slowly. “Ten, eleven, twenty, forty,” he said. “Everyone decides.” He reached into the air and plucked a coin out of the nothing. “But not everyone realizes it, at the time.” He shrugged, and snapped his fingers, and the coin disappeared.

  My reflection sagged.

  “But I’m only eleven,” I repeated. “How should I know what to do?”

  When I woke up the next morning, I didn’t know where I was. Everything seemed strange, uncomfortable. It took me a long moment to understand why: I was still dressed, still wearing the same clothes I had worn to the circus.

  The circus . . .

  The thought of the night before brought a slight pounding to my head, a grating throb in my temples, and I shut my eyes again, tried to count my breaths.

  When the feeling began to recede, I opened my eyes again. I was in my room. I was in my bed. But I couldn’t remember how I got there.

  It was only when I tried to sit up that I realized: I wasn’t in my bed, I was on it, on top of the blankets and comforter.

  How did I get there?

  And why was it so bright? The sky outside the window above my desk was heavy with thick, grey-black clouds, but the room was bright. It was almost like—

  “Oh no.”

  My clock read 11:17.

  I stood bolt upright and crossed the room in three steps, leaning over my desk to look out the window. The driveway was empty. The world looked cool, and steely, like the edge of rain, the leaves on the nut trees that ran along the edge of the east fields rippling with a breeze I couldn’t hear or feel.

  The house was still, an emptiness that I had come to recognize.

  I straightened up, and it all came back to me in a rush. I remembered the beginning of the circus, the lions coming into the big top. I remembered standing up, motioning to Bob that I had to leave, that I had to go to the bathroom. I remembered how cool the tile wall of the stall had felt against the side of my head as I perched on the toilet, sweat soaking my face. My shirt. I remembered the sound of the restroom door opening, and Bob’s voice, quiet, concerned, calling my name, asking if I was all right. And I wasn’t.

  As I looked around the room, the gaps in my memory started to fill in. I spotted the bucket on the floor by the head of the bed. Bob had borrowed John Horvath’s car, had laid me in the back seat. He had carried me into the house, and up the stairs. He had sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my back, as I fell asleep.

  The thought of it made me smile. At the same time, it made me sad. I had missed most of the circus. I exhaled through my nose, and took a deep breath. Thought about Bob. Tried to be cool. It was all right. The circus would come back, maybe next summer. There would be another chance.

  I was still weak and a little woozy from being sick, and my whole body felt strangely tender, but staying in bed really wasn’t an option. I needed to put on my work clothes and get out there.<
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  My hands shook slightly, and it took me a moment to unbuckle my belt. As I pulled off my pants, something fell out of my pocket, striking the floor with a hollow clatter and slipping under my desk.

  I reached into the shadows and pulled out a plastic disk about the size and weight of a bingo chip. The gold finish was chipped and pitted, but I could still make out the circular logo of the circus.

  I smiled as I stood up. A token or something. Maybe from one of the games. I wondered, for a moment, where I had got it, then I dropped it on my desk with a small clatter. I’d put it away somewhere when I got in from my chores. The circus would be back, and I would be able to use it then, whatever it was.

  But in the meantime . . .

  I could almost hear my father’s voice cutting in.

  . . . daylight was burning, and there was a farm to run. Chores to be done.

  We worked through most of the night.

  After the crowds dispersed, after the temporary gates had been locked, the hands brought out the lights and we started to tear down the show. We worked from the outside in: the trailers with the games were the first to go, the machinery stowed, the doors closed and bolted, the trailers driven off to form the beginnings of a line down the side of the straight country road.

  The sideshow and the food tents were next. I wanted to help out with the sideshow, just for a glimpse of what was behind the golden rope, but Zeffirelli held me back, shaking his head. “There’ll be time enough for that,” he said, before sending me off to work on the cotton candy machine.

  The big top was last. For that I just stood back and watched, keeping a safe distance as the hands brought the tent down with a whoosh of canvas-smelling air and an odd popping noise. Watching it sag, watching them roll it up, was as exhilarating as it had been to see it towering above the agricultural grounds the day before.

  Had it only been a day? It felt like so much longer.

  After that, we slept for a few hours. Zeffirelli frowned apologetically as he laid out a blanket on the bench in the trailer’s kitchen. “We’ll find you a spot in one of the trailers tonight,” he said. “But for now, you can crash here, all right?”

  I just nodded. I hadn’t said much since the night before, when I watched my other self walk away the night before, his shoulders hunched, his head low. It didn’t seem like there was a whole lot to say.