In Valley of the Sun

by Andy Davidson

  and now the carriage went round and round and soon descended and the operator caught it and unlatched the door, and it was all over too soon, and the woman and the boy stepped quickly out of the gondola and walked away over the metal gantry and down the stairs, and Travis sat in the gently rocking carriage, thinking to himself, I’ll just go again, and as the wheel began its slow, halting climb back up, Travis saw the woman and the boy one last time, moving through the throng, the woman’s arm around the boy, and they did not look back, and they were gone—

  Travis opened his eyes and overhead the night sky erupted in red and blue and green with a series of deep, sputtering booms. He turned his head slowly and looked east over the lake, to where the sky bloomed with light. Surely, he thought, these will tear a hole big enough to get me through.

  He did not see Rue step out from the shadows between the dart booth and the funhouse. No one saw. Her neck and dress were red and her hair was wet with blood, and the look upon her face was sad. She looked old, decrepit. She stood there a while, watching Travis, eyes black as pitch. She put one hand against the wall of the dart booth, as if to steady herself, and then she looked up toward the sky, and in an instant she was gone, winking out of the world to cross some unknown space, unknown time.

  Maybe I will take that ride now, Travis thought.

  He dropped his hand from his stomach, reaching for the knife on the bench, and the tickets the boy had left him slipped away and were blown into the grass at the water’s edge.

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve been fortunate over the years to have a tremendous circle of friends and colleagues who have advised (or revised) me. They’ve also instructed and inspired.

  My agent, Elizabeth Copps, believed in me at a critical moment; for that, as well as for her continued guidance and support, I am grateful beyond words. Backing her are the good people of the Maria Carvainis Agency, among them Martha Guzman, Ariel Feldman, and Maria Carvainis. A very special thanks to Samantha Brody, as well. At Skyhorse Publishing, the brilliant Chelsey Emmelhainz whipped this book into shape by asking good, hard questions. She also answered my own with unflagging patience. Also, to everyone else at Skyhorse who had a hand in the novel—including Erin Seaward-Hiatt, Jordan Koluch, Jill Lichtenstadter, and Bri Scharfenberg, just to name a few—many thanks.

  I owe a debt to more teachers than I can count, chief among them the poets Johnny Wink and Jay Curlin and the late great fiction writer Barry Hannah. Johnny and Jay marked my writing when the ink was fresh and remain, to this day, dear friends. Barry, of course, is a legend, and his is the best summation of craft I’ve ever heard: beginning, middle, end—thrill me. Hopefully, sir, I got it right.

  As for inspiration, the list is long. A special thanks to Kelly Saderholm, one of the kindest and most generous souls I know; to Genie Bryan, for reading the manuscript at a very early stage and telling me it was good; to Darryl Hancock, my colleague and friend, who supported me through the long dark middle; to John and Carolyn O’Leary, who asked a lot of questions and cared deeply about the answers; and, of course, to my parents, Harold and Sharon Davidson, who raised me to love books and words and never lost faith in me, even when I was stumbling in the dark.

  Finally, this book is dedicated to my wife, Crystal. In all things, she remains my greatest teacher and my chief inspiration. A lifelong role-player, she’s also my very own Dungeon Master. More often than she’ll admit, Crystal understands my characters better than I do—just like she knows me better than I know myself.

  This book wouldn’t exist without her.

  I love you, C.

  Thanks forever.