Bedtime Story

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Bedtime Story Page 33

by Robert J. Wiersema


  David jumped at the sound of the magus’s voice. He had forgotten that the captain and the magus were standing just outside.

  “It’s just a little stuffy in here.”

  “Is it safe to go on?” the captain asked.

  David wasn’t sure how to answer. The air stank, and left a sour thickness at the back of his throat.

  If there wasn’t enough oxygen, the torch would go out, Matt reassured him.

  “I should be fine so long as the torch stays lit,” he said. “If it goes out, I’ll come back.”

  Running.

  “That took longer than I expected,” Jacqui said, when I arrived back at the house with the Chinese food. I had been gone more than an hour, and I had to remind myself that it was just an observation, not a criticism.

  “It was busy,” I said, setting the food on the coffee table. “Wednesday night. Who would have guessed?”

  We ate in the family room, sitting on the couch across from David’s bed, hunched over our plates. Neither of us said much of anything. Jacqui had given him dinner while I was gone, but she fed him a little from her plate.

  When we were finished, leftovers in the fridge, Jacqui asked, “Do you want to help me get David ready for bed?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I should know what’s what.”

  She looked at me for a long moment. “Well, the first thing we have to do is take him to the bathroom …”

  Toilet. Teeth. Face washed. Then back into the living room for a new diaper, a clean set of pyjamas. It seemed to take forever, even the simplest of actions a complicated series of steps. I guarded my reaction every moment. Jacqui was so proud of him for being able to brush his own teeth, with only a little help. I smiled in all the right places.

  This is my life now.

  “And now it’s storytime,” she said, picking up the photocopy of To the Four Directions from the coffee table where I had set it down under the bag of Chinese food.

  She held the book out to me. “Would you like to do the honours?”

  I knew the significance of the gesture. Jacqui was acknowledging my craziness, what little she knew of it, and accepting it. But the sight of the book was almost enough to make me break down again.

  I tried to smile. “Why don’t you?” I pantomimed a cigarette. “I’m gonna go out to the porch.”

  It was still early, barely eight o’clock, and there were a lot of people on the street. I raised my hand at the middle-aged gay couple taking their evening constitutional with their small black dog, and tried to ignore the skateboard kids rattling up the middle of the road. Life went on, the way it always did, our small tragedy not even registering on the face of the world.

  Jacqui came out behind me and touched me on the shoulder. I didn’t turn to look at her, afraid of what my face might reveal.

  “That was quick,” I said.

  “I’m trying not to read too much each night,” she said. “We’re getting close to the end of the book.”

  I winced.

  “You must be exhausted,” she said, her hand still light on my back.

  “I am,” I said. “I should probably head for bed.” The thought of going to my apartment, of being alone again, filled me with a cold horror, but I couldn’t just stand there, saying as little as possible to Jacqui, not wanting to risk the truth coming out.

  “You don’t have to go, you know,” she said, almost in a whisper. “You could stay here.”

  I had waited so long to hear those words.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, I can’t.”

  It was hard enough to be in the house with her and David, everything a reminder of how I had failed them.

  “Chris—”

  “I can’t,” I repeated, starting down the steps, flicking my cigarette butt in the general direction of the street.

  “Chris,” she said, in a different tone. “What happened in New York?”

  I stopped. There it was: the question, blunt and unadorned, hanging in the air between us. There was no way for me to dodge it, and if I answered it, I would have to lie. Again.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, starting down the walk. “I have to go to bed. I’m dead on my feet.”

  The stairs were slick underfoot. David went slowly, checking his balance with every halting step. He didn’t want to have to grab at the walls to catch himself: they were covered with a slimy green coating of algae.

  “This is gross,” he muttered, keeping to the middle of the staircase. He checked the torch often, vigilant for the slightest hint of the flame sputtering. “The other cave, there was a river running through it, lots of water, but nothing like this.”

  Maybe something went wrong with this cave.

  “Gafilair doesn’t seem to have made many mistakes.”

  It’s a thousand years old. And you know what the magus said about water.

  They descended in silence for several minutes.

  We’re well under the level of the river now, Matt said. It’s getting wetter.

  He was right: David’s feet were splashing and water was trickling down the walls.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he murmured, remembering the water in the cavern at Rainbow Canyon.

  At least you can still breath, Matt said, drawing David’s eye back to the torch. It still burned strongly.

  “Small comfort,” David said, then stopped. “We’re here.”

  The bottom of the staircase widened into a small, square room. If he had stretched his arms out to his sides, he would have been able to just touch both of the slimy walls with the tips of his fingers.

  Not that he was inclined to try.

  On the opposite side of the room was another metal door, with the familiar symbol of the Sunstone etched into it just below David’s eye level.

  He stepped toward the door for a closer look. This Sunstone was different: a hand-shape had been carved into the centre of the stone.

  Jeez, I wonder what we should do with that.

  “Could you please stop …”

  Sorry, Matt said. I make jokes when I’m nervous.

  “I’m scared too,” David said. “Do you think that this”—he looked at the palm-print on the door—“would open for just anyone? Anyone whose hand fit, I mean.”

  No, Matt said simply, as if there were no question in his mind. These doors were made for you to open. Just like everything else. This is all about you.

  David had come up with the same answer, but it only led to another question. “Why me? Why build a quest and a prophecy out of the son of a tavern owner?”

  That’s the way these stories are, Matt said. There’s always some farm boy or peasant pulled into a magical quest. It’s just the way it works.

  “Like Luke Skywalker,” David said.

  Who?

  David felt a sharp pang. Of course Matt probably wouldn’t know Luke Skywalker. Had the first Star Wars movie even been released when—

  “Sorry,” he said, trying to cut off the flow of thoughts.

  That’s—

  Before Matt could reply—perhaps to keep him from replying—David stepped to the door and pressed his hand into the carved metal. He heard a click, the sound of a lock being released, and the door swung open with a groan.

  The air that came out of the room made him retch. It was thick with rot and decay, and felt almost warm on his face. He noticed another smell, something sharp. It was familiar, but he couldn’t quite recognize it.

  I don’t like this.

  Standing outside the room, David shifted from foot to foot, passing the torch between his hands. He almost convinced himself that he was just waiting for the foul air to clear.

  David.

  “Okay,” he muttered. “First things first.” He clenched his hand tightly around the handle of the torch.

  David—

  “We’ll just take a look, see what we’re dealing with.”

  David, that smell—

  He pushed the torch into the doorway, hoping to get a
better look.

  The torchhead crackled, and the room exploded.

  II

  I POURED MYSELF A CUP of coffee and walked back to the desk, lighting a cigarette as I opened up my in-box. The morning sun was bright through the window, and I drew the curtains. Last night had been a brutal night of terrifying dreams.

  The top message header read Re: Interview Request.

  Mr. Knox—

  Thank you for your note; my apologies for taking so long in responding to you. This is a busy time for the Foundation and for our fund-raising, in anticipation of some of the projects we fund each summer (like Camp Dream, a summer camp for children with brain injuries).

  Thank you for your interest in a story about the Foundation’s work. So far, there has been very little coverage of the Foundation in Canadian newspapers, and it would be most appreciated if that were to change.

  While I don’t wish to take too much of your article’s interest off the Foundation itself, I do agree that some information regarding the roots of the organization, in part what happened with Matthew, would help to put a human face on the cost of these injuries.

  Therefore I would certainly be open to a short interview. Please call me directly to set that up, at the number below.

  Thank you again for your interest. I look forward to talking with you.

  Carol Corvin

  I closed the message without writing down any of the contact information—there was no point. Two weeks ago, anything Carol Corvin could have told me about her son’s injuries would have been another piece of the puzzle.

  But now it didn’t matter: I knew what the puzzle looked like, and it would never be solved.

  It took a long time for David to get to his feet again after the explosion. He stood up slowly, wincing at the pain in his back where he had fallen against the edge of the stairs.

  I was trying to tell you, Matt said. That smell—it was some sort of gas.

  He took one step toward the doorway. “Oh my God,” he said. Before him was the most beautiful, the most terrifying thing he had ever seen.

  The very air in the next room seemed to be on fire, ribbons and rivulets of orange flame shimmering and dancing, moving almost as if they were alive. It reminded him of the night his father had woken him and bundled him onto the front porch, pointing to the sky where curtains of light seemed to waver and dance. The heat now coming from the doorway was overpowering, but the flames showed no indication of spilling into the antechamber.

  I think it’s methane, Matt explained. From the rotting plants and the slime.

  “No, I think somebody did this on purpose,” David said. “Look.”

  The flames in the air were starting to fade as he watched, retreating to the centre of the room, losing the intensity of their colour. In the dying light of the flaming air, the symbol of the Sunstone was plainly visible, carved into the floor of the chamber in deep channels. Flames rose from the outer circle, low enough to step over, but from the sun at the centre of the room burst a pale orange tower of flame almost as tall as David.

  And as the flames extinguished in the rest of the room, leaving only a smell of ash, the fires of the Sunstone showed no sign of fading.

  David slumped in the doorway.

  He did it on purpose.

  “Yeah,” David agreed. “Gafilair designed it like this. Someone would open the door with the torch he left, which would light the gases, which would light the symbol.”

  Not someone, Matt said. You.

  He gazed into the flames. They seemed to be growing higher.

  “I’m pretty sick of it being all about me,” he said. He felt so tired, so cold. All he wanted to do was wake up in his own bed, and find out that all of this had been a dream. Back with his mom and dad.

  It’s a test, Matt said.

  “I know it’s a test. I’m sick of all these tests. I just want to get the Stone and go home.”

  No, Matt said. It’s not a test like that. It’s not that the book wants you to fail at finding the Stone. He struggled to find the words. They want you to get the Stone. It’s the only way to get to a happy ending. It’s not so much a test as it is a … a trial. It’s a way for you to demonstrate your worthiness.

  David wished he could see the other boy, read the expression on his face. “What?”

  You’re the hero of the story, right? That means you have to get the Stone. But because you’re the hero, you’re the one who does get it. It’s already been decided. You already have everything you need to get the Stone.

  David tried to wrap his mind around what the other boy was saying. “So because this is all about me, I’ll get the Stone, simple as that?”

  We just have to figure out how you do it.

  When I let myself into the house, David’s sheets were peeled back and the living room was empty.

  “Hello,” I called out.

  “We’re in the bathroom,” Jacqui replied.

  I was bracing myself to find David slouched on the toilet again as I came around the corner, and was pleasantly surprised to see him in the bathtub instead.

  And even more surprised to see that he was smiling.

  “We decided it was time for a bath,” Jacqui said. She was wearing jogging pants and a T-shirt one size too big, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.

  “I think he likes it.”

  “He does like it,” she said, turning back to him. “Don’t you? And watch this.” Dipping one hand into the soapy water she pushed a small wave toward him, and his smile broadened.

  I sank to my knees beside her, alongside the bathtub. “When did all that start?” I asked, feeling like my heart might break.

  “When he came home.” She shrugged. “He just really likes the bath, I guess.”

  I dipped my hand into the tub and pushed some water toward him, watched him smile. I did it over and over again, waiting for him to burst into a giggle, the way he had when he was a baby, but he didn’t. Just that wide smile.

  “So does he play for a while?”

  “Oh, we’ve already had plenty of playtime,” she said. “We were just getting ready to wash up when you came in.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said, reaching for the cloth.

  She looked at me, then passed me the cloth. “Are you sure you remember how?” she teased gently as she stood up and slipped behind me.

  “I think I remember,” I said. I dipped the cloth into the bathwater.

  Jacqui let her hand linger on my shoulder for a moment.

  Washing him, the cloth gliding over his pale, slick skin, I couldn’t help but be reminded of bathing him as a baby. He was bigger now, but there were still the same fingers and toes to be washed between, the same ears to get behind, the same bum to scrub.

  It almost made me feel happy, to be that close to him again, to be the father he needed. Someone to rinse him off and help him to his feet as the tub drained, someone to pat him dry with a fluffy warm towel as he stood there.

  “I laid out some clothes for him on his bed,” Jacqui said.

  “That’s gonna be a long walk,” I said. “Are you ready to walk all the way to the living room?” I wrapped the towel around him as best I could, then I took his right hand and lifted it gently. He carefully stepped one foot over the side and planted it on the floor before lifting the other out of the tub.

  I led him into the living room, and sat on the couch while Jacqui finished drying and dressing him.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. She peeled a banana and broke it into smaller chunks, placing them one at a time into his hand. He never looked at her, but when he felt the banana in his hand he would raise it carefully, haltingly, toward his mouth and put the whole piece in, smearing it into the corners of his lips. He chewed impassively, without any change in his expression, no hint of pleasure or distaste. When the banana was done, Jacqui handed him a sippy cup.

  “So are you feeling a little better?” she asked. “With a good night’s sleep under your belt?”

 
“A bit,” I lied, watching David’s hands. The sleep hadn’t helped. It was bathing David, washing him and drying him, that was allowing me to feel even half-human again.

  She picked up her coffee cup from the table and took a small sip, staring into its depths. When she looked back at me, she asked, “So what happened in New York?”

  I shook my head.

  “I know something happened,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like you were last night. You looked like you were going to snap.”

  She wasn’t far off.

  “I can’t,” I said, finally. “You wouldn’t—”

  “There’s nothing you could have done that I wouldn’t understand, Chris.” The look on her face was pretty convincing, though I knew otherwise. “Did you sleep with someone?”

  “I didn’t sleep with anyone,” I said, recognizing the inherent falsehood underlying my words. I would have.

  “Then what?” she asked. “You can tell me.”

  I sighed. My chase was over; she might as well know why I was licking my wounds.

  “Okay,” I said, still not sure if this was a good idea. “But you have to hear me out. The whole story. All right?”

  She nodded, but there was a slight darkening of her eyes, a wariness.

  I leaned forward, put my elbows on my knees. “Have you ever experienced anything that you couldn’t explain?” I began. “Something that you knew was true, but there was no way to make rational sense of it?”

  She looked at me sympathetically, and for a moment it seemed like she might answer, that we might find common ground. But she said, “This is about that book, isn’t it?”

  I already wanted to take it back, to have kept my surly silence. “Yes,” I said. “It’s about the book.”

  She didn’t say anything else, just lifted her hand to indicate that I should go on.

  It was easier to tell her everything, from my first suspicions about the book to my fumbling attempts to research it on the Internet to meeting Nora and Sarah. That was when she stood up and started walking slowly around the room, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

 

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