by Gene Wolfe
Perhaps its black was only shadow. Perhaps its gold was only sunlight. He said, “Nobody has hair like that.”
“I do.” She smiled, and her lips were as red as corals, and her teeth were sharp and gleaming white. “Men have found themselves in difficulties through biting my apple.”
He nodded, certain it was true.
“But kiss me, and you may do anything you wish.”
“I wouldn’t be able to stop,” he told her, and turned and ran.
He woke sweating, threw off the covers and got out of bed. The house was dark and quiet. The alarm clock meant to wake him for school said five minutes past four. He carried his books and notebooks to the dining-room table, turned on the light, and began to study.
In study hall that afternoon, he wrote this in his spiral notebook.
“One time Mr. Bates said how do you know this is real? Maybe what you dream is really real and this is a dream. How can you tell? People argued about it, but I did not because I knew the answer. It is because what you dream is different every night. Waking up you are wherever you went to sleep. Last night it was kind of the same as before, but different because the city was gone. Anyhow I could not see it. I met this girl who tried to get me to say what color her hair was, only I could not. She wanted to kiss me and I ran off.”
He made a small round dot for the final period, and read over what he had written. It seemed inadequate, and he added: “I would like to go back.”
He stopped upon the summit of a hill higher than most, and turned for a last look. She was standing on her rock now, sparsely robed in hair like fire that cast shadows upon her white flesh that were as black as paint. One hand held up her shining apple. When she saw he was watching her, she raised the other, kissed it, and blew the kiss to him.
For one brief instant he saw it fluttering toward him like a butterfly of cellophane. It touched his lips, soft and throbbing and redolent of the flowers that bloom under the sea. He shook, and could not stop.
A long time after that, when she and her inlet were many hills behind him and he had long since stopped trembling, he saw a black and white dog. It had a long and tangled coat, a long and feathery tail, and ears that would not stand up quite straight. He had never had a dog, but the people next door had a dog very much like that, a dog named Shep. He played with Shep now and then, and he whistled now.
The dog turned to look at him, pricking up the ears that would not quite stand up straight. It was some distance away but came trotting toward him, and he himself trotted to meet it, and stroked its head and rubbed its ears. After that the two of them went on together (the dog trotting at his heels) climbing and descending hills which gradually became less lofty and less rugged, sometimes catching glimpses of the sea to their left, where waves flashed in sunshine like mirrors, or stalked from darkling sea to darkling land like an army of ghosts.
The alarm clock was ringing tinnily. He got up and shut it off, stretched, and looked out the window. There were leaves, mostly brown, on the broken sidewalk in front of the house. He tried to remember whether they had been there the day before, and decided they had not.
Later, as he shuffled through the leaves, Shep joined him and accompanied him to the bus stop. He petted Shep and declared him to be a good dog, and found something strange in the way Shep looked at him, some quality that slipped away no matter how hard he tried to grasp it.
On the bus he told Carl Kilby, “He looked right at me. Usually they don’t want to look you in the face. That was weird!” Carl, who had no idea what he was talking about, grunted.
In study hall …
“Last night I found this dog that looked exactly like Shep. Maybe it was him. He was a nice dog and we were way out in a pretty lonely spot. (I did not even see the ocean toward the end.) So I was glad to have the dog. Only what was he doing way out there? He was just walking along like me when I saw him.
“I have never had the same dream three nights. Not even two that I can remember.”
“Billy?”
“Well, if it happens tonight too, I hope the dog is still there.”
Mrs. Durkin touched his shoulder. “The period’s over, Billy.”
“Just a minute,” he said. “I want to get this down.”
“A kiss chased me and landed on my face.”
It was inadequate, and he knew it; but with Mrs. Durkin standing beside him it was the best he could do. He shut his notebook and stood up. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Durkin.”
She smiled. “The other kids rush out at the bell. It’s kind of nice to have one who isn’t eager to leave.”
He nodded, which seemed safe, backed away, and went to his next class.
The dog was still there, lying down as if waiting for him. The weather was the same. The city he had seen had been on the other side of the mountains—he felt certain of that, and he could see the mountains far away, a low blue rampart.
He and the dog walked on together until the dog said, “Chief?”
“God bless you!” he told it, and leaned down a little to pat its head.
“Chief, would you maybe like a drink?”
It seemed entirely natural, but somehow deep underneath it did not seem natural. Not surprised but somehow (deep underneath) thrown a little off balance, he said, “Sure, if you would.”
“There’s a nice spring not far from here,” the dog said. “Cold water, with a sort of drink-me-and-be-lucky flavor. I could show you.”
He said, “Sure,” but when they had gone some distance he added, “I guess you’ve been here before.”
“Huh-uh,” the dog said.
“Okay, then how do you know about this place?”
“I smell it.” When they had climbed another hill and the spring was in sight, the dog added, “It might not work for me. Only for you.”
The dog drank the water just the same, running ahead of him and lapping fast. There was a pool in the rocks, not too wide to jump over, from which a rill ran. He went to the other side and knelt. I’ve never drunk out of a dog’s bowl, he thought, so this is a first.
It was good water, as the dog had promised it would be, cold and fresh. He had no idea what luck was supposed to taste like, so he tried to analyze the flavor, which was very faint. It was a taste of rocks and pines and chill winds, he decided, with just a little touch of sunshine on snow.
“Does he always follow you like that, Bill?”
Sue Sumner was blond and beautiful, and he knew he was apt to stammer like a retard; he also knew he had to answer. He said, “No, just yesterday and today. He’s a nice dog, but I don’t know why he comes to the stop with me.”
She smiled. “You ought to take him on the bus.”
“I’d like to,” he said, and realized as he spoke that it was true. “I’d like to take him to school with me.”
“Like Mary and her little lamb.”
He grinned. “Sure. I’ve been laughed at before. It didn’t hurt much, and it hasn’t killed me yet.”
It was Friday, which meant assembly instead of study hall. He would save his dream in memory, he decided, and write it down in study hall Monday, with his weekend dreams, if there were any. “Probably won’t be,” he told himself.
From his notebook … “The craziest thing happened yesterday. We got back from church and I went up to change back. I was putting on my jeans, and there was this bird singing outside. Singing lyrics. I thought this is crazy, birds don’t sing words, and I tried to remember how they really did sing. I could remember the tune, but it seemed like I could not remember the words. I kept telling myself there were not any. I put on a CD, loud, and pretty soon the bird flew away. Now I cannot remember what the bird sang, and I would like to. Something about him and his wife (it rhymed with life, I remember that) building a house and don’t come around because we will not let you in.
“OK, I went outside and right away the Pekars’ dog started following me. I thought my gosh it is going to turn into The Dream—the hills, the rocks, the dwarf on the hor
se and all that, and I am crazy. So I walked about three blocks with the Pekars’ dog along the whole time.
“We got to the park and I sat down on a bench and petted the dog some, and I said, listen, this is serious, so can you really talk? And he looked right at me the way he does and said yep. What is your name, I said, and he said Shep. I was going to ask if he remembered the naked lady with the hair, only he had not been with me when that happened. So I asked about the lucky water we drank, did he remember that? He said yep. He says he cannot talk to other people at all, only to me and other dogs. The dwarf said all that stuff about the writing on the scabbard and the writing on the blade, and I was not sure I remembered it. I still am not. So I asked him about that and he said he—”
“Billy, will you run an errand for me, please?”
He looked up and shut his notebook. “Sure, Mrs. Durkin.”
“Thank you. Wait just a moment while I write this note.” She wrote rapidly, not scribbling but small, neat, businesslike script. When she had finished, she folded the paper, put it in an envelope, sealed the envelope, and wrote “Mr. Hoff” on it. “Mr. Hoff is an assistant principal. You know that, I’m sure.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’d like you take this to him, Billy, and I want you to wait for a reply, written or oral. If the bell rings before you get it, you are not to go to your next class. You are to wait for that reply. Leave your books here. I’ll give you a note excusing you when you come back for them.”
He explained about waiting to Mr. Hoff when he handed him the envelope; Mr. Hoff looked slightly baffled but told him to wait in the outer office.
Sue Sumner sat with him on the bus going home. Sue got off with him, too, although it was not her regular stop. Shep had been waiting at the stop, and she petted Shep until the other kids had gone. Then she said, “What’s bothering you, Bill?”
“You could tell, huh?”
“I talked to you twice, and you didn’t hear me. At first I thought you were ditching me—”
“I wouldn’t do that!”
“The second time I saw that you were just so deep inside yourself …”
He nodded.
“Now you look like you’re too big to cry. What is it?”
“First period.” He cleared his throat. “I won’t be there. I’ve got to go to the office. Are you going to tell everybody?”
Sue shook her head. She was wearing a guy’s shirt, jeans, and very little makeup; and she was so lovely it hurt to look at her.
“I’ve got to talk to the psychologist. They think I’m crazy.”
She put her hand on his shoulder. “You’re not. You’ll be fine.”
He shrugged. “I think I’m crazy, too. I have crazy dreams.”
“Everybody has crazy dreams.”
“Not like this. Not the same thing, night after night.”
“About me?” She smiled.
“Yeah. Kind of. How did you know?”
She smiled again, impishly. “Maybe I’ll tell you, and maybe I won’t.”
They began to walk. He said, “Shep and I will walk you home.”
“I kind of thought you would.”
“Maybe I could leave the house a little early tomorrow and go over to your stop and wait there with you?”
Her hand found his. “I kind of thought you might do that, too. Tell me about your dreams.”
“It’s all kinds of stuff, only it’s always about this place way far off. The gold towers. They’re the color of your hair. Don’t get mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Me and Shep are trying to get there. Shep can talk.”
She squeezed his hand.
“I’ve got this sword. It’s a beautiful sword, and there’s writing on the scabbard and writing on the blade. The writing on the scabbard is important. Really, really important.”
“Are you making this up?”
He shook his head. “If I was, it wouldn’t be so scary. The writing on the blade is more important than the writing on the scabbard, but you have to read the scabbard, all of it, before you read the blade. It’s all very hard to read because the writing’s really old-fashioned. Shep can’t read it at all, but I can a little. Last night I was able to make out the first three words.”
“I bet you couldn’t remember them this morning.”
“Sure I can.” He spoke the words.
There was an old woman in a rocking chair on the porch of a house they were passing. She called, “Hello, Sue. Hello, young man.”
Sue stared, then smiled. “Hi, Aunt Dinah.” (It seemed to him that there had been some slight obstruction in Sue’s throat.)
“Would you and your young man like to come in for some iced tea?”
“Next time, Aunt Dinah. I’ve got to get home and do my homework.”
A middle-aged man with glasses came out of the house and spoke to Aunt Dinah. She smiled at this man, and said, “I live here with you, sir.” When she turned back to them, she said, “That’s a fine young man you’ve got there, Sue. Hold on to him.”
When they were a block past that house, he said, “We’re going across these hills, Sue. Shep and me are. We found this girl, a beautiful girl with long black hair. Something had her foot, and it was pulling her into a hole, and—”
“I don’t want to hear any more about your dreams,” Sue said softly. “Not right now. Let’s just walk for a while. Not talking.”
He nodded. This was Spruce Street, and there was a house there where the people had actually planted spruce trees between the street and the sidewalk. He did not know the people; but he had always felt sure he would like them if he ever met them, because of that. Three houses down, a sleek Mercedes sedan was parked at the curb. He had seen it before, although he did not know the owner. He stared at it as they passed, because it looked different—different in a warm and friendly way, as though it knew him and liked him.
They had turned onto Twenty-third and walked another block before he figured it out. The Mercedes had always looked like something that would never be in his reach. Now it looked as if it was, as if it was a car he could own any time he decided he really wanted one.
Sue said, “I’m ready to talk now, Bill. Is that all right?”
He nodded. “I’m ready to listen.”
“There were two things I had to say.” She paused, small white teeth gnawing at her lower lip. “They are important, both of them, and I knew I ought to say them both. Only I couldn’t figure out which one I ought to say first. I think I have, now. Have you ever been like that?”
He nodded again. “I usually get it wrong.”
“I don’t believe you.” She smiled very suddenly, and it was as though the sun had burst from behind a cloud. “Here’s the first one. Do you know why high school is so important?”
“I think you’d better tell me.”
“It’s not because it’s where you learn history or home ec. It’s not even because it’s where you get ready for college. It’s because it’s where some people—the people who aren’t going to be left behind—decide what they want to do with their lives.”
He said, “My brother decided he was going into the Navy.”
“Yes. Exactly. And I’ve decided. Have you?”
He shook his head.
“What I’m going to do is you, Bill.” Her voice was low but intense. “I’m going to stick with you. I think you’re going to stick with me, too. I’ll see to it. But if you don’t, I’m going to stick with you anyway. On the bus I thought maybe you were going to try to ditch me. Remember that?”
“I would never ditch you,” he said, and meant it.
“Well, even if you do, I’ll still be around. That’s the first thing I wanted to say—the thing I decided ought to come first. Now I’ve said it, and I feel a lot better.”
“So do I.” He discovered that he was smiling. “You know, I’ve got this problem, and it felt really, really important. But it isn’t. Not anymore.”
She smiled. “T
hat’s right.”
“I was thinking how to tell my parents. That was the part that really had me worried—how could I put part of it off onto them. I didn’t think of it like that, but that’s what it was. Well, I’m not going to. Why should they worry, when maybe they don’t have to? If that school psychologist wants them to know, she can tell them herself. ‘Oh, by the way, Mrs. Wachter, your son is crazy.’ Let’s see how she likes it.”
“Here’s the other thing I have to tell you,” Sue Sumner said; her voice was so low that he could scarcely hear her. “That used to be Aunt Dinah’s house, back there. But Aunt Dinah’s dead.”
The sky had not changed. The sun that was always to their left was to his left still. The racing clouds raced on, with more after them, and more after them, a marathon for clouds in which a hundred thousand were competing.
It must never change here, he thought. Then he realized that all his dreams had taken little time here, no more than a few hours.
The black-haired girl was still sitting on the ground, rubbing a slender white ankle that showed the livid mark of a clawed hand.
Soil wet with blood still clung to the blade of his sword. He wiped it with dry grass, wishing for rags and a can of oil. Reminding himself not to read the blade—not that he could have if he had wanted to.
The girl looked up at him, and her eyes were large and dark, forest pools seen by moonlight. “Not many men would have thought to do that,” she said. Her voice was music, dark and low. “And no other man would have dared.”
“I’m just glad it worked,” he said. “What happened?”
For a moment she smiled. (When she smiled he felt he would have followed her to the end of the world.) “I didn’t see the hole, that’s all. The grass hid it.”
He nodded and sat near her, though not too near. Shep lay down at his feet.