Moonlight & Vines (11 page)

The stranger paused in mid-step. He regarded John with surprise, but waited for John to cross the street and join him. John introduced himself and put out his hand. The man hesitated for a moment, then took John's hand.

“Bernard Gair,” the man said in response. “Pleased, I'm sure.” His look of surprise had shifted into one of vague puzzlement. “Have we met before . . . ?”

John shook his head. “No, but I do know one of your colleagues. She calls herself Dakota.”

“The name doesn't ring a bell. But then there are so many of us—though never enough to do the job.”

“That's what she told me. Look, I know how busy you must be so I won't keep you any longer. I just wanted to ask you if you could direct me to . . .”

John's voice trailed off as he realized he wasn't being listened to. Gair peered more closely at him.

“You're one of the lost, aren't you?” Gair said. “I'm surprised I can even see you. You're usually so . . . insubstantial. But there's something different about you.”

“I'm looking for the gates,” John told him.

“The gates.”

Something in the way he repeated the words made John afraid that Gair wouldn't help him.

“It's not for me,” he said quickly. “It's for her.”

He drew back a fold of the sling's cloth to show Gair the sleeping infant nestled against his chest.

“I see,” Gair said. “But does she want to go on?”

“I think she's a little young to be making that kind of decision for herself.”

Gair shook his head. “Age makes no difference to a spirit's ability to decide such a thing. Infants can cling as tenaciously to life as do the elderly—often more so, since they have had so little time to experience it.”

“I'm not asking you to make a judgment,” John said. “I'm just asking for some directions. Let the kid decide for herself once she's at the gates and can look through.”

Gair needed time to consider that before he finally gave a slow nod.

“That could be arranged,” he allowed.

“If you could just give me directions,” John said.

Gair pulled up the left sleeve of his sweatshirt so that he could check the time on his wristwatch.

“Let me take you instead,” he said.

Even with directions, John couldn't have found the gates on his own. “The journey,” Gair explained, “doesn't exercise distance so much as a state of mind.” That was as good a description as any, John realized as he fell in step with his new companion, for it took them no time at all to circumvent familiar territory and step out onto a long boulevard. John felt a tugging in that part of his chest where his heart had once beaten as he looked down to the far end of the avenue. An immense archway stood there. Between its pillars the air shimmered like a heat mirage and called to him.

When Gair paused, John came to a reluctant halt beside him. Gair looked at his watch again.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “but I have to leave you now. I have another appointment.”

John found it hard to look at the man. His gaze kept being drawn back to the shimmering air inside the arch.

“I think I can find my way from here,” he said.

Gair smiled. “I should think you could.” He shook John's hand. “Godspeed,” he murmured, then he faded away just as Dakota had faded from his living room what seemed like a thousand lifetimes ago.

Dolly stirred against John's chest as he continued on toward the gates. He rearranged her in the sling so that she, too, could look at the approaching gates, but she turned her face away and for the first time his holding her wasn't enough. She began to wail at the sight of the gates, her distress growing in volume the closer they got.

John slowed his pace, uncertain now. He thought of Clark's cursing at him, of Gair telling him that Dolly, for all her infancy, was old enough to make this decision on her own. He realized that they were both right. He couldn't force her to go through, to travel on. But what would he do if she refused? He couldn't simply leave her behind either.

The archway of the gates loomed over him now. The heat shimmer had changed into a warm golden light that washed out from between the pillars, dispelling all the shadows that had ever taken root in John's soul. But the infant in his arms wept more pitifully, howled until he covered her head with part of the cloth and let her burrow her face against his chest. She whimpered softly there until John thought his heart
would break. With each step he took, the sounds she made grew more piteous.

He stood directly before the archway, bathed in its golden light. Through the pulsing glow, he could see the big sky Dakota had described. It went on forever. He could feel his heart swell to fill it. All he wanted to do was step through, to be done with the lies of the flesh, the lies that had told him, this one life was all, the lies that had tricked him into being trapped in the city of the undead.

But there was the infant to consider and he couldn't abandon her. Couldn't abandon her, but he couldn't explain it to her, that there was nothing to fear, that it was only light and an enormous sky. And peace. There were no words to capture the wonder that pulsed through his veins, that blossomed in his heart, swelled until his chest was full and he knew the light must be pouring out of his eyes and mouth.

Now he understood Dakota's sorrow. It would be heartbreaking to know what waited for those who turned their backs on this glory. It had nothing to do with gods or religions. There was no hierarchy of belief entailed. No one was denied admittance. It was simply the place one stepped through so that the journey could continue.

John cradled the sobbing infant, jigging her gently against his chest. He stared into the light. He stared into the endless sky.

“Dakota,” he called softly.

“Hello, John Narraway.”

He turned to find her standing beside him, her own solemn gaze drinking in the light that pulsed in the big sky between the gates and flowed over them. She smiled at him.

“I didn't think I'd see you again,” she said. “And certainly not in this place. You did well to find it.”

“I had help. One of your colleagues showed me the way.”

“There's nothing wrong with accepting help sometimes.”

“I know that now,” John said. “I also understand how hard it is to offer help and have it refused.”

Dakota stepped closer and drew the infant from the sling at John's chest.

“It is hard,” she agreed, cradling Dolly. Her eyes still held the reflected light that came from between the gates, but they were sad once more as she studied the weeping infant. She sighed, adding, “But it's not something that can be forced.”

John nodded. There was something about Dakota's voice, about the way she looked that distracted him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

“I will take care of the little one,” Dakota said. “There's no need for you to remain here.”

“What will you do with her?”

“Whatever she wants.”

“But she's so young.”

The sadness deepened in Dakota's eyes. “I know.”

There was so much empathy in her voice, in the way she held the infant, in her gaze. And then John realized what was different about her. Her voice wasn't hollow, it held resonance. She wasn't monochrome, but touched with color. There was only a hint, at first, like an old tinted photograph, but it was like looking at a rainbow for John. As it grew stronger he drank in the wonder of it. He wished she would speak again, just so that he could cherish the texture of her voice, but she remained silent, solemn gaze held by the infant in her arms.

“I find it hardest when they're so young,” she finally said, looking up at him. “They don't communicate in words so it's impossible to ease their fears.”

But words weren't the only way to communicate, John thought. He crouched down to lay his fiddlecase on the ground, took out his bow and tightened the hair. He ran his thumb across the fiddle strings to check the tuning, marveling anew at the richness of sound. He thought perhaps he'd missed that the most.

“What are you doing?” Dakota asked him.

John shook his head. It wasn't that he didn't want to explain it to her, but that he couldn't. Instead he slipped the fiddle under his chin, drew the bow across the strings, and used music to express what words couldn't. He turned to the gates, drank in the light and the immense wonder of the sky and distilled it into a simple melody, an air of grace and beauty. Warm generous notes spilled from the sound holes of his instrument, grew stronger and more resonant in the light of the gates, gained such presence that they could almost be seen, touched and held with more than the ear.

The infant in Dakota's arms fell silent and listened. She turned innocent eyes toward the gates and reached out for them. John slowly brought the melody to an end. He laid down his fiddle and bow and took
the infant from Dakota, walked with her toward the light. When he was directly under the arch, the light seemed to flare and suddenly the weight was gone from his arms. He heard a joyous cry, but could see nothing for the light. His felt a beating in his chest as though he was alive once more, pulse drumming. He wanted to follow Dolly into the light more than he'd ever wanted anything before in his life, but he slowly turned his back on the light and stepped back onto the boulevard.

“John Narraway,” Dakota said. “What are you doing?”

“I can't go through,” he said. “Not yet. I have to help the others—like you do.”

“But—”

“It's not because I don't want to go through anymore,” John said. “It's . . .”

He didn't know how to explain it and not even fiddle music would help him now. All he could think of was the despair that had clung to him in the city of the undead, the same despair that possessed all those lost souls he'd left there, wandering forever through its deserted streets, huddling in its abandoned buildings, denying themselves the light. He knew that, like Dakota and Gair, he had to try to prevent others from making the same mistake. He knew it wouldn't be easy, he knew there would be times when it would be heartbreaking, but he could see no other course.

“I just want to help,” he said. “I have to help. You told me before that there aren't enough of you and the fellow that brought me here said the same thing.”

Dakota gave him a long considering look before she finally smiled. “You know,” she said. “I think you do have the generosity of heart now.”

John put away his fiddle. When he stood up, Dakota took his hand and they began to walk back down the boulevard, away from the gates.

“I'm going to miss that light,” John said.

Dakota squeezed his hand. “Don't be silly,” she said. “The light has always been inside us.”

John glanced back. From this distance, the light was like a heat mirage again, shimmering between the pillars of the gates, but he could still feel its glow, see the flare of its wonder and the sky beyond it that went on forever. Something of it echoed in his chest and he knew Dakota was right.

“We carry it with us wherever we go,” he said.

“Learn to play that on your fiddle, John Narraway,” she said.

John returned her smile. “I will,” he promised. “I surely will.”

Isn't it wonderful? The world scans.

—
Nancy Willard, from “Looking for Mr. Ames
”

When her head is full of birds, anything is possible. She can understand the slow language of the trees, the song of running water, the whispering gossip of the wind. The conversation of the birds fills her until she doesn't even think to remember what it was like before she could understand them. But sooner or later, the birds go away, one by one, find new nests, new places to fly. It's not that they tire of her; it's simply not in their nature to tarry for too long.

But she misses them. Misses their company, the flutter of wings inside her head and their trilling conversations. Misses the possibilities. The magic.

To call them back she has to approach them as a bride. Dressed in white, with something old and something new, something borrowed and something blue. And a word. A new word, from another's dream. A word that has never been heard before.

Katja Faro was out later than she thought safe, at least for this part of town and at this time of night, the minute hand of her old-fashioned
wristwatch steadily climbing up the last quarter of her watch face to count the hour. Three
A.M
. That late.

From early evening until the clubs close, Gracie Street is a jumbled clutter of people, looking for action, looking for gratification, or just out and about, hanging, gossiping with their friends. There's always something happening, from Lee Street all the way across to Williamson, but tag on a few more hours and clubland becomes a frontier. The lights advertising the various cafés, clubs, and bars begin to flicker and go out, their patrons and staff have all gone home, and the only people out on the streets are a few stragglers, such as Katja tonight, and the predators.

Purple combat boots scuffing on the pavement, Katja felt adrift on the empty street. It seemed like only moments ago she'd been secure in the middle of good conversation, laughter and espressos; then someone remarked on the time, the café was closing and suddenly she was out here, on the street, by herself, finding her own way home. She held her jean jacket closed at her throat—the buttons had come off, one by one, and she kept forgetting to replace them—and listened to the swish of her long flowered skirt, the sound of her boots on the pavement. Listened as well for other footsteps and prayed for a cab to come by.

She was paying so much attention to what might be lurking behind the shadowed mouths of the alleyways that she almost didn't notice the slight figure curled up in the doorway of the pawnshop on her right. The sight made her pause. She glanced up and down the street before crouching down in the doorway. The figure's features were in shadow, the small body outlined under what looked like a dirty white sheet, or a shawl. By its shape Katja could tell it wasn't a boy.