Rich Shapero (24 page)

"Dream, Robbie. Dream. It's not too
late."

The Dream Man was chanting a song of great
romance, and they were its heroes, flying to meet him.

"You're a prince, born of thought, son
of thought's king. And to thought you will return, unshackled and free. To me,
my dear son. Be brave. Say goodbye."

They had been cleansed in the Cabin. They
had risen in smoke. They had passed through the stormwind, and entered the
cauldron. They'd been crushed and consumed with the Dream Man's thoughts. And
now they floated in that bright place where he and Dawn had withdrawn to. Their
home in the skies, where his power met her peace. Where ideas spanned the
ether, fast as dragonflies, and joy poured out from an infinite source. Where
the clouds made moods for you, and the winds made music, and a love pure,
desiring a splendor sky-wide, pricked and painted itself with blood from a
thousand horizons.

Robbie jerked upright, sheets in both
fists, knowing what he would do.

He dressed quietly, opened his window and
clambered over the sill.

The night was cold and clear. A silver glow
lit the ground. Robbie hurried along the path to Fristeen's house. When he
arrived, all the windows were dark. He rapped on the door. A moment later, it
creaked open and Fristeen's pale face appeared in the gap, marked by dashes and
squiggles, but otherwise intact.

He threw his arms around her, hugged her,
then checked to make sure, gazing deeply, seeing the sun in her heart and the
life in her eyes. She giggled and touched his nose with her finger. He was so
happy, he could barely speak.

They stepped into the house together. It
was very cold. Fristeen retrieved a branch from a small pile and faced him.

"Do you know how to make a fire in the
stove?"

Robbie stared at her. "The Dream Man
spoke to me."

She cocked her head.

***

"He still wants us," Robbie said.

"The Cabin?" Her eyes grew wide.

"Is Grace here?" He glanced
toward the back.

Fristeen shook her head.

"It's our last chance," he said.
"Mom's going to take me away."

"No." Fristeen dropped the
branch. "She can't do that."

Robbie scowled. "It's hopeless
here."

They locked gazes, thinking about the
things that had happened.
Here
seemed to take in so very much.

"Let's go live with them."
Fristeen quivered as she spoke.

"We have to go now, before Mom wakes up."

"Okay." And she went to dress.

"Put something warm on," he
called after. "It's freezing outside."

Freezing and spooky. Every noise startled
them—boughs scraping, something ticking in the scrub, their own feet crunching
the leaves. As they approached the crest of the Hill, the moon rose over it,
nearly full. Tall aspens were silhouetted on either side, their branching
crowns once again leafless, like the nerve trees in the poster on Robbie's
bedroom wall.

How far in the past all that seemed.

They topped the Hill, and the moon swung
clear. Everything was in view, and they knew the way well. But the forest was
very different in the dark. The Bendies loomed threateningly, the wind
rat-tatted the weave of the Fallen Down Trees. Robbie walked past He Knows without
stopping, and when

Fristeen objected, he shook his head.
"It's
not
the end."

Was Shivers already with them? Their breath
fogged the air. When they reached the twin stumps at the start of Where You Can
See, Fristeen stopped.

"Can we have some soup?"

Robbie nodded. "It's ready." He
held an invisible spoon to his lips and blew on it. Then he brought it toward
her.

Fristeen took a sip. "Much
better," she said.

But the biting wind on the high ridge was a
true taste of winter, and the higher they climbed the more they shook. The view
below, always jolting, was nearly obscure. The view above and beyond, was like
nothing Robbie had ever seen. Beneath the moon, rows of cloudbanks were
pearling—the backs of waves headed away from this world, into the next.

They descended through the Dot Trees,
seeing a new magic—the dots glowed in the moonlight. All the branches were
twisted with stars, and each time your eye shifted, a new Pleiades rose through
the glittering web. But as the two of them approached the slope's bottom, the
magic turned menacing. New stars were settling, falling out of the sky. The
branches were glittering with snow.

"Shivers," Robbie muttered.

As if in response, the snow fell harder.
Robbie felt Shivers' cold breath on his back. His toes began to ache and his
fingers hurt. Fristeen made fists and held them beneath her chin. They faced
into the wind and crossed the Perfect Place. The meadow was turning white. The
wind beat against them and whistled in their ears. Robbie blamed himself. Why
had he been so fearful? They had so many chances to reach the Cabin when the
sun was out.

He found the dark opening in the Needle
Patch, and they squirmed through it as quickly as they could. But when they
rose on the far side, the snow was falling fast and the way to the Jigglies was
nothing but a guess. Robbie stumbled forward, arm raised, squinting to keep the
drift from his eyes. The way grew dimmer. Shivers was curtaining the moon. What
were those sighings, those wheezings nearby? The murky thickets hid invisible
creatures, following, watching, pausing when they did, huddling to confer.

The white rods above them—they were
Jigglies, weren't they? Robbie couldn't see the marker he'd left there,
everything was so padded with white— Yes, the Jigglies. He was feeling his way,
but he knew where he was. The snow's surface was deceptive. It looked perfectly
smooth, but when you put your foot down, twigs crunched like bones. He wiggled
his toes in his shoes. He could barely feel them.

"Are you okay?" Robbie glanced
back.

Fristeen nodded. "I'm really cold. Is
this the way?" She eyed the white thickets around them warily. Everything
looked so strange.

The tangled web looked strange to him, too.
Where was Trickle? Was it beneath the white blanket? Had he walked past it without
knowing? He glanced back. The falling snow was filling their prints. He started
forward, then stopped.

"Fristeen—" Robbie turned to her.

She saw the confusion in his face.

"We need to go back to the
Patch," he said.

But when he tried to backtrack, what he
thought was their trail led him to another place that looked unfamiliar. The
cold snow was falling even more thickly, and a bucking wind was kicking the new
drifts. When he stopped again, Fristeen linked arms with him, looking anxiously
to either side. They both knew—they were lost.

A shrill wheeze rose behind them, and a
sudden flurry consumed them. They hugged, hiding their faces from the whirling
snow.

"Tonight's the night," Shivers
whispered in Robbie's ear. The flurry shifted, swirling behind a rise, dragging
a long chin behind. "A new beginning," Shivers promised.
"Tonight . . . tonight. . ."

To the right, the ground tended up. Maybe
he could find a high point, Robbie thought. If the snowfall thinned, he'd be
able to see. He glanced at Fristeen and started to climb. She followed behind.
The wind blew fiercely, the white cleared for a moment, and the Cage stood out
from the slope. Robbie's hope rose. But they weren't in Too Far, and it wasn't
the Cage—it was some other tangle with a great stump in the center, and as they
struggled around it, something atop the stump shifted. It hunched in the wind
and slid onto Robbie's shoulders like a heavy cape. He heard sucking sounds as
he fought with it, and then a hooded head jutted from its mossy fringe. "A
juicy spot," Shivers wheezed. "Relax and settle in." A stringy
tongue darted through soggy lips, sagging nose dripping between cheeks loam
brown. Fristeen grabbed hold, and together they threw the moss off.

Suddenly the snow gave way and they sank to
their hips. A deadfall opened, gaping to swallow them, Shivers beneath them,
mouthing eagerly. Robbie fought to get loose, sinking, panicked, Fristeen
screaming in his ear. She churned beside him, scrambling and stumbling,
dragging him with her out of the hole.

"Robbie—"

He clutched her.

"Touching," Shivers mewled.
"Devotion, my sweets, is life's great farce. The heartwood molders the
same as the bark."

"What do you know?" Fristeen
lashed out.

"You,"
the wheezy voice
twisted with hatred, "are snot in Shivers' nose."

In his mind, Robbie reached for the Dream
Man.
Please,
he begged.
I need your help.

He grabbed Fristeen's hand and started to
move again, forcing his way through the furious blast. Trunks cracked, branches
hurled, whole trees tumbled past. Shivers was tearing up the forest around
them. Robbie sank to his knees in drifted snow. Where was he going? Should they
stop and huddle down? Try to get warm? Shivers saw his weakness and swept up
behind him. Robbie heard throaty breathing, and when he turned, a flying branch
struck him in the face.

Fristeen screamed.

Robbie buckled with pain, sharp things in
his mouth. He spit out the pieces of chipped teeth, and felt for her. She was
kneeling beside him, a dreadful sight—shuddering violently, face chalky, cuts
black, lips turning gray. Shivers cackled, as if something were settled.
Despite himself, Robbie started to cry.

"Secrets," Shivers whispered.
"So many secrets."

Fristeen grasped Robbie's arm and tried to
stand, but she was too weak to lift him.

"Just lies, like Mom said,"
Shivers hissed. "Fristeen's here because of you."

Shivers was right, Robbie knew. He'd as
soon die here. But Fristeen— He'd delivered her to Shivers. His dream had come
true.

"Dreams of the condemned,"
Shivers said with feeling. "Pitiful ghosts. It's just between us—your
tears, your shame. No one will ever see the two of you again."

Robbie heard Fristeen sobbing. She was
giving up, too. She collapsed beside him, her thin frame shaking. He was sorry,
so sorry—

A terrible roar—some new fury of wind
overhead. And then the storm tore apart. Robbie saw midnight and moonlight with
snow circling down. And through that sudden corridor a dim figure came
floating: Hands with his candles lit, high above the trees.

Robbie's heart leaped.

Hands tilted his rack, steam jetting from
his nose.

An eddy shrieked in Robbie's face.
"Haven't you learned?"

But Robbie raised himself through Shivers'
fierce coilings as Hands' blue shadow hovered above. He grabbed Fristeen's arm
and helped her up.

"Follow Hands," the voice of the
Dream Man spoke through the storm.

The gray ghost turned, antlers flickering
like a great candelabra.

"Hands," Robbie said to Fristeen.
"See him?"

Shivers laughed. "Hat Rack? What's he
doing outdoors?"

"Come on," Robbie said.

"Follow Hands," the Dream Man
repeated.

And that's what they did. Hands led the way
to the top of the rise, then along its crest. The wind sawed in front of them,
teeth digging in, back and forth.

"What are you doing?" Shivers
howled in Robbie's face.

Is this the way back?

"That's up to you," the Dream Man
said.

Robbie imagined the consuming fire of his
dream, and the wind thrashing in his face was, for a moment, flame.

"Rot!" Shivers squalled,
incredulous.

Will Fristeen be safe?

"Safe?" Shivers groaned.

"Dawn is waiting," the Dream Man
replied.

At that, Shivers howled with mirth and
contempt. "You charlatan!" he harangued the Dream Man. "You
shameless fake!"

As the ridge tended down, so did Hands. He
was gliding now among whipping thickets, a shadow just visible through the
flying snow.

"Can you see him?" Fristeen
shouted.

"Down there." Robbie pointed. And
they descended, hurrying after him.

Shivers swept down, crushing the trees,
pulling them up by their roots and hurling them aside. "After all
this," he raged, "is there nothing you've learned?"

Robbie shielded his face with the crook of
his arm. He looked up just in time to see a large aspen heel back. Its roots
raked up mud, and then a black wheel rose. Shivers was a mat of dripping earth,
hanging from its arms—two root-nodule eyes, pale and bulging, and a root-spike
for a nose. "Hands! Where's Hands," Shivers croaked like a frog.

And when they'd stumbled around the wheel,
Hands was lost from view.

"Where is he?" Robbie muttered.