Rich Shapero (25 page)

They scanned the stormy woodland in vain.
Then they heard a sudden clatter—Hands banging his rack against a tree. And
there he was, not far away, halfway up a steep slope, turning to face them
through the wind-blown snow.

"There," Fristeen cried out,
waving her arms.

Hands bucked his head, faced the slope and
rose, tines cleaving the white curtain, white streamers trailing back.

They hurried after him, passed through a
low thicket, and started up the steep rise. The storm backed off as they
scrambled toward the heights, panting and stumbling. And when they reached the
top, Hands was waiting aloft.

Robbie wiped his eyes with his wrist.

"The Two-Tree." He couldn't
believe it. "Fristeen—"

She nodded, teeth chattering, and together
they drew closer.

The mount looked different in white. But
there was no mistaking the tree they knew so well. The pair of boles rose,
naked and alone, standing its ground in the eye of the storm. And right at its
top was Hands, looking down.

From here, Robbie thought, they could reach
the Cabin or find their way back. But when he gazed around, his confidence
sank. Shivers had hold of everything. Through the lull in the flurries, you
could see the border of Too Far. But the way down to the Pool was clogged with
drifts. And the way back was no different. The slope descending to Used-to-Be,
the thicket skirting the Great Place— It was all buried in snow. They were
stranded and freezing.

Fristeen saw it, too. She hugged him, both
shaking badly.
Our
journey ends here,
her eyes seemed to say. Two trunks from the
same root, alone and bereft, frozen on the border between this world and the
next.

"Climb," said the Dream Man.

Climb?
Robbie wondered.
What do
you mean?
He peered up at Hands, hovering above the topmost
branches.

"You will see," said the Dream
Man.

The wind was so loud, it hurt his ears.
Climb? That was impossible. Wasn't it? He put his hand on the Two-Tree. It was
freezing cold. It had no low branches. Just the two entwined boles, twisting as
they rose.

"Robbie—" Fristeen called, as if
from a distance.

"Climb," the Dream Man repeated.

He put his hand on the bark, lodged his
foot in a gap between the trunks, and pulled himself up.

"Robbie!" Fristeen shrieked.

Robbie took a breath.

"Don't be afraid," the Dream Man
said.

"Don't be afraid," Robbie said
numbly, looking down.

Fristeen was wide-eyed, her shivering face
flecked with snow.

He found another toehold and hiked himself
up. And another. Then he slipped. But the next one was good. He hugged one
trunk, then the other, circling with his left arm, reaching with his right, the
ground dropping steadily beneath him. Higher, higher. A flurry of snow matted
his face, clouding his sight. He mopped his eyes. The first branch jutted, a
few feet above.

"You'll never reach it," Shivers
whispered, trying to unnerve him.

Higher, a precarious toehold. Then the
branch was before him, and Robbie looped his arm over it. It was thick and
stiff. And another higher, and the next, and the next. He reached the place
where the two boles drew apart. Hands was leaning to the left, so that's the
one Robbie picked. Finding footholds, grabbing on, rising, rising—

Through the veil of flying snow, he could
see the Pool now, spectral and shimmering. He reached for the next branch and
pulled himself higher, and the next, and the next, working around. There were
the Great trees. The crowns were white humps, like giant eggs. Above him, Hands
drifted closer, lowering his long face through the blast. His antlers quivered
and hummed. Closer he came, and still closer as Robbie rose.

The branches were bendy. Hands was just
above. Robbie couldn't climb any higher.

"Now look down," the Dream Man
said.

Robbie clung to the swaying bole and
searched the forest below.

"What do you see?" the deep voice
asked.

The black spruce all moved together, and
the white leafy trees, they did as well. This way and that—all the forest was
shaking, every tree, every place, all speaking at once. All dim and all white,
a sea of confusion. And then through it, a handful of little square lights.

My home,
Robbie thought.
Its windows were glowing. And through the shifting veil, he could see a car in
the drive—a police car, with its colored lights blinking.

"Turn, Robbie, turn."

Above, Hands put his nose to the wind,
snorting steam, facing Too Far.

A pair of squares blazed through the
spindly spruce. The Cabin, made ready. And a way was clear. On its unexplored
side, a ravine led down from the Two-Tree and entered Too Far. It touched a
road, white with snow, that Robbie had never known was there—a little winding
road that led into the Hollow.

Will you burn us up?
Robbie asked.

"Cleanse you. Perfect you," the
Dream Man replied.

When?

"Don't test my patience. It must be
straightaway."

Is Dawn there, too?

"Dawn is waiting," the Dream Man
said.

Robbie turned again, saw the house he and
his parents had lived in, and around it other faint lights—a world he barely
knew—

"How would we get back?"

"Hands can carry you. If it's the
Cabin, you're on your own. Be sure, Robbie. Be sure..." The deep voice
trailed away.

"Hands—" Robbie gasped. "I
can't feel anything."

The furry head dipped, the soft nose drew
close. Hands used his breath to warm Robbie's fingers, while his gentle eyes
gave Robbie fresh hope.

"Grand," Shivers jeered.
"Isn't he grand?" A great blast came charging out of the sky. Then a
crack—the branch bearing Robbie's weight gave way. He scrabbled and clinched,
swinging over the drop, then pulled himself back and slid down to the next.
Down and down, branch after branch, till he was shinning and sliding down the
conjoined boles.

His feet touched the ground, and Fristeen's
arms found him. As weak as she was, she had to hold him up.

"I know the way," he answered her
amazement.

"To the Cabin?"

Robbie caught his breath, nodding. "Dawn
is waiting. Or—"

"What?" Her eyes searched him.

"Hands will carry us home."

Fristeen blinked up
at the floating head high above. The wind's fury had waned, but the snow was
falling thicker than ever.

Robbie stroked her cold
cheek with his quaking hand. Her cuts looked purplish against her freezing
skin. "You're so beautiful—" He gazed from her face to his hand and
then took in their pitiful bodies, all soaked and shuddering. "We have to
give up these."

"Robbie—"
Fristeen hugged him and then she was crying.

"It's
scary—" His voice choked. "I'm really afraid."

She nodded. Then
she drew back. "But we're brave," she said ardently. "We're
really brave."

Robbie saw the
sparkle in her eyes, and then the universe that was theirs—just theirs—burst
into sight. Through the ravages of Shivers and the terrible night, poured that
golden smile. All the glory of Dawn, unvanquished, rising to bless a new world
with its light.

You could choose to
leave everything for that— Leave it, or die trying.

He reached for her
hand and they started across the mount, headed for the Hollow, and the bed in
the Cabin where the transforming flames would blaze.

Hands was with them
till they descended into the ravine, then he floated on ahead. The snow in the
trough was soft and deep, and they sank and stumbled at every step. The big
crosswinds couldn't reach them there, and for a few minutes
they imagined that
Shivers had left them. But then Fristeen glanced back and shrieked.

His huge visage was right behind them,
wilder than ever, lips writhing, making strange gargling sounds.

"There's something in his mouth,"
Fristeen cried.

They could see white lumps shifting between
the bilious lips. And then Shivers hacked and heaved and spit them out. They
came tumbling down the ravine like a pack of white spiders, and when they
reached Robbie and Fristeen, they leaped and clung to their backs. They had
gleaming red eyes, and teeth like glass, and you could feel their legs clawing
and scratching, but if you gave them a swat, they crumbled to frost and blew
away.

"The road," Robbie yelled.

It appeared just below them, paved with
white, veering sharply. And when they reached it and took the curve at full
speed, black trees rose up on either side. A great torrent of wind was shaking
Too Far, whipping the thin spindles for all they were worth. The road fell
before them, diving into the Hollow, and Shivers roared up behind them and
dashed them down the slope.

"That's it, boys and girls," he
proclaimed. "No more candy and toys—"

Fristeen was rolling over and over. Robbie
went up and came down hard. When he stood, he felt an ache through his
numbness—his shoulder was crooked, his right arm hung limp. They hurried
forward, past a car blanketed with snow.

"For what?" Shivers roared.

"The Cabin!" Fristeen grabbed
Robbie, pointing.

Through the quaking trees, an amber beacon
shone.

Their eyes met—their freedom was
waiting—the moment their dreams had so long foretold.

"For what?" Shivers bellowed.

But they paid no heed. They were racing around
to the Cabin's front, splashing madly through the black lagoon.

There it was— The charred walls were caked
and sintered with frost. Flames and shadows danced in the panes. Above the
snow-covered roof, blue smoke coiled up. A great
crump
sounded, and
part of the roof collapsed, taking the stovepipe. There was a crash within,
shouts, and then fire blazed up, washing the windows.

"For what!" Shivers screamed.
"An idiot smile and a jar full of dreams?"

He burled up behind them and struck them
both— one last burst of rage that sent them hurling, and left them sprawled
twenty feet from the Cabin door.

It swung open. In the orange and gold
light, two dark figures appeared, one behind the other.

Robbie rose to his feet, and so did Fristeen.
He fought his fear and clasped her hand. "We're ready," he told them.

They didn't look like gods. They had
blankets over their shoulders, and the bigger one's head was no taller than a
man's. The smaller cried out, hurried forward and knelt before them.

The blanket opened and wings emerged. They
folded around Fristeen. Dawn's features were edged by the fire.

It was Grace, Robbie saw.

"My baby, my baby— How in the
world—"

Fristeen's face was glazed with shock.
Grace was glowing. She was covered with oil. And her eyes were like nothing
Robbie had ever seen: black and wild, mostly pupil, with orange rays around
them—like tear tracks or claw marks painted on her cheeks. Fristeen saw the
same, and something else. Robbie followed her gaze. There were needles
bristling from a tiara of wands circling Grace's head.

The fire swelled inside the Cabin. Giant
flames speared through the roof. Scarlet tapers were piercing the walls,
sighing and whistling—

"No," Fristeen whimpered. Her
head turned and Robbie saw her desperate plea.

But there was no time to react. The man was
stepping toward him. Through the gap in his blanket, he was naked to the waist.
His chest glinted—like Grace, he was covered with oil and painted strangely,
his trunk banded purple and littered with stars. Behind him, the blaze
blossomed through the doorway. The Cabin was a furnace, its insides pure flame.
The man stooped, his face stubbled black. Then the lips, the smile—all so
familiar. And the dream of leaving, dark and gleaming in those distant eyes.

"Robbie," Dad said.

He could barely hear Dad's voice over the
rushing. Dad's arm shifted and something fell at Robbie's feet. In the strobe
of light, he saw a crown of birch bark stripped from a Great tree.

Fristeen had hold of Grace's wing. It was a
patchwork of lichens and bark, stitched together with green yarn.

The roof collapsed, taking the front wall,
and the giant furnace was suddenly a golden mouth opening, chanting, a great
song ascendant, swelling triumphant at what it saw in the sky. A dark cloud had
drifted over the Hollow, livid with moonlight, and dragonflies arrowed through
it from every side. Smoke from the Cabin unfolded great wings that fingered the
winds, lifting. And in the center of the billowing cumuli, a glowing cauldron
appeared with a crescent of froth, turquoise and lemon, spilling over its rim.
The rushing mounted, growing louder and louder as the Dream Man drew near.