Slices (20 page)

“You
shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”
he asked, not turning around.

“This
is almost the Edge of the Woods,” the Boy said. “It’s
not safe here.”

Matthew
started to see shapes, shadow and light, out in the dark.

“What’s
out there?” he breathed. “Animals?”

“Yes,”
came the answer. “The most dangerous animals ever.”

A
sound came out of the dark, and a light, and Matthew listened and
watched, and saw flashlights and heard men calling his name —

“Come
on,” the Boy said urgently, a hand firmly on Matthew’s
shoulder.

“But
— ”

“Don’t
listen. Run.”

He
took Matthew’s hand, and they ran through the trees, lights
flashing close behind, and the Boy stopped at a stream, and he found
them two hollow reeds to breathe through, and they hid, somehow, in
the clear water — Matthew didn’t understand how it
worked, but he’d read about it once in a cowboy book, so he
knew it would. After a cold, wet, measureless time, they broke out
into the air again. The flashlights were nowhere to be seen, but one
last cry of “Matthew!” still hung in the air.

They
made their way by stealth back to their cave, and lay on the stone
floor breathless and aching.

The
Boy started to build a fire after a while, and when it was lit,
Matthew could see the Boy was watching him, his eyes glittering and
strange.

“So
that’s your name, then,” he said, and his voice was flat
and careful. “Matthew.”

It
seemed weird to have him say it, so Matthew just nodded. He watched
the Boy stir the fire again, aware, not for the first time, how much
the Boy looked familiar. Like a hero from a bedtime story.

Matthew
felt his lips moving, but hadn’t realized he’d spoken out
loud until the Boy’s eyes snapped around to look at him again.

“What?”
the Boy said. “What did you just say?”

“Peter,”
Matthew repeated. “I think I’ll call you Peter. Like
Peter Pan.”

The
Boy’s face darkened. “Damn it,” he whispered. He
lunged across the fire to Matthew, kicking and scattering burning
logs. He grabbed Matthew’s shirtfront and shoved him against
the cave wall. “Take it back!”

“You’re
hurting me!”

“Take
it back!”

“I’m
sorry!
I’m
sorry!”

The
Boy let go of him, shoved him away, stood there with tight fists and
ragged breaths.

“Why
do you have to ruin everything?” he asked. “Why do you
have to
name
everything? Decide what’s real and what’s — why
can’t you just enjoy things? What’s wrong with you?”

“I
don’t — I’m sorry, I don’t understand —
”

“I
tried to tell you. Will you remember that? I tried to tell you.”
The Boy turned, stalked to the front of the cave, stood staring at
the sky.

Matthew
stepped carefully around the broken fire to join him.

“I’m
sorry,” he said again. “I’ll never call you that
again, I promise.” He took the Boy’s hand and squeezed it
tight.

The
Boy smiled weakly. “It doesn’t matter. I mean, you will
call me that again. Or you’d look at me and think it, and
that’s just as bad. It doesn’t matter. I don’t know
what I was thinking. You can’t take back a name, once you’ve
said it. You can’t unthink it.”

He
kicked and stamped out what was left of the fire, poured dirt on the
embers.

“Are
you crying?” Matthew asked.

“I
don’t know,” the Boy said, with a long, shuddering sigh.
“I don’t know. I’ve never cried before. Am I
crying? You tell me.”

But
Matthew couldn’t tell in the dark. “I’m sorry,”
he said again. The boy sighed. “Go to sleep, Matthew,” he
said.

Matthew
dreamed and dreamed and woke up, expecting it to be morning, but it
was still night. He was afraid, for a moment, that it would never be
morning again.

The
Boy was gone.

Matthew
jerked awake.
Maybe,
he thought, noticing the Boy’s spear was gone,
maybe
he just couldn’t sleep, maybe he’s out hunting.
But all the Boy’s things were gone, his animal skulls and his
skins and wood carvings and all his good skipping stones, and
Matthew knew he wasn’t coming back.

He
sat and cried for a while, hating himself for doing it — he
was too old for that now — and eventually wiped his face on his
sleeve, and stood up to find him.

His
own spear was gone, and Matthew thought maybe it was still at the
bottom of the stream from last night, so he’d have to find
that, too. He checked to make sure he had the rest of his belongings
— the comb, the wallet, the knife — and headed out.
Taking one last look back at the cave.

He
ran through the woods in the dark, looking for some clue, some trail.
A broken branch, a muddy footprint. He found nothing. He ran farther
and faster, and if he noticed he was nearing the Edge of the Woods,
he didn’t stop to care.

He
ran headlong into an unseen stream, stumbled through it. Tripped on
something that might have been his missing spear or might just have
been an old branch. He fell down on the other side and lay there,
stunned and crying again.

“Please,”
he said to no-one between sobs, “please let me find him.”

No
sooner had he said it, he heard a familiar voice. A voice calling his
name.

His
head jerked up. He took in a breath to call out an answer.

And
The Woods shuddered and listened.

“Peter?”
he whispered.

He
didn’t want to say it out loud — he remembered what he’d
promised, but —

“Matthew?”
the voice called again. There were powers gathering in the woods, dim
lights like will-o’-the-wisps.

“Peter!”
he cried out.

“Matthew!
Where are you? Keep calling!”

“Peter!
I’m here!
Peter!”

A
rush, a crash, a crackling of branches, and he stepped out of the
trees and into the clearing.

Matthew
just stared at him for a moment, lost, bewildered, and then he burst
into tears.

It
was Peter, after all; Peter, his only brother, with his glasses and
neatly-trimmed curls, his earnest and worried look. Peter come at
last to take him home.

And
if Matthew could see something wild and trapped in Peter’s dark
eyes, he couldn’t remember for the life of him what it was.

He
just held on to Peter and cried as the other men closed in, men with
their flashlights and their radios and their dogs, policemen and his
father and others, all these men who had come to take him back to the
world.

Life
went back to normal, after that, as it will do if you’re not
careful.

Over
the next few months, the next few years, Matthew and Peter fought and
argued and found ways to hurt each other, large and small, as
brothers will.

Some
nights, when the moonlight outside Matthew’s window was so
bright it hurt his eyes, he would get out of bed and creep down the
hall to Peter’s room and watch his brother sleep. The shapes in
the room, Peter’s furniture, his model rockets, his jacket
tossed over the back of a chair — all of it would loom out of
proportion in the moonlight, look distorted and wrong and out of
place, and for a minute, Matthew would forget where he was.

But
then he would remember, and go back to bed.

One
day, someone died. Some uncle that Matthew had barely met. And they
were left alone. Peter, just sixteen and already tasting adulthood,
was left to watch Matthew as Mom and Dad went off to comfort
relatives.

Come
the weekend, and the school week was over, and Peter was to drive
Mom’s car out to join them for the funeral. Matthew, fourteen,
was his reluctant passenger, sullen and squirming. He hated long car
rides, didn’t think much of Peter being in charge.

They
didn’t talk. Matthew just stared out the window and daydreamed
until he was half-asleep.

Until
—

“Peter,
stop the car!”

Peter
did, and looked at him questioningly.

Matthew
got out without a word.

Peter
followed. “What’s the matter? Carsick?”

“No.
No, I’m not sick, but — Peter, look. This is it, isn’t
it?” He pointed into the trees by the side of the road. “This
is the woods I got lost in, isn’t it?” he asked.

Peter
frowned. “I don’t know. I guess, maybe, yeah. It was
somewhere around here.”

Matthew
stared and thought. “What was I doing out here in the first
place?”

Peter
shrugged. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

He
looked at his watch. “Come on, let’s get back in the
car.”

“Not
yet,” Matthew said. There was something important about these
woods, if he could only remember … “Peter?” he
whispered.

The
branches of the nearest trees shifted in the breeze, seemed to
answer; Matthew?

“What?”
Peter said impatiently.

“Do
you remember — what you were trying to tell me out there?”

“Huh?
When?” Peter was frowning — Matthew knew without turning
around. “When I found you, all I said was — ”

“No
— before that.”

Peter
laughed.
“Before
I found you?”

“Yeah,”
Matthew said slowly. “Before — before you were Peter.”

“What?”
Peter laughed again. “I think you’ve been out in the sun
too long, kiddo.”

“Yeah,
I think I have,” Matthew said, looking at the cool green woods.

He
turned and looked at Peter, really looked at him for the first time.
Peter actually took a step back.

“You
were trying to tell me something,” Matthew said, “about
naming something, and making it real. I didn’t understand you
then. But I think — I think I’m starting to get it.”

“Matthew,
come on, you’re really creeping me out here,” Peter said,
reaching out for him. “Come on, come back to the car.”

“No,”
Matthew said, struggling away. “I’m never coming back.”

And
with that, Matthew turned his back and ran.

Into
the woods.

Will
made himself smile and sat patiently, watching it make its way slowly
across the carpet. The tray it was carrying rattled and shook, and
all he really wanted was to walk over and just get his damn coffee,
already, make Harrison come to the point and quit wasting his time.

The
doll stopped, staring glassily, taking half a step forward, half a
step back, nearly losing its balance, then starting again. Harrison
smiled indulgently. His house was full of the damn things. This one
had come from — where? A market stall in Korea, if Will
remembered correctly.

A
tin soldier had met him at the door; a wooden ballerina had taken his
coat. There were dozens more, most making their own way through the
house on business of their own, some of them so feeble they could
hardly move. They just turned slightly when you came into the room,
eyes tracking you as they half-slumbered in their display cases.

And
all but half-a-dozen or so had been tracked down and purchased —
or otherwise acquired — by Will, who sold them to Harrison for
as much as he could get away with. Sometimes a little more. But
Harrison kept coming back.

“Thank
you,” he said automatically, once his coffee was finally held
up to him on thin and trembling arms.

This
time, something was wrong. He didn’t know what. But Harrison
had a new smile he couldn’t read, a smile that looked
unpleasant.

“There
is a doll,” Harrison said, pausing to sip his coffee, “that
I would very much like you to find for me.”

Will
nodded. Not an unusual request. Harrison saw things, heard things,
other collectors and other collections, and sometimes all he needed
was to have Will track down the current owner and negotiate a price.
For a percentage, of course.

“That
shouldn’t be a problem,” he said.

“Oh,
I don’t expect it will be,” Harrison said. There was that
smile again. “Especially since this is a doll you already
tracked down once before.”

“I’m
sorry?” Will kept his expression carefully neutral, like he had
no idea what the old man meant, even though he was afraid he might.

“Yes.
I expect you will be sorry. Very sorry.”

He
picked up the newspaper that was carefully folded on the table next
to him, and held it out so Will could see it.

Blaze
Claims Four Lives,
the headline screamed. There was a full-color picture of the bones of
a building, some scattered family forced out into a cold night lit by
fire and ambulances and cameras. All of it in lush color, the
newspapers loved this as much as a teenager loves porn —

Wait.
The little boy in the back of the photo, shell-shocked and vacant,
was clutching — was that —

“Please
tell me,” Harrison said, “that that’s not Edgar.”

Edgar.
A ventriloquist’s dummy, very classic, very perfect, clutched
in this boy’s arms.

“Tell
me that’s not Edgar, and our business here today is concluded,
and Sebastian will see you out.”

The
coffee tray hung loosely from the doll’s hands, and it looked
at Harrison, then back suddenly at Will with a deep clockwork
clack.

“I
don’t know,” Will said. “I can’t tell from
this picture.”

“I
can’t be, can it? Tell me it can’t.”

“It
might be Edgar.”

Harrison
sat his coffee cup down so hard it nearly broke. “I thought I
made it absolutely clear to you that doll was to be disposed of —
”

“You
said to get rid of it. I did.”

“You
knew I wanted it destroyed.”

“And
I told you I was in the business of selling merchandise. Not
destroying it.”

“I
paid you a great deal of money to change your mind.”

Will
nodded. “You did pay me a great deal of money, I appreciate
that fact, but I never said a word about changing my mind. You wanted
Edgar gone and I made sure it wasn’t your problem any more, end
of story.”