Nightlight

by Michael Cadnum

  “Of course there’s a path. I’ll let you know as soon as I find it. And I’ll tell you what else. When we get to the cabin, we’ll have a nice long sit before a nice big fire.”

  “Yes, we will.”

  “And we’ll have something nice and hot to drink.”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  “And we’ll ask these people why the hell they can’t call when they’re supposed to.”

  But he was hurrying, in spite of the cheerfulness in his voice.

  “You don’t believe it, do you?” she murmured.

  “Sure I do. I think we’ve just been overexerting ourselves out on the river a little bit, putting out just a little more concern than the situation absolutely calls for.”

  But he was nearly running, now, gasping as he spoke. “We’ve just been overreacting to your very normal concerns.” He stumbled, but caught himself. “And once we got committed to a course of action, we were just too stubborn to chuck it and say forget this.”

  She hurried after him, because if she lost sight of him she knew she could never find him again in the darkness.

  “We’re just overreacting to the reputation of the place,” Ed gasped, “and we just got carried away, what with the bulldozer and our own natural determination to—”

  He stopped.

  “What is it?”

  “I thought I heard something,” he whispered.

  “I can’t hear anything.”

  They were both trembling, and Ed gripped her arm. “Listen!”

  Again and again through the hiss of the rain: the distant sound of a whistle, or of metal twisted out of shape in a pair of tongs. Or of an animal of some kind, an urgent cry, again and again, tirelessly, the shriek of a horse or a cat, a brilliant spear of sound thrown repeatedly through the darkness.

  A human scream.

  35

  The steps crossed the room and the hand gripped Paul’s shoulder, and he could not turn.

  He knew this was not happening. Something about the cabin had slipped into his soul, and he was losing reality. He twisted his mouth, struggling to laugh at the phantom hand that had him by the shoulder, and he fought to turn, but he could not.

  He could not turn his head.

  At last his head began to move, his entire body turning, muscles pulling themselves around, like a body cast in lead. His eyes left the fire. Shadows quaked in the room. Rain sputtered at the window.

  His tongue was stone.

  A disintegrated corpse stood before him, its teeth naked in a lipless grin.

  Paul put out his arms, but they traveled so slowly he knew they would never reach the thing that stood before him, its nose decayed into twin holes.

  With a clatter the poker glittered on the floor.

  The thing stooped to pick it up.

  The movement changed something in Paul, and he could breathe. “Whatever you are, you aren’t real,” he whispered. “Nothing like you could walk.”

  The poker whistled through the air, and Paul staggered out of its way, slipping on the floor. The poker rose high into the air, and punched a jagged hole in the hardwood where his head cringed out of the way.

  “This isn’t happening!” said Paul.

  The thing swung the poker straight down with both hands, and Paul lifted a shoulder. The blow stunned him, and he reeled to his feet in agony. “This isn’t happening!” he wept. “You aren’t real!”

  The corpse before him lurched back for a moment, getting a new grip on the iron. Firelight glittered off its skull-grin. The twin caverns of its nose hissed.

  Out of fury with the impossibility more than anything he lifted the only arm that still had strength, and blocked the poker as it whipped through the air. His hand seemed to shatter, but he stabbed his elbow into the grinning head.

  The face slipped off his arm and the poker slammed his ribs. Paul fumbled for the poker with his lifeless arms, but the thing stabbed the heavy iron into Paul’s stomach.

  Paul staggered, and butted the thing with his head. The thing was shaken, and Paul groped for the poker with arms that trembled and jerked.

  And then, like a sound seeking him from far away, he heard the simple noise of an iron rod colliding with skull. Three distinct white lights flashed to his right, and he sat slowly. He had no arms, and no legs. There were no sounds, and he tasted salt water.

  There was an ocean. There was a wind, and choppy waves. There was only water. No sky.

  He swallowed the warm sea. It made him feel quiet to drink it, and the surface of the sea stretched into a calm, perfect sheet of plastic. He blinked. There were lines in it. Parallel lines, pleasing to look at, and also tiring. He was going to have to count them.

  Something sharp. Something jabbing, again and again. It was familiar, and he knew what it was. He rolled and a fire crackled around the black grenade of a pinecone. He lurched with nausea, and knew that the repeated jabbing was the sound of a scream.

  A scream repeated over, and over.

  “Lise!” Paul was on his feet.

  The thing crouched, and Lise stood in the doorway, her lips apart like someone laughing. She screamed, and the poker rang against the hatchet in her hands, knocking it to the floor. She put out her hands, and grappled with the poker, but the dead thing was too strong. It wrestled her to her knees. It held her upright to steady her. It stepped back.

  It planted its feet, and wrung the poker back.

  Paul stepped slowly to the hatchet. It lay on the hardwood floor, like a thing that had been there a long time, tarnished with disuse. The handle leapt into Paul’s hand, warm from Lise’s touch.

  With one fluid motion, Paul wrapped his broken hand around the handle, smiled against the pain, lifted the hatchet, and buried it in the shoulder of the standing corpse.

  The thing collapsed.

  Lise rose from her knees and reached for Paul. They held each other. Paul’s arms trembled and he sat down heavily. “I thought you were dead,” she said. “Paul,” she wept, “I thought he had killed you.”

  Paul nodded, speechless. They both looked at the huddled thing in the doorway.

  “I’m so glad you’re alive!” Lise breathed.

  Paul’s tongue searched a gash in his lip where his teeth had bit into his own flesh. When he felt that he could move again, he crept to the figure in the doorway, and then froze.

  The thing stirred. It moved its legs and lifted its head, and a thin hand reached back and tugged the hatchet free with a sound like a foot being pulled out of mud. The wedge-shaped hole filled with red, and a gout of crimson spilled down the back of its shirt.

  The thing turned its ruined face toward them, and rose, hatchet in hand.

  A large, pale hand closed around the hatchet, and a gentle voice said, “It’s all right, Len. It’s all over. These people are your friends.”

  Ed Garfield embraced the terrible figure. “Christ,” he said. “Look what you’ve done to yourself.”

  36

  Paul shivered under blankets, holding himself as still as possible so that his arms might not stab him with that white agony. Hours may have passed. He couldn’t tell.

  “I couldn’t stay up in that tree,” Lise said. His head was in her lap, and she looked down at him, desperate to keep him exactly where he was. “I kept thinking about this house. And how I belonged with you. And how wrong I was to let you stay in here alone.”

  “It’s all right,” he said. His voice was strong, and he realized that he would be all right as long as, no matter what, he never moved again.

  “Because I belong with you, Paul. There’s no question about that now.”

  “Of course you do,” he said, before he realized what she was saying. “You actually realize that you belong with me.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “That’s what you said. But if you extrapolate from that statement—Oh, Jesus!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I moved my finger. I was trying to make a point and I mov
ed my finger.”

  “Don’t talk with your hands.”

  “No, I won’t. I’ll talk with my mouth.”

  “Hold yourself perfectly still.”

  “I can move my legs. It’s just my arms—Oh, Jesus!” In mentioning his arms he had gestured with one, and he waited for the agony to subside. “But if you extend that statement of yours to its logical conclusion, then you have to realize what that means.”

  “I know what it means. It means I’ll marry you.”

  Paul blinked. “You will?”

  “Of course I will. Did you ever doubt it?”

  “Yes. I mean, I had my doubts. But I still believed that we’d—that something would happen to—”

  “Something did.”

  “I knew everything would be fine,” said Paul.

  “You’re delirious. You’re in shock.”

  “I know it. But I am trained in being coherent, and even under these circumstances I am lucid.”

  “You’ll be all right,” she said.

  “If I don’t die of shock, you mean.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “I feel great. Just hold me like this.”

  “I will.” Her voice changed, and she wept.

  “It’s going to be fine,” he said. “Wait.” Salt stung his lip. “You’re getting tears on me. We’re going to be fine.” She nodded.

  The door to the downstairs bedroom opened, and Ed Garfield stepped into the room.

  He picked up the poker, and leaned it against the fireplace. He did not seem to realize that anyone was with him. When Paul spoke he did not respond.

  “How are they?” Paul repeated.

  He did not answer at once. “All I know is Randolph has set back on that bulldozer. He loves that machine. I think he’ll want to keep it. We’ll have more help than we can handle by dawn.”

  “Is she all right?” asked Paul.

  Ed leaned. He sighed. “She’s managing.”

  “Is he still calm?” asked Lise.

  Ed stirred himself. “Calm? Yes, he’s calm. Practically asleep. Not that it matters. I have him so tied up there’s no way he could budge.”

  “How is she?” asked Paul.

  Ed rubbed his eyes, and blinked them. “I told her not to bother even coming in here, that she didn’t even want to see. Didn’t I? Didn’t you both hear me say that?”

  “Yes,” they answered.

  “But she said she’d come all that way, and she was the only one who could calm him down.”

  “She was right,” said Paul.

  “No mother wants to see her son like that. She’s managing, but I’m afraid it’ll be too much for her.”

  The door clicked. Mary slipped into the firelight. “He’s asleep,” she whispered.

  She sat beside Ed, shadows trembling across her features. At last she said, “At least everyone’s still alive.”

  “That’s right,” Ed responded quickly. “Everyone is still very much alive.”

  “He was going to kill you,” said Mary softly.

  “I had that impression,” said Paul.

  “He’s been living under the cabin and in the attic. He was terrified of you. He thought—” She faltered. “He thought you had come to bury him. He thought—he thought he was a dead man.”

  “Dead,” Paul said, shivering.

  Mary spoke carefully, in a low voice. “He wanted to resemble my father in every way.”

  “So he used the scalpel to transform himself,” said Paul.

  “I’m sorry I sent you here, both of you. I should have come here myself. I was—I was afraid.”

  “But everything’s going to be all right, now,” said Ed, rubbing his hands together. “This cabin got its hands on an already sick young man, and nearly destroyed him.”

  “He’s exhausted,” said Mary. “From fear, and exposure. And his—his face.” She did not speak for a moment. “Oh Jesus, his face—”

  Lise went to her. “It’ll be all right.”

  “It can never be all right,” said Mary.

  “At least we’re all alive.”

  “His face is infected. I don’t see how he can ever be a human being.”

  Ed stood and paced the room, his shadow rising and falling on the wall. “The main thing is, as cut up and hacked up as he may be, he’s alive. This house”—his fist struck a wall—“this cabin almost digested three fine young people. But we got here in time.”

  “It’s not raining,” said Paul.

  There was only the sound of the river, the churn and hiss on both sides of the cabin. Lise opened the front door and looked out for a long time before she said, “The river’s rising.”

  “But the rain has stopped!” gasped Paul, struggling to his feet. His arms were in slings torn from sheets, but once he was standing they did not hurt. Or so he told himself. They hurt, but he no longer felt queasy with agony.

  Water glittered among the trees. The current surged around the redwoods, and through them. The smell of water rose into the cabin.

  “Randolph won’t make it,” said Mary.

  “Of course he will,” said Ed.

  “Paul, don’t go out,” cried Mary.

  Paul crept through the darkness to the rising water. A crust of forest floor dissolved at his feet as the water ate it, and spun it away. The roar of grinding boulders filled the air.

  “We can climb to the roof!” he called. Then, to himself, he laughed. They couldn’t climb to the roof. He couldn’t, certainly, and Len was in no condition to save himself. This was the way things would end, washed clean from the earth. He did not want to die. He would do everything possible to stay alive. But if he had to die in this river he had accomplished one thing, one precious thing in his life: He had won Lise.

  He trudged through the mud, grunting with pain, and looked up at the silhouettes on the porch. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m not going to drown.”

  “What do you suggest?” asked Mary.

  “We’ll build a raft,” said Paul.

  “That’s right!” boomed Ed. “We’ll knock a raft together in no time.”

  “Stop it,” spat Mary. “I can’t stand any more optimism. Look at how fast the river’s rising.”

  “It’s already past the trees,” said Lise.

  “So we better work fast,” said Ed. “We can’t just stand around like this. What’s the matter?”

  The buttons on Ed’s shirt glowed. The outline of the roof loomed above them. Trees stood black against brown water. “It’s morning,” said Paul.

  “What difference does it make?” said Mary.

  “Yes,” said Lise. “You can see red over there.”

  “Randolph has probably made it back to his place by now,” said Ed.

  “It’ll take hours for anyone to come all the way out even to his place, much less here,” said Mary. “We can sit on the roof, I suppose. And hope.”

  “That’s right,” Ed said. “There’s plenty of hope.”

  A tree groaned. A redwood tilted, paused, and, like a weary thing, lay down in the water. The churning water tossed its branches, and the tree rolled.

  Paul smiled. Perhaps it was because he was in shock. Perhaps this was, in fact, courage. But he was not afraid. “It’s all right, Lise,” he said.

  She forced a smile.

  The river surged higher, arms of it working across the soil, floating redwood needles and bay leaves. Earth slumped in places and was swept away.

  “I love you,” Lise breathed into his ear. “Whatever happens, I love you.”

  “I’m going inside,” said Mary. “At least Len and I can be together.”

  “I’ll find a hammer,” said Ed. “We’re running out of time.”

  “There’s one in there,” said Paul. “But I don’t remember seeing any nails. We could use nails already in boards. Straighten them out.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Ed grinned. But there was a thinness to his grin, and he remained on the porch for a moment, surveying t
he flood. “We’ll knock together a raft that’ll get us out of here.”

  Lise held Paul, but she did not cry. They did not have to speak. “It’s coming up so fast,” she said, finally.

  Water slopped over the edge of the bottom step. The roar of water shook them as they stood, like the rumble of a huge engine.

  And it was the rumble of an engine. Something steel and gigantic. Something impossible. The water flattened. It lashed against itself; and their clothes whipped around them.

  A helicopter hovered above the water, and figures plunged into the river, striding through it. Men waved their arms in greeting, hurrying through the surging flood.

  “A road crew came back for the bulldozer,” Ed cried into Paul’s ear. “Damn near arrested Randolph, but he explained it all.” Ed laughed. “I don’t think he’ll be able to keep the bulldozer, though. I bet he’s real disappointed.”

  Water lashed the cabin far below them. As they watched, the porch sagged and collapsed. Then they could see no more, as the helicopter followed the chocolate smear of water up the valley.

  “What’s left after the flood’s down I’ll take care of myself.”

  Paul glanced at him questioningly.

  “I’ll destroy it,” called Ed. “Level it to bedrock. No one will ever stay there again.”

  Mary held a figure huddled in a blanket. Paul settled against Lise. Her breath soothed his ear, as sunlight gleamed off the dark glasses of the deputy who crouched before them. “We’ll have you guys in Saint Helena in no time,” said the face behind the dark glasses. “You’ll be patched up in a jiffy.”

  Paul wanted to answer that he felt fine, but he said nothing. He smiled, and knew that the smile must seem the result of delirium—or perhaps the deputy was certain that he had two madmen in the helicopter.

  Paul didn’t mind. Lise held him gently, and he could feel the rise and fall of her breath.

  He could stay like this forever.

  37

  He said, “Begin at the beginning.”

  There were stiff white uniforms everywhere. White shoes. Everything too bright.