by Too Far
"Robbie, Robbie—"
He yelped, and their desperation turned into breakneck abandon. Wailing and shrieking, they dashed to the high point and along it at full speed, weaving through the drifting muzz. They seemed sure to go plunging down one side or the other—then the mist would shift and they'd spy the way. There—the gate. The gate!
They passed between the stumps, spluttering with relief, clutching each other, hugging and stumbling, rolling down the incline, cheek to cheek. Crying? Laughing? Oh, plenty of each.
As they came to rest, a fierce wind struck the slope. A thick sheaf of litter rumpled before them, built to a wave, then reared straight up. Shivers' sodden features emerged from the pasted leaves.
Fristeen screamed. Robbie staggered back. Shivers hung there, ravening them, eye orbits sucking, his prehensile chin snapping at the ground like a whip.
"A great romance in the offing," Shivers croaked. " 'Can I see yours?'" His humor was gone.
"You're in our way," Robbie bellowed.
"More than you know," Shivers said venomously. "I'm your goose bumps, and—" to Fristeen "—your peachfuzz pricking up." Then to both: "I'm the shivers between you. Every sigh, every giggle passes through me."
"You nasty old man—" Fristeen shook with rage.
"Your sage chaperone," Shivers corrected her.
Robbie grabbed Fristeen's hand and struggled forward. They had to cross the stream. Shivers' maw opened and a torrent of mulch whirled out. Through the flying leaves, Robbie caught sight of the log. As they scrambled toward it, Shivers' great visage flew apart. Robbie reached the log, straddled it and started across. Fristeen was right behind him.
The wind let them get halfway, and then it came blasting between the banks and the log started bucking. They jockeyed and clung, but the thrashing mounted. Robbie was thrown off and Fristeen let go, and they fell together into the murky stream. The current wasn't strong. Fristeen lifted herself and gave Robbie a hand, and they clambered up the steep bank.
As they reached the top, the rain ceased abruptly and a fog curled round them. Shivers was in it, squeezing their soaked bodies with icy claws, chilling them to the bone. Robbie heard Fristeen's teeth chattering.
"Cold, little saplings?" Shivers hissed.
"Make him stop," Fristeen begged.
"You're like all the other babes in these woods." Shivers grew mordant. "For a summer, your leaves flutter with another's. You imagine you're kin to the stars. But the same sap that inflames you, freezes and splits you. And the older you grow, the deader at heart."
The mist was impenetrable. Robbie's hands were numb. He knew he was stumbling forward—he could see his thighs moving. But his legs had lost their feeling. They seemed no longer to belong to him. Is this what it's like? he wondered. When you're about to die? One hand stretched back to someone who cares for you, the other reaching for a place you can't see. In your ears, the rustle of limbs against leaves, audible shadows in the land of the blind.
"Call it love if you like," Shivers said softly, "but it's just decomposing. You sprouted alone, and you'll wither alone. The only peace in this world is inside me."
"He Knows?" Robbie shouted.
"Close, close, close . . ."
"Are we near the edge?"
"Wet, wet, wet, wet. . ."
Before Robbie could figure out what He Knows meant, his heel slid on the soaked mulch. He landed at the bottom of a pit on his hip, groaning with pain.
"Robbie!"
Shivers was coiled in the pit with him. Robbie could feel his slimy head probing and stretching, crawling over him like a bloated worm. The stench made him gag. He lurched upright, struggling to stand, clawing his way up the side of the pit. When Fristeen saw him, she grabbed his arm.
"There—" She pointed, leading the way through the brush, putting the stream bed behind them. His hip hurt badly, but he did his best to keep up.
When they reached the Fallen Down Trees, they spotted the marker through the mist and scrambled beneath, and when they rose on the far side, it was barely drizzling and the Bendies were in the clear.
"The cloudburst is over. But let's not say farewell." Shivers spoke to their backs. "We're tight now. I've got my gums in you, and I'm starting to chew."
6
By the time they reached the Clearing, the dinner hour was past. Mom would be angry, Robbie knew, and Dad would have to calm her down. He and Fristeen said their goodbyes quickly. So much had happened. The giants across the Pool were still looming before him. And when he put his hand on the doorknob, it was shaking as if Shivers had hold of it. He wasn't certain what he would tell his parents, but he couldn't wait to see them.
When he walked through the door, neither was in the living room. Except for the white candles, the dining table was clear. Robbie glanced through the kitchen entry and saw Mom standing by the sink. She wasn't doing anything, just gazing through the window with a stick of celery in her hand.
"Mom?"
She jumped, then sighed and turned to face him. "Daniel Boone's back," she said, as if from a distance.
"Is Dad here?"
"Not yet."
Robbie saw the covered pots on the stove. "What's for dinner?"
"Linguine casalinga," Mom said. She smiled, coming back to herself. "The way Grandma makes it. Hey—you're drenched." She knelt, regarding him at close range.
Could she see the agitation in his eyes?
Robbie threw himself into her arms and hugged her tightly. So often it seemed that Mom didn't understand. But there were things Mom understood best. Sometimes you just wanted a squishy breast to cry on. Sometimes you didn't want to be brave.
"Oh Robbie—" Mom kissed him and cradled him.
"Will you help me change?"
Mom laughed and nodded, and they started down the hall.
"It gets cold in the forest," he told her. He shivered reflexively. "Know what me and Fristeen found? A place where the trees are black and the water is red."
Mom stepped into his room, sat on his bed and drew him close. "Robbie—" She peered into his eyes, searching. "You still love me. Don't you?"
Mom seemed about to cry.
"Of course, Mom."
"I know you think I'm screwing up. I think so too, sometimes. I'm sorry I'm always forcing rules on you."
Robbie didn't know what to say.
"We thought we wanted the same thing," Mom said.
He patted Mom's hand. She seemed so small.
"It was wonderful. Our little home in California—the rolling hills and the oaks— The weather was warm, and the people—" The words caught in her throat. "It wasn't remote enough for your dad." She paused. "We had our vision—"
"The cabin-in-the-wild," Robbie said. "Dad still thinks—"
"I know what Dad thinks," Mom said. She looked beyond him. "I wish you had a wider circle of friends. It's hard to meet other moms. The people here are ... so different. I guess Alaska is a little more than I can take."
"Mom?"
She met his stare.
"Should I put some dry clothes on?"
"Yes," she smiled, "let's get those things off."
When they finished, they returned to the kitchen and Mom put food on three plates. They carried them to the table and sat down.
They didn't eat right away. They waited. Robbie twisted his fork in the noodles and listened for the sound of Dad's car. Finally, they both started to eat. They didn't say anything and they ate slowly. From time to time, Robbie glanced at Dad's food. You could see steam rising up, and then the steam stopped.
Dad had been late before, but Mom acted like this was different. She was sad when they began to eat, and she got sadder and sadder. She stared at her noodles as if they were all their arguments piled in front of her, tangled together.
When they were done, they bussed the dishes and put Dad's food in the fridge.
Then Mom put him to bed.
Robbie lay there for awhile, listening. He thought he might hear the sound of Dad's c
ar in the drive. But he was wrong. The only sound was Dad's voice echoing in his bedroom. "Goodbye," it said. "Goodbye, goodbye . . ."
***
Something raised him from his fitful sleep. Robbie opened his eyes and found himself drifting. Not on the ground, but high above it—on his back, facing up. It wasn't day or night. It was a strange mingling of both, like what they'd seen at the Pool. There was a spot of sun, and it was blinding. But it burned at the back of a dismal cave, and the sky all around it was leaden and gloomy. Around the cave's rim, dark cumuli were bent—the ghosts of giants risen—once monstrous, now spent.
"Dream, Robbie. Dream," a deep voice said.
Robbie peered into the cave, and saw thoughts stirring within.
"I'm here," the Dream Man said. "Looking down from heaven. At the back of your mind."
The cave was an eye, a cauldron glowing and alive—a brazier of embers, lemon and blue, coals beat to powder, circling, circling. And the cauldron was tipping, daring to pour, and Robbie was soaring, lifted straight toward it.
"Where am I?" he wondered.
"Look down," the Dream Man replied.
In the spectral light, Robbie saw the black trees.
"The place you disappear to—when you dream."
"I've never—"
"Oh you have, you have," the Dream Man assured him. "You just don't recall."
The deep voice was smiling. It wanted to soothe him, but Robbie was scared. A rushing sound reached him, some fury of motion from the churning eye. Was it powder? Liquid? A hurricane of stars? Or rivers of minnows in a giant jar?
"Are you real?" Robbie asked.
"Are thoughts real?" the Dream Man mused. "Would I be any less real if I lived only in your mind?"
Robbie kept rising and the rushing grew louder. The giant eye was opening wider and wider, the strange element within seething and sparking as it turned before him, seeing him, knowing him as no mere human might.
"Are you dreaming? Right now?" the Dream Man asked him.
"I guess I am."
"Is your body along?"
"No. It's at home. In bed."
"It's a mercy the gold can be drawn from the rock. That body on the bed is a frail little thing. The world it clings to is better off shed. Look, Robbie," the Dream Man said softly. There was care in his voice, care and love. "Look into my eye. What matters more—your brain, your head, or the ideas inside?"
The first spinning streams left the cauldron flying, and a pinwheel of turquoise and gold lit up the cloudy gray.
"A new universe," the Dream Man said. "Remember?"
The eye seemed to explode, a great whirling galaxy of stretching stars— No, dragonflies! An uncontainable horde, spinning and glittering, batting feverish wings—a furious mind with a billion ideas, each taking its own path to a new reach of the sky.
"That's what you want, isn't it?" The Dream Man boomed. "To set your spirit loose? To wander perfectly free?"
The Dream Man knew. Robbie wanted that more than anything in the world.
"To go wherever thought leads?" This last, the Dream Man spoke with great fondness, like a blessing.
Robbie felt such joy, he thought his heart would burst. The first dragonflies struck him, and were dashed into jewels that burned and smoked.
"Do I have it?" asked the Dream Man.
"Have what?" Robbie cried.
"The idea," the Dream Man said.
The great cauldron loomed closer, and the living whirlpool churned. The rushing of wings deafened Robbie's senses—
"What idea?" Robbie murmured.
The Dream Man laughed. "The idea of you."
***
Robbie sat up in bed. It was morning, and sun was filtering through his curtains.
Something was wrong.
His arm was gone. He glanced down. He could see it on the blanket beside him, but he couldn't feel it, and when he told it to move, nothing happened. Had Shivers frozen it in the night? It's probably asleep. They did that sometimes—arms and legs. Then another thought struck him.
It's in Too Far. That frightened Robbie badly.
He leaped out of bed and grabbed his toothbrush with his good arm. The other was tingling. Was it trying to get back? Did it even care?
That thought frightened Robbie the most. His dream was still with him—as real as life. Above the black trees, the cauldron was brewing. The Dream Man's voice boomed over the humming wings. Robbie's thoughts were as frenzied as the dragonfly swarms, and he felt a great welling as he gazed into the whirling eye. "That's what you want, isn't it?" the Dream Man had said.
To go to Too Far, and never come back— That's what he meant.
Robbie's arm had returned. He raised it in the mirror, used a finger to pick his nose. Then he spit out the toothpaste, washed his face, and examined the bruise on his hip.
When he stepped into the hall, Mom was standing by the table. She smiled and poured out some cereal for him.
"Sleep well?" she asked.
"Yep," he replied. Mom's hair was lopsided, and her face looked gray. "What about you?"
"Hardly at all," she said quietly.
"Where's Dad?"
Mom's shadowed eyes shifted.
Was she going to speak? No, she was too upset.
Dad hadn't come home.
They ate breakfast in silence.
It was hard to look at Mom. Robbie shifted to the side and shut one eye, and one of the candles blocked her out.
"It's your vacation," he said finally.
Mom nodded. "I'm off till next week."
"What are you going to do?"
"Mend some of the clothing. Clean the oven—"
"That's no fun."
Mom heard the disdain in his voice, and put her toast down. "Do you know what it means—to 'take someone for granted'?"
Robbie laughed, rising. "That's what Dad and I do."
Mom saw the pity in his eyes and the plea for forgiveness. "Oh honey—"
They stood together and hugged. Then Robbie helped clear the dishes.
They had almost finished when there was a knock at the back door. Robbie's heart leaped.
"I'll get it." He sprang through the living room, grabbed the knob and opened the door wide. And there they were—big and beautiful—Fristeen's eyes, eager to see him. But the rest of her was shy. She peered around Robbie, risking a smile, afraid to step forward. Should he invite her in? Then he thought about Mom—how miserable she was—and changed his mind.
"I'm going out," Robbie called over his shoulder.
Mom saw the visitor. For a long moment, she stared at her without speaking. "Alright," she said. "Both of you—take care."
Robbie motioned to Fristeen and closed the door behind him. As they crossed the deck, Fristeen gave him a worried look. She knew something was wrong.
"My mom's really sad," he explained. "I am too." He took a breath. "Last night, Dad didn't come home."
Fristeen nodded. She knew what that was like. "When Dada left, I thought, I'll never be happy again. I couldn't stop crying."
She cleared the hair from his eyes. Robbie wondered if she was going to tell him everything would be fine. But Fristeen knew better.
"I just cried and cried," she said. "And Grace cried too— even though she didn't love Dada anymore. 'Who cares—' That's what Grace said. But she really did care. 'Who cares—"' Fristeen shook her head.
"Who cares," Robbie imitated her. It didn't help. "How old were you?"
"Five," she said.
They crossed the Clearing and started up the Hill.
Fristeen reached for his hand.
A stray breeze circled them.
"Is your dada going to come back?" Fristeen asked.
Robbie watched his shoes crunch the litter. "I hope so." He shrugged.
"Mine isn't," Fristeen said.
When they arrived on top, she stopped and faced him.
"Robbie—" Her eyes flared.
He could see she'd been holding something insid
e.
"You won't believe—" Her arms scissored excitedly.
"What?"
"Last night—I didn't sleep at all. I figured it out—"
He gave her a puzzled look.
"I know who that giant is—the lady."
Robbie was amazed. "You do?"
Fristeen nodded and licked her lips, eager to explain. "I've seen her before—lots of times. I didn't recognize her at first. She never showed me her wings. It was her cry—that last sound she made—"
Robbie frowned, confused.
"That's how I knew. It was her! Really. I'm sure." She grabbed his arm and shook it, laughing. "That first day I saw you? It was Dawn who told me to wander that way—"
"Dawn?"
Fristeen smiled. "That's her name." There was so much to share. "When I talk to you at night? Dawn's there with us. She thinks you're great. She's been watching you for a long time. When you were in your mom's tummy, she made sure you came out. She loves you as much as I do—" Fristeen's eyes brimmed. She leaned toward him, then stopped herself, blushed, and reached a finger up to touch his cheek.
"Dawn's your secret friend," Robbie said.
"Yes." Fristeen hopped on her toes. "But don't you see? She's not secret anymore. I thought Dawn was just for me, in private. But you saw her too! She's here—" Fristeen gazed around them with astonishment. "In real life."
"You're certain it was her?"
"Yes— She told me."
"Told you?"
"She came to me, Robbie. Early this morning. When it was just starting to be light."
"You were dreaming."
"It's sort of like dreaming," she furrowed her brow. "Or like when you're awake, using your extra-seeing powers. She comes at night or early in the morning, when I'm in bed—" She bit her lip and looked up at him. "Oh Robbie—" Fristeen beamed. "She's the most beautiful woman in the world. If you were married to Dawn, you'd never want to leave her. She's like the sun—love pours out of her. It just pours and pours."
"Wow," Robbie said. What Fristeen had told him—at first, it didn't make sense. But now, it made more sense than he could have imagined.
"What is it?" She saw the stunned look in his face.
