Rich Shapero

by Too Far

  Robbie thanked her and left.

  As soon as he was out the door, he raced for the path. He was only fifty feet down it, when he heard Mom behind him. The rest of that day and the next, he was shut in his room. Mom brought food and left without speaking. There was always the window, but things were so bad between them, he didn't dare make it worse. When his confinement ended, he remained in his room. He'd draw or sort his marbles. Or he'd just turn the lights off and sit in the dark.

  The days were blurry. At night, he slept fitfully, unable to settle in, and when he awoke, he came to the surface gasping for air. He prayed for the Dream Man to come, as he had in the past, but the Dream Man stayed away.

  One night after dinner, the phone rang and it was Dad. Mom said a few words to him and handed the receiver over.

  "Hello?"

  "How's my boy?" Dad's voice was raspy, like he'd just woken up.

  "Great," Robbie said. "Where—"

  "I love you, son. I want you to know."

  "Sure. Are you—"

  "I'd like to see you, but— We don't want to upset your mom."

  "She won't—"

  "We're going to have plenty of time together. Don't worry. Alright?" "Alright."

  "You're almost a man," Dad said in a playful tone. "Yep."

  "We're a lot alike, Robbie. Freedom's important to you. Don't let anyone or anything take it away."

  "I won't."

  "Promise?"

  "I promise."

  "You're not going to forget me, are you?" Dad laughed. Robbie shook his head dumbly. Then Mom took the receiver back.

  ***

  That night, Robbie felt sick. Sleep wouldn't come, and the sick feeling got worse and worse. A half dozen times he dragged himself to the toilet, certain he was going to throw up. But the problem wasn't in his stomach. It was in his chest. Something had torn there. He was bleeding inside, and the more he thought about it, the worse he bled. Fristeen. He really needed her.

  He parted the curtains again and again. Finally, there was a small glow in the east. Dawn, maybe. A little mauve puddle with a splash of peach. He dressed, crept out the back, and bolted down the path till the roofline of her house came into view.

  How long had it been? It seemed like forever. What if something had changed? But when he knocked, the door opened, and there was Fristeen. She had a blanket around her and when she spread her arms and wrapped him in it, the sick feeling just faded away.

  "I've been lonely," she whimpered.

  "Is Grace here?"

  Fristeen shook her head with a worn expression. Shadows circled her eyes.

  "Dad left," Robbie said.

  They shared the bleak moment in silence.

  "For good, I think." He managed to smile, unzipped his jacket and handed her a baked potato. "It's kind of rubbery. I had to hide it in my room."

  "Have you seen the Dream Man?"

  "Nope."

  "I heard Dawn singing one night," Fristeen said. "I think she was saying goodbye." She took a bite out of the potato and shivered.

  Robbie gestured her inside.

  "It's cold," Fristeen warned him.

  He followed her in. The living room was freezing. When he pointed at the window, Fristeen stared at it. Then they laughed and found some pillows, and Robbie filled the hole with them. They did the same thing in Fristeen's room. She finished her potato and dressed for the forest.

  "Let's go," Robbie said. "As soon as my mom gets up, she'll come here."

  Thankfully, it turned into a warm day, a memento of summer, marred only by He Knows' oracle and the unleaving trees. The early light was oblique. Instead of flashing against things, it seemed to enter them. Every leaf and berry and flitch of bark seemed to glow from within. They all spoke their hearts, as if they knew this was their last chance before the dark winter closed in.

  The Bendies had surrendered the last of their leaves, and the shrubs beyond the Fallen Down Trees were bare. But He Knows was waiting, and his squinting eye glinted. They needed him now to know what was in store, and of course he did.

  "What can we do?" Robbie asked.

  "Two . . . You are two . . . two . . . two . . ." The arching willow boughs seemed to have sagged, wrinkling his brow.

  "We want to be free," Robbie told him.

  "Agree . . . agree . . ."

  Robbie glanced at Fristeen.

  She smiled. Whatever they did, they would do together.

  "I can't be with Fristeen. That's what Mom said."

  "End . . . It's the end . . . the end . . . the end . . ."

  From He Knows' narrowed eye, a spray of dark branches rayed like crow's-feet, things near and far shifting within.

  Fristeen shook her head. "There's some place we can go—

  "No . . . no . . ."

  "The Hiding Hole—"

  "Find you . . . they'll find you . . ."

  "Please, please," Robbie said. "Tell us a way."

  "Away . . . away . . . You're going away."

  A breeze passed downstream, a weary sigh. He Knows was finished.

  Robbie gazed at Fristeen, and they stood there wondering. Then they turned away from He Knows and followed the bank of the stream without speaking. Dawn and the Dream Man were lost to them. And the sanctuary the forest had granted them seemed about to end.

  They crossed the log bridge, passed between the stumps, and climbed Where You Can See into a clear blue sky. The vista was different—a yellowing patchwork with red and orange streaks. But it still inspired you: on either side, your gaze wandered the treetops, while your thoughts grew lofty from the breathless height. Robbie squeezed Fristeen's hand. She saw the energy in his eyes and drew close. The wind whipped her hair around them both.

  The Dot Trees were leafless, and the Perfect Place was brown. But the Needle Patch welcomed them, eager to prick; and the Jigglies still jiggled; and despite all the leaves that they'd cast to the ground, the magnificent Great trees still had their crowns. They climbed the slope to the Two-Tree, a skeleton now, and when they gazed down, the secret land opened before them.

  They descended slowly, savoring the quiet, feeling the spell of Too Far stealing over them. At the border, they paused where they usually disrobed. It was still chilly, so they kept their clothes on. Then they followed the rill through the pillows.

  The reeds were parched and the dragonflies were gone. But the red Pool's magic was undiminished. They stood side by side for a moment, hands clasped, paying homage to their reflection: Robbie and Fristeen in the domain of sky and cloud, framed by black trees upside down.

  "What's this?" Robbie muttered. He drew something out of his pocket. It was the marble with yellow swirls, the one that reminded him of the Dream Man's eye. Without thinking, he flung his hand back and tossed it. The surface dimpled and rings spread out to the limits of the Pool. It was easy to imagine some big finger had stirred it.

  "Do you want to try?" Robbie eyed the far shore.

  Fristeen sighed and shook her head. It would just make them unhappy. "She's with some other kids now."

  Robbie nodded. "They've got other fish to fry."

  Fristeen scooped her hand through the water, and took a sip. Robbie did the same. Then they skirted the Pool and struck yet another trail through the hills—all slogs and dead ends, but a magic labyrinth to them. They found a swale with dying plants that reached to their knees, and the plants didn't have branches or leaves, just long pale threads raying from the stalks. Like silver jewels, beads of dew clung to each thread, and as they passed through, the jewels shook off. A shimmering mist grew around them, and as Fristeen walked ahead with her arms spread, she seemed to float through it like a fairy through a fog.

  They found some low hummocks, and they rolled down a small one with all their clothes on. A gentle roll, and slowly. But it reminded them they were married, and that made it worth getting soaked. Then they lay on the hummock's top and fiddled with the plants.

  "Let's pick some." Fristeen lifted a vermilion cranberry
shoot.

  Robbie yanked a sprig of rouged blueberry from the soil.

  "Put them in your pocket. Look—"

  Maroon sphagnum tufts. Creamy lettuce lichen. And there—a patch of foxtails with magenta-gold sheaves. Robbie drew a pair of tassels through Fristeen's hair, and the aureole of filaments made her the sun she longed to be.

  "I love it here," Fristeen said.

  Then the sun rose higher and dried them out.

  They skirted a marsh and reached an egg-shaped pond where two grebes watched them and spoke in hushed tones. When they pushed through the sedge, a mob of fritillaries burst from a remnant bloom, whirling around them, celebrating their devotion in a silent tongue. Cinquefoil seedheads, purple and brave; crossbills in the cones, going crazy, while they danced below in the rain of scales; a runnel where spindly reflections made ripples, inviting them into its hypnotic mesh; a bed of white cottongrass where they cried and squeezed, and watched the soft tufts fly away on the breeze.

  In the late afternoon, they found their way back to the Pool. When they reached it, their mood grew grave. They stood for a while, gazing at the red water. Foolish games—was that all that was left for them? Where were their gods? The wind hissed at the reeds through set teeth. A hundred tongues fished from the verge and slapped the mud. The Pool was restive, and they both knew why.

  Robbie nodded at the low mound on the far shore. Together they scanned the path to where it disappeared in the trees.

  "Maybe we should," Fristeen murmured.

  Robbie swallowed. Neither of them could bear the thought of returning home.

  "Do you think they're still there?" he wondered.

  "Let's take a look."

  Robbie saw the dare in her eyes. He drew a deep breath, trying to steel himself. Then they started around the rim.

  A breeze blew from behind them. Robbie felt the goose bumps on his neck and arms. When they rose onto the mound, it seemed like a stage, and Too Far was a giant lab, like the Dream Man had said, looming around them. Eyes were watching, like those that had watched from the Hiding Hole's rim. Eager, expectant eyes, full of dark rejoicing. Fristeen was looking at him. She was really scared.

  Without a word, Robbie moved through the sedge, heading toward the path. Then their feet were on it, and they were stepping quietly along.

  A cry made them jump—a gray jay calling from a nearby spruce. The arched rasp warned of something dire. The path entered the dark forest just ahead. The black trees leaned on either side, scabrous limbs bent, hung with hoary skeins.

  "They're probably gone," Robbie said. He came to a halt, staring at the next bend in the path. Fristeen drew beside him.

  "What about Hands? He could find them for us."

  Robbie closed his eyes, seeing the picture the Dream Man had painted in his mind. He and Fristeen were twisting in agony, burning alive. Bodies crumbling to ash. "You don't ever come back," he said weakly.

  "We wouldn't really do it," Fristeen whispered. "Would we?

  Robbie shook his head. "I'm too afraid." He gazed into her eyes.

  Fristeen was trembling.

  "What's going to happen to us?" She started to cry.

  Robbie embraced her. "Please—" He felt a welling in his chest. "Please, don't—" Now he was crying.

  "Something really bad," Fristeen said with despair.

  "Maybe—" He drew a quavering breath. "Maybe things will change." The hollow words shamed him. What could he do?

  Through his tears, he saw the sun was low in the sky. He thought about Mom. She was going to kill him.

  "We better go back."

  They returned along the trail, circled the Pool, and followed the rill toward the border of Too Far.

  "Robbie—" Fristeen tugged his arm. "Can we see Big Sponge?"

  It seemed like some jumping might brighten their spirits, so they took the detour through the viburnums. Big Sponge was springy as ever, and they bounced and reached and giggled and shrieked, and reached still higher. And it was working, they were both feeling much better. Then Fristeen dropped through.

  All of a sudden, the moss opened up, and instead of flexing, her legs plunged straight down. Robbie fell to his knees on the bobbing mattress and grabbed her arm, and she got hold of the edge. She was frightened, but when she realized she wasn't sinking, she laughed, and he did too. She tried to boost herself back onto Big Sponge, with Robbie pulling, but as soon as she got partway out, the edge of the mattress started to sink. First it was six inches under, and then a foot, and Robbie was going to fall in, so Fristeen let go.

  "Robbie," she gasped, sliding back in the water.

  He was still holding onto her hand. Her head was just above the surface.

  "It's warm around my chest," Fristeen said. "But it's cold below."

  "Try again," Robbie said.

  Again he pulled, and she tried to boost herself onto the mattress. Again it sank as she put her weight on it. Again, Robbie nearly joined her, and again she was forced to let go.

  "My feet are freezing," Fristeen moaned, clinging desperately to him, struggling to stay afloat.

  "Hang onto the edge," Robbie said. He freed her hand from his, set it on the moss, and backed across Big Sponge.

  "Robbie—"

  He leaped onto the bank and scrambled along it to where the willow stubs formed a strand. They were biscuit-colored now, stiff and dry. "Here! Over here, Fristeen." He started along the strand, hanging onto the dead stubs, slipping on their wobbling roots, trying to keep himself from plunging into the bog. Fristeen saw him and started edging along Big Sponge toward him.

  "That's it," Robbie hissed. His feet were slipping, his arms shook. The willow stubs cracked as his weight shifted and he clutched at others, trying to hang on.

  "I can't feel my feet," Fristeen moaned. "It's Shivers—"

  "You're almost there," Robbie said, balancing at the end of the strand. "Can you reach that plant?"

  Still clinging to Big Sponge, Fristeen eyed a tuft of sweet gale and lunged. It came away in her hand and she sank, her head vanishing beneath the surface. She came up choking, eyes wild.

  "Grab my hand," Robbie cried, reaching, the willow boughs snapping beneath him.

  "I can't! It's Shivers—" Fristeen was panicked. "He's holding onto my legs!"

  Robbie swung out and hooked her arm with his own, expecting the willows to break any moment, pulling Fristeen out of Shivers' clutches, up onto the strand. The branches cracked all around them, but somehow they held. Fristeen hung panting beside him, shuddering and drenched, whimpering with pain. There was blood on her face.

  Robbie led the way back along the strand. Breathless and shaken, they hurried through the viburnums and climbed the slope to the Two-Tree without a word. At the top, they clung to each other, clasped hands and continued down.

  When they reached Used-to-Be, Robbie stopped.

  Fristeen looked wretched. Her face was streaked with blood.

  She saw his concern and she raised her hands, feeling with her fingers. The broken stubs of the willow had cut her, and she winced as she found the open wounds. At the corner of her left eye was a gash, and there was a larger one below her right cheek. A crescent cut crossed her nose, and a flap of flesh had lifted.

  "We should clean them," Robbie said.

  He found some damp sphagnum behind Used-to-Be, and used a wad of it to mop the cuts.

  "She's not protecting us anymore," Fristeen murmured.

  "This one's not bleeding," Robbie said.

  "I'm so sad."

  "She didn't know," Robbie said. "She was somewhere else." Then he had that awful feeling again—that sickness in his chest. He was looking at Fristeen's face, and the sickness was coming back. All the joy that had its source there— They weren't like the Needle scratches that would be gone the next day. These cuts were deep. And this pain—you couldn't kiss it away.

  Suddenly, trills and twitters filled the branches. A flock of chickadees examined them, calling excitedly—sorry, carin
g, or just curious—it was hard to tell. It helped, a little. Fristeen smiled, and when the flock drifted through the branches, she peered after them.

  "Can we?"

  Robbie nodded, and she led the way.

  To Used-to-Be's right, the fireweed had all gone to seed, and the way lay open. It was a place they'd never been. They ascended a low rise and a stand of birch appeared, barren and bony, trunks chalk-white. They stepped among them and Robbie put his hand on one. It was cool to the touch. When he looked at his fingers, they were covered with white powder.

  "They're coming apart," Fristeen said.

  Everywhere you looked, the trees were tattered.

  "The Peeling Place." Robbie tore loose a scroll of papery skin.

  The chickadees seemed to know it well. They tseeked to each other as they wandered through the ghostly grove, coming to rest in the crown of a big birch with a slash across its front.

  "Look," Fristeen pointed.

  "It's feeling like we do," Robbie said.

  "Let's sit there."

  They could see the deep wound as they approached—the bark was jagged on either side, and down in it, the brown heartwood was seeping.

  So they sat beneath the Hurt Tree, arms linked, holding each other close.

  It got colder. Robbie thought of Shivers, and of what life would be like without Fristeen. For a moment, Mom's winter dread infected him. He imagined he lived in a world of darkness, that all the bright growing things had vanished forever, and the joys he'd known that summer would never come again.

  "Robbie—" Fristeen's eyes searched his. "We're going to stay married, aren't we? Your mom—" She caught her breath.

  "Mom doesn't matter."

  "Sometimes I think—" Her voice was despairing. "What?"

  "I'm not like Dawn," Fristeen said. "I want to be sunny, but when bad things happen—" She started to cry. "Robbie—" She shook her head. "My light's going out."

  Her words pierced him, but gazing into those eyes he knew so well, he could do nothing but smile.

  She frowned, then laughed.

  The chickadees trilled and the Hurt Tree braced them. Robbie just smiled, and Fristeen understood. You could hurt badly, and still be glad to be alive. Fristeen's face—it was as beautiful as ever. Each cut was like a pair of tiny lips. And that great sun inside her— It might be sputtering, but it would never go out. They would always be together.