FSF, October-November 2009

by Spilogale Authors

  Not that he was tempted to. A mile of icy water lay between the camp and the far shore, and his bad foot kept him from anything resembling a strenuous hike.

  "Whenever you go outside, make sure you wear an orange jacket. Even if you're just walking out to the car,” Emma warned him as they headed back inside. “Waterfowl season now, then deer season. The camp is posted, but we still hear gunshots way too close. Here—"

  She pointed to a half-dozen blaze orange vests hanging beside the door. “Take your pick. You can have your pick of bedrooms, too.” she added. “If you get bored, move to a different room. Like the Mad Tea Party. Just strip the bed and fold the sheets on top, we'll deal with laundry when we come back in March."

  He chose his usual room on the main floor, with French doors that opened onto the porch overlooking the lake, though he wondered vaguely why he didn't simply camp in the living room. The lodge had been built over a century ago with hand-hewn logs and slate floor, a flagstone fireplace so massive Philip could have slept inside it. The place had most of the original furnishings, along with the original windows and concomitant lack of insulation, which meant one was warm only within a six-foot radius of the woodstove or fireplace.

  Sunday morning Emma gave him final instructions regarding frozen pipes, power outages, wildlife safety. “If you meet a moose, run. If you meet a bear, don't."

  "What about a mountain lion?"

  "Hit him with a rock."

  And that was it. In the afternoon he drove Emma to Bangor to catch her flight. It was very late when he returned, the night sky overcast. He had to use a flashlight to find his way along the leaf-covered path. Branches scraped against each other, the wind rustled in dead burdock. He could hear but not see the water a few yards off, waves slapping softly against the shore, and the distant murmur of wild geese disturbed by the sound of the car.

  He slept that night with the outside light on, an extravagance Emma would have deplored.

  * * * *

  The camp was less remote than he'd feared. Or, rather, he could choose how isolated he wanted to be. He had to drive thirty minutes to a grocery store, but its shelves held mostly familiar products. If he wanted company, there was a bean supper every Saturday at the Finnish Church, though Emma had advised him to get there early, before they sold out of plates. There was no wireless or DSL at Tuonela; dialup took so long that Philip soon gave up using it more than once or twice a week. Instead he devoted himself to reading, hauling in firewood, and wandering the trails around the lake.

  As a boy, he'd been able to find his way in the dark from his cabin to the main road. Now he was pleased to discover that he could, at least, follow the same woodland paths in daylight, even those trails that had been neglected for the last ten or fifteen years. Stripling oaks and beeches now towered above him; grassy clearings had become dense, unrecognizable thickets of alder and black willow.

  Still, some combination of luck and instinct and sense memory guided him: he rarely got lost, and never for long.

  He liked to walk in the very early morning, shortly before sunrise when mist hid the world from him, the only sound a faint dripping from branches and dead leaves. After a few days, he began to experience the same strange dislocation he'd experienced when dancing: that eerie sense of being absent from his body even as he occupied it more fully than at other times. The smell of woodstove followed him from the lodge; field mice rustled in the underbrush. As the fog burned off, trees and boulders slowly materialized. Scarlet-crowned oaks atop gray ledges; white slashes of birch; winterberry peppered with bright red fruit. Gold and crimson leaves formed intricate scrollwork upon the lake's surface, and ducks and geese fed in the shallows.

  That was why he went out early, before the sound of shotguns startled them into a frenzy of beating wings. The lake was a flyway for migrating waterfowl. The loons were long gone, but others had taken their place. Goldeneye and teal, pintails and ringnecks; easily spooked wood ducks that whistled plaintively as they fled; hooded mergansers with gaudy crests and wings so vividly striped they looked airbrushed. There were always noisy flotillas of Canada geese, and sometimes a solitary swan that he only glimpsed if he went out while it was still almost dark.

  Even as a boy, Philip loved swans. Part of it was their association with ballet; mostly it was just how otherworldly they looked. Some mornings he set his alarm for four a.m., hoping to see the one that now and then emerged from the mist near the far shore like an apparition: silent, moving with uncanny slowness across the dark water. Alone among the other birds, it never took flight at the sound of guns, only continued its languid passage, until it was lost among thick stands of alder and cattails.

  He'd been at the camp for two weeks before dawn broke cold and clear, the first cloudless day since he arrived. Vapor streamed across glassy blue water to disappear as the sun rose above the firs. Philip finished his coffee, then walked along the edge of the lake, skirting gulleys where rain had cut deep channels into the bank. A small flock of green-winged teal swam close to shore, the mask above their eyes shining emerald in the sun. It was now early November, and until today the weather had been unseasonably warm. Hundreds, even thousands, of migrating waterfowl had lingered much longer than he'd expected.

  Though what did he know about birds? He only recognized those species he'd identified as a boy, or that Emma had pointed out to him over the years. Most stayed on the far side of the lake, though they must have fed elsewhere—at twilight the air rang with their piping cries and the thunderous echo of wings as they flew overhead, heading for the distant line of black firs that shadowed the desolate waters where they slept each night. The sound of their passage, the sight of all those madly beating wings against the evening sky filled him with the same wild joy he'd felt waiting backstage when the first bars of “A Midsummer Night's Dream” or “Le Baiser de Fée” insinuated themselves in the dim theater. He seldom saw birds in flight during his early morning walks—a group of six or eight, perhaps, but never the endless ranks that rippled across the evening sky like waves buffeting an unseen shore.

  Now, he saw only the teal bobbing across the bright water. Above him ravens flew from tree to tree, croaking loudly at his approach. He tipped his head back to watch them, slowing his pace so he wouldn't trip. Something soft yielded beneath his foot, as though he'd stepped on thick moss. He glanced down, and with a shout stumbled backward.

  On the ground a body lay curled upon its side. Naked, thin arms drawn protectively about its head. A man.

  No, not a man—a boy. Seventeen or eighteen and emaciated, his skin dead-white save for bruised shadows at his groin, the deep hollow of his throat. One shoulder was spattered with blood and dirt. Lank black hair was plastered across his face. A tiny black beetle crawled into a fringe of black hair.

  Philip stared at him, lightheaded. He took a deep breath, leaned on his walking stick, and reached to touch the corpse, gingerly, on the chest.

  The boy moaned. Philip recoiled, watched as a pink tinge spread across the boy's broad cheekbones and hairless chest. The bluish skin in the cleft of his throat tightened then relaxed. He was alive.

  Philip tore off his orange vest and covered him. He ran his hands across the boy's neck and wrists and breast, searching for a pulse, broken bones, bleeding. Except for that wounded shoulder, he could see or feel nothing wrong.

  He sank back onto his heels, fighting panic. He couldn't leave him here while he ran back to the lodge—the boy looked near dead already.

  And what if he'd been attacked? What if his attackers returned?

  Philip ran a hand across his forehead. “Okay. Okay, listen. I'm going to help you. I'm just going to try and lift you up—"

  Gently as he could, he grasped the boy's uninjured shoulder. The boy moaned again, louder this time. His eyes opened, pupils so dilated the irises showed no color. He gazed at Philip, then hissed, struggling to escape.

  "Hey.” Philip's panic grew. What if the boy died, now, at his side? He stared into those
huge black eyes, willing him to be calm. “Hold on, let me help you. Here, put your weight on me...."

  He took the boy's hand, felt sticklike fingers vibrating beneath his own. An odd, spasmodic quivering, as though bones, not muscles or skin, responded to his touch. Abruptly the hand grew slack. Philip looked down, terrified that the boy had died.

  But the boy only nodded, his strange black eyes unblinking, and let Philip help him to his feet.

  They walked to the lodge. The boy moved awkwardly, the vest draped across his shoulders, and flinched at Philip's touch.

  "Does it hurt?” asked Philip anxiously.

  The boy said nothing. He was taller than Philip, so thin and frail his bones might have been wrapped in paper, not skin. He stepped tentatively among stones and fallen branches, muddy water puddling up around his bare feet. As they approached the lodge his eyes widened and he hissed again, from pain or alarm.

  "Lie here,” Philip commanded once they were inside. He eased the boy onto the couch facing the woodstove, then hurried to get blankets. “You'll warm up in a minute."

  He returned with the blankets. The boy sat, staring fixedly at the window. He was trembling.

  "You must be frozen,” Philip exclaimed. The boy remained silent.

  Before, Philip been struck by the leaden pallor of his skin. Now he saw that the hair on his arms and legs was also white—not sun-bleached but silvery, a bizarre contrast to the oil-black hair that fell to his shoulders, the dark hair at his groin. His eyebrows were black as well, arched above those staring eyes.

  "What's your name?” asked Philip.

  The boy continued to gaze at the window. After a moment he looked away. “What has happened?"

  "You tell me.” Philip crossed the room to pick up the phone. “I'm going to call 911. It might take them a while to get here, so—"

  "No!"

  "Listen to me. You're in shock. You need help—"

  "I'm not hurt."

  "It doesn't look that way to me. Did you—has someone been hurting you?"

  The boy gave a sharp laugh, displaying small, very white teeth. “I'm not hurt.” He had an oddly inflected voice, a faint childlike sibilance. “I'm cold."

  "Oh.” Philip winced. “Right, I'm sorry. I'll get you some clothes."

  He put down the phone, went to his room, and rummaged through the bureau, returning a few minutes later with a pair of faded corduroy trousers, a new flannel shirt. “Here."

  The boy took them, and Philip retreated to the kitchen. He picked up the phone again, replaced it, and swore under his breath.

  He was stalling, he knew that—he should call 911. He didn't know anything about this kid. Was he drunk? On drugs? The dilated pupils suggested he was, also the muted hostility in his voice. Not to mention Philip had found him stark naked by the lake in thirty-degree weather.

  But who to call? 911? Police? His parents? What if he'd run away for a good reason? Would Philip truly be saving him if he rang for help? Or would this be one of those awful things you read about, where a well-meaning outsider wreaks havoc by getting involved in small-town life?

  Maybe he'd just been out all night with his girlfriend, or boyfriend. Or maybe he'd been kidnapped and left for dead....

  Philip angled himself so he could peer into the living room, and watched as the boy shoved aside the blankets. The bright hairs on his arms caught the sunlight and shone as though washed with rain. He pulled on the corduroy trousers, fumbled with the zipper until he got it halfway up, leaving the fly unbuttoned, then stood and clumsily put on the flannel shirt. It was too big; the pants too short, exposing knobby ankles and those long white feet.

  He's beautiful, thought Philip, and his face grew hot. Clothed, the boy seemed less exotic; also younger. Philip felt a stab of desire and guilt. He stepped away from the door, counted to sixty, then loudly cleared his throat before walking into the living room.

  "They fit?"

  The boy stood beside the woodstove, turning his hands back and forth. After a moment he looked at Philip. The swollen black pupils made his angular face seem ominous, skull-like.

  "I'm thirsty,” he said.

  "I'm sorry—of course. I'll be right back—"

  Philip went into the kitchen, waited as the pipes rumbled and shook, and finally produced a thin stream of water. He filled a glass and returned.

  "Here...."

  Cold air rushed through the open front door, sending a flurry of dead leaves across the slate.

  "God damn it.” Philip set the glass down. “Hey—hey, come back!"

  But the boy was gone.

  Philip walked along the driveway, then retraced his steps to the water's edge. He considered taking the car to search on the main road, but decided that would be a waste of time. He trudged back to the lodge, his annoyance shading into relief and a vague, shameful disappointment.

  The boy had been a diversion: from solitude, boredom, the unending threnody of Philip's own thoughts. He was already imagining himself a hero, calling 911, saving the kid from—well, whatever.

  Now he felt stupid, and uneasy.

  What had he been thinking, bringing a stranger inside? It was clear Philip lived alone. The boy might return to rob the place, enlist his friends to break into the cabins, lay waste to the entire camp....

  He slammed the front door behind him. Angrily he grabbed the old Hudson Bay blankets and folded them, then picked up the discarded vest from beside the woodstove.

  The boy had made off with his clothes, too. The pants were old, but Philip had just bought the shirt for this trip. He glared at the vest and crossed the room to hang it with the other coats. As he reached for the hook, something pricked his hand. He glanced down to see a droplet of blood welling from the fleshy part of his palm. He wiped it on his sleeve, then inspected the vest.

  A twig or thorn must have gotten caught in it, or maybe a stray fish hook. He found nothing, until he turned the collar and saw a pale spur protruding from the fabric. He pinched it between his fingers and tugged it free.

  It was a white feather, maybe an inch long. The tiny quill had poked through the cloth, sharp as a pin. He examined it curiously, placed it in the center of his palm, and blew.

  For an instant it hung suspended in a shaft of light, like a feather trapped in amber; then drifted to the floor. It should have been easy to see, white against dark stone in the early morning sun. Philip searched for several minutes, but never found it.

  * * * *

  The rest of that day he felt restless and guilt-wracked. He should have done something about the boy, but what? His remorse was complicated by a growing anxiety. The boy was sick, or injured, or crazy. He'd freeze out there alone in the woods.

  And, too, there was the unwanted twinge of longing Philip experienced whenever he thought of him. He'd spent years keeping his own desires in check—he had no choice, with those endless ranks of beautiful creatures that surrounded him in the studio, constant reminders of his own fallibility, the inevitable decay of his limited gifts. The boy seemed a weird rebuke to all that, appearing out of nowhere to remind Philip of what it was like, not to be young, but to be in thrall to youth.

  He distracted himself by splitting wood for kindling. As the afternoon wore on, skeins of geese passed overhead, not Canada geese but a species he didn't recognize, black with white wings and slate-colored necks and heads. They circled above the lodge, making a wild, high-pitched keening; then arrowed downward, so close that he could see the indigo gleam of their bills and their startlingly bright, almost baleful, golden eyes. Philip watched as they flew past, not once but three times, as though searching for a place to land.

  They never did. His presence spooked them, even when he stood motionless for their final transit. They swept into the sky and across the lake, their fretful cries echoing long after they were out of sight.

  Late that afternoon the wind picked up. Dead leaves rattled in oaks and beech as a cold gale blasted from the north, accompanied by an ominous ridge of cloud t
he color of basalt. Ice skimmed the gray water closest to shore. Another phalanx of the strange birds wheeled above the lodge, veering toward the woodpile, then soaring back into the darkening sky. Philip was relieved when a flock of quite ordinary Canada geese honked noisily overhead, followed by a ragged group of pintails. Four ravens landed in the oak beside the woodpile and hopped from branch to branch. They cocked their heads toward him, but remained silent.

  That unnerved Philip more than anything else. He leaned on the ax handle and stared back, then yelled at them. The ravens stared down with yellow eyes. One clacked its bill, but they made no sign of leaving. He picked up a piece of wood and lobbed it at the tree. The birds flapped their wings and retreated to a higher branch, where they sat in a row and continued to stare at him. Philip picked up the walking stick, brandished it in a feeble show of force, then gave up. He dragged a tarp from the storage shed, covered the woodpile, and painstakingly carried in several armfuls of logs. The ravens remained on the oak tree, heads lowered so they resembled a line of somber, black-clad jurors observing him. When he had brought the last load of wood inside he closed the door, then crossed to the window to gaze out. The birds hopped sideways to huddle together, and in unison turned their heads to stare at the house.

  Philip stepped back from the window, his neck and arms prickling. The ravens did not move. When it grew full dark he took a flashlight and shone it through the window.

  They were there still, watching him.

  He forced himself to move about the room, hoping that routine would eventually drive them from his thoughts. He turned on the radio and listened to the local news. A meteorologist predicted steady high winds all night and a chance of snow. Philip stoked the woodstove and made sure that matches and candles were near to hand. He ate early, lentil soup he'd made several days ago, then settled on the couch beside the stove and tried to read. Once he went to check if the ravens were still outside, and saw to his relief that they were finally gone.

  The lodge had always seemed inviolable, with its log walls and beams, stone floor and fireplace. But tonight the windows shuddered as though someone pounded at them. The candles Philip lit for atmosphere guttered, and even in the center of the room, beside the woodstove, he could feel a draft where wind nosed through chinks in the walls and windowpanes. Occasionally the old stove huffed loudly, gray smoke billowing from its seams. Philip would cough and curse and readjust the damper, poking the coals in a vain attempt to create an illusion of heat. Between the cold and smoke and ceaseless clamor of the wind, he found it difficult and finally impossible to concentrate on his book.