"I give up,” he announced to the empty room. He blew out the candles, stuffed another log into the woodstove, and stalked off to bed.
It was barely eight o'clock. Back in the city he might be starting to think about dinner. Here, he felt exhausted. No lights shone beyond the windows of his room. The reflection from the bedside lamp seemed insubstantial as a candle flame; the darkness outside a solid mass, huge and inescapable, that pressed against the panes. His room sat beneath the eaves, where the wind didn't roar but crooned, a sound like mourning doves. The electric space heater Emma had left for him buzzed alarmingly, so he switched it off and heaped the cast-iron bedstead with Hudson Bay blankets. These smelled comfortingly of cedar, and were so warm he almost forgot the room was chill enough that he could see his breath.
Within minutes he was asleep, and dreaming.
Or perhaps not. Because as he slept, he heard the sound of wings overhead, yet knew these were not wings but wind buffeting glass. The frigid air that bit his face wasn't a dream, either. He shivered and burrowed deeper beneath the blankets, so that only his nose and cheek were exposed.
When a hand like ice was laid against his cheek, he knew that, too, was no dream.
With a shout he rolled away from the edge of the bed, thrashing against the heavy blankets as he sat up. The darkness was impenetrable: even the faint outlines of window and furniture had vanished. Everything had vanished, save a shape beside the bed. It loomed above him, darker than the surrounding room, so dark that Philip's eyes were drawn to it as if it had been a flame.
The hand touched him a second time, lingering upon his cheek. “I'm cold,” someone whispered.
Philip lunged for the lamp on his nightstand. Light flooded the room, and for a moment he thought he must be dreaming—nothing extraordinary could withstand a 100-watt bulb.
Then he saw the boy. He still wore Philip's clothes, the flannel shirt unbuttoned, corduroy pants clumped with burdock and specks of leaf mold. He hugged his arms to his chest and stared with huge black eyes at Philip.
"What the hell are you doing?” shouted Philip.
"I'm cold,” the boy repeated.
Philip stumbled to his feet. He wore only an old T-shirt and flannel boxers, and yes, the room was cold—the door onto the porch was open. He yanked a blanket around him, tossed another at the boy.
"Put that on,” he snapped.
The boy stared at the blanket, then pulled it over his shoulders. Philip edged warily around the bed to close the door, and turned.
The boy didn't look dangerous, but he was obviously in distress. Mentally ill, probably. And bigger than Philip, too. He cursed himself again for not calling the police earlier.
"What's your name?” he asked.
The boy grimaced, baring those small white teeth.
"Suru,” he said.
"Suru?"
The boy hesitated, then nodded.
"Well, Suru, we need to call your parents.” Philip fought to keep his voice calm. “I'm Philip. What's your phone number?"
Suru said nothing. He stared at his own hand, lifted then lowered one arm, the blanket suspended beneath like a crimson bat's wing.
"Come on,” pleaded Philip. “Either you give me your parents’ number or I'll have to call the police."
Without warning the boy drew up beside him. His fingers closed around Philip's hand, a sheath of ice. Again he whispered, “I'm cold."
The blanket dropped to the floor as he pressed himself against Philip's chest. Philip tried to pull away, but the boy moved with him, his expression calm even as he thrust Philip back into the room. Philip shoved him, angry, then frightened, as he struck desperately at the boy's arms and chest.
It was like grasping handfuls of something soft and gelid, fine dry snow or down that shifted beneath his fingers. Emaciated as he was, the boy was frighteningly strong. Philip cried out as the boy forced him onto the bed. He gazed up into Suru's eyes, no longer black but glaucous, a bright spark within each like a tiny shimmering seed.
Then the boy's skeletal arms were around him, holding him gently, hesitantly. He cocked his head, as though he listened for a sound other than Philip's ragged breathing, then slowly lowered his cheek until it rested against Philip's.
"You're warm,” said Suru, marveling.
Philip tensed for an assault or whispered threat; a kiss; flight.
But the boy only nestled against him. A minute passed, and Philip extended his hand cautiously, touching Suru's shoulder where the flannel shirt gaped open.
"Oh my god,” he exclaimed.
It wasn't dirt flecked across the boy's shoulder, as he'd first thought, but a number of small black holes. Philip brushed one with a finger, dislodging something that fell to the floor with a loud ping.
Buckshot.
"Someone shot you?” he said, incredulous. “Good lord, you need to see a doctor—"
"No!"
"Don't be crazy—it'll get infected. Doesn't it hurt?"
Suru shook his head. Philip started to scramble from the bed, stopped when the boy cried out.
"No. Please. It does not hurt. Only see—"
Suru gazed out at the snow eddying around the windows and French door, then turned to Philip.
"I lost the way,” he said. “When I fell. I returned but it was gone."
Philip frowned. “The way?"
"From Tuonela. I fell, and you found me. I tried to go back. The way is gone."
He clutched his head and began to sob, anguished.
"No—stop, please, really, it's okay!” said Philip. “I'll get you back. Just wait a minute and—"
Suru looked at him. His eyes were huge, still that pale gray-green; but they held no tears. “Will you come with me?"
"Go with you?"
"Yes."
Philip glanced outside. He must be out of his mind, to even think of getting into the car with a stranger in the middle of the night. Though god only knew what kind of people were lurking out there in the woods, if Philip let the boy go off alone.
"All right,” he said at last. “I'll go with you. But—well, you know where you're going, right?"
Suru pointed at the window. “There,” he said. “Tuonela."
"Right.” Philip made a face. “But not from this side, right? You came from over there, by the nature preserve, or whatever it is? I don't know those roads at all. You'll have to tell me where to go. I really think we should just call someone."
But the boy was already walking toward the door.
"Wait!” Philip grabbed him. “Let's get you some proper clothes, okay? Stay here. And don't go outside again. Don't go anywhere, or I swear to god I'll call the cops."
He waited until Suru settled back onto the bed, then went to dig around in a closet for shoes and a coat. The snow seemed to demand something more substantial than a blaze-orange vest. He retrieved his own heavy barn coat, after a few minutes located a worn parka for Suru.
Shoes were more difficult. Philip had an old, well-broken-in pair of gumshoes, but when he presented Suru with a similar pair he'd found in Sam's office, the boy flatly refused to wear them. He dismissed a second pair as well. Only when Philip threatened to remain at the lodge did Suru consent to a pair of high yellow fishing boots, unlined and smelling of mildew.
But no amount of coercion would get him to wear socks. He still hadn't buttoned his flannel shirt, either, or his fly.
"You better finish getting dressed,” said Philip. Suru stared at him blankly. “Oh, for god's sake...."
He stooped to button the boy's shirt. The silvery hairs on Suru's arms stiffened, though when Philip's hand brushed against them they felt soft as fur or down. The boy sat compliantly, watching him, and Philip felt a stir of arousal. He finished with the shirt and glanced at the boy's trousers.
The zipper had come undone. Philip hesitated, then zipped it, fumbling with the fly button. He felt the boy's cock stir beneath the fabric, looked up to see Suru staring at him. Philip flushed and stood.
"Come on.” He walked from the room. “I'll start the car."
Outside, snow fine as sand stung his face. He started the car and sat inside without turning on the headlights, staring at tossing trees, the black chasm where the lake stretched. When he finally headed back, Suru met him on the steps. Philip was relieved to see he still wore the boots and parka.
"You all set?"
Suru gave a small nod. Philip went inside to check the woodstove, grabbing two orange watchcaps and his walking stick as he returned. He shoved one hat onto his head, tossed the other to Suru, and gestured at the car. “Your chariot awaits."
Suru crouched to peer into one headlight, then pointed at the lake, past the spit of land where Philip had found him. “There."
"We still have to drive. I've got a map in the car, we can figure it out."
Suru shook his head. “That is not the way."
"You said you didn't know the way!"
"I said the way is gone."
"And?” Philip's voice rose dangerously. “Has it come back?"
Suru gazed at the sky. Above the lake the clouds parted, a rent just big enough to reveal a moon near full. Beneath it a broken lane of silver stretched across the water, fading then reappearing to ignite a stand of white birch along the shore.
"There!” exclaimed Suru, and headed for the trees.
Philip swore and hurried to turn off the car. When he stumbled back into the snow, Suru was nowhere to be seen. Neither was his walking stick. He kicked at the snow, trying to see where it had fallen, and at last gave up.
"Suru!” he yelled.
A faint voice echoed back from the trees. Philip walked as quickly as he could, praying he wouldn't fall. At the edge of the woods he halted.
All around him, the ground seemed to erupt into silvery waves. The air glittered and spun with falling snow, incandescent in the moonlight; the black lake appeared endless. A desert of obsidian, or some awful, bottomless canyon, as though the world had suddenly sheared away at Philip's feet.
He turned, shielding his eyes against the snow, but he could no longer see the lodge. The wind carried a voice to him.
"Here!"
A bright shape bobbed in the distance: Suru, waving excitedly. Philip headed toward him, his feet sliding across the slick ground.
In a few minutes he reached the alder thicket crowding the bank. Here it became less treacherous to move, if no easier—he had to grab handfuls of whiplike alder branches and pull himself between them. Too late he realized he hadn't worn gloves, but soon his fingers grew so numb he no longer felt where the branches slashed them. Suru's voice came again, inches from where Philip struggled to free himself from a tangle of snow-covered vines. Fingers stronger than his own closed around his hand, and the boy pulled him through.
"See?” cried Suru with a note of triumph.
Philip blinked. The snow fell more heavily here, though a spinney of young birches served as a small windbreak. Beside him, Suru stared out across the black lake, to where moonlight touched the far shore. Spruce and fir glittered as with hoarfrost. Between that shore and where they stood, moonlight traced a thin, shining crescent along the water's edge, marking a narrow path.
"The way to Tuonela,” said Suru.
Philip shoved his hands into his pockets, shivering. “I thought this was all Tuonela. It's a big lake."
Suru shook his head. “This is not Tuonela. I could not find the way, until you found me."
"Good thing I did. You would have stayed there till spring. You might have died."
"No. I would not have died."
Another sound cut through the steady rush of wind, staccato and higher pitched. Philip cupped his hands around his eyes and stared up through the whirling snow.
A vast, cloudlike shape flowed across the sky, heading toward the opposite shore. As it drew nearer, Philip saw it was not a cloud, but an immense flock of birds—geese with black necks and long white wings. They moved as a school of fish does in deep water, as though they formed a single huge creature that soared high above the trees, blotting out the moon so that only faint shafts of light showed through. He felt again the horror that had gripped him earlier, when a black chasm seemed to yawn at his feet.
For days he had watched them in flight—flock upon flock of mergansers and pintails and teal, endless battalions of geese—yet, until now, he had never registered which horizon they'd been striving toward.
All this time, they should have been flying south.
But they were flying north.
Suru gave a low cry and darted forward, stumbling on a snow-covered rock. There were stones everywhere, frozen black waves that slashed Philip's hand like razors when he bent to help Suru to his feet. The boy trembled, and pointed at the lake.
The moonlit path had been extinguished, save for a glimmering thread that wound between trees and underbrush, more the memory of moonlight than the real thing. Philip rubbed his eyes—the lashes felt glued together by snow—then looked over his shoulder.
"We have to go back.” His chest ached with cold; it hurt to speak. “We'll freeze, we're not dressed for this."
"No. I cannot return there. You must come with me."
He gazed down at Philip, unblinking. His sunken eyes seemed part of the surrounding darkness, a skull disinterred by the storm.
Yet the boy's words held no command, but a plea. The wind whipped his black hair around his face, as in one smooth motion he shrugged the parka from his shoulders. The flannel shirt billowed about his exposed chest, then was torn from him. He lowered his head until his lips grazed Philip's forehead, a kiss that burned like molten iron.
"Come with me."
He embraced Philip, and the silvery hairs lengthened into tendrils that coiled around his shoulders. The boy's mouth pressed against his, as icy thorns pricked Philip's chest, blossomed into something soft yet fluid that enveloped him from throat to knees. As in his nightmares he fell.
Yet instead of striking granite and frozen earth, he hung suspended between ground and sky, neither falling nor flying but somehow held aloft. As when he had been airborne above the stage, muscles straining as he traced a grand jeté en avant, a leap into the darkness he had never completed in waking life without tumbling to the floor. The dream of flight consumed him: he was part of it, as each individual bird formed part of the vast shadow that wheeled above them in the snow-filled sky. He cried out, overcome with a joy close to pain; felt the boy's embrace tighten and knew it was not arms that bore him but great wings and feathers like flashing blades. Philip clung to him, his terror flaring into desire as the wings beat furiously against the snow, Suru's legs tightening around his until with a cry Philip came, and fell back onto the frozen ground.
He rolled onto his side, struggled to pull himself upright and raised his arm, afraid to see what stood before him. White wings and arched neck and those glittering onyx eyes; a bill parted to reveal a tongue like an ebony serpent.
White wings blurred into a vortex of snow. The long neck coiled back upon itself. Only the eyes glowed as before, black and fathomless within that skull-like face.
Philip stumbled to his feet. Freezing wind tore at his clothes, yet it no longer overwhelmed him as it had just minutes before.
"Who are you?” he whispered.
"The Guardian of Tuonela,” replied Suru.
Philip shuddered. He was delirious, that was why the cold didn't bother him—that, or he'd already succumbed to hypothermia, the waking dream that claimed people before they froze to death.
"The guardian of Tuonela?” he repeated stupidly. “But not this Tuonela."
"No. That is just a name. Tuonela is there.” Suru pointed to the far shore, invisible behind snow and the storm of birds. “I have never left it unguarded. Until now."
"But—why?"
"I wished to see the other shore. But I had never fallen, or imagined that I could.” He lifted his head to stare at the wheeling birds. “They cannot return until I do. And it will be a terrible thing
if they do not return."
"They're migrating, that's all.” Philip's voice cracked. “Birds fly south in autumn, the storm confused them—"
"They are not birds. I must go back.” Suru extended his hand. “Come with me."
"I—I can't. I'll freeze—I'll die."
"You will not die with me. But—"
The boy gestured in the direction of the lodge. A gust of wind stirred the trees, and for the first time Philip could see the glow of yellow windows in the frigid night.
"If you wish to return there,” said Suru, “you must travel alone."
The boy fell silent. After a moment he went on in a low voice. “I do not want to leave you here, alone. You saved me from exile. In exchange I have given you a gift."
One finger reached to touch Philip's forehead, and again icy flame blazed beneath Philip's skin.
"You're insane,” said Philip. “Or I am."
He pulled away, then drove his fingernails into his palm, trying to wake himself; stamped his bad foot upon the frozen ground, a motion that should have sent him reeling.
But just as he no longer felt cold, he could no longer feel pain. The boy's touch had drawn that from him, as well.
You saved me. In exchange I have given you a gift....
The wind died. Night once more claimed the glowing windows. Philip stared at the darkness that hid the lodge, that hid everything and everyone he had ever known.
Life did not work like this, love did not work like this. Philip knew that. Only stories did, where wonder trumped despair and desire overcame death. The fairy's kiss, the sacrificial faun; enchanted swans and shoes that sliced like blades, like ice. That was why he had become a dancer, not just to dream of fellowship and flight, but to partake, however fleetingly, in something close to ecstasy—and how long since he had experienced that?
FSF, October-November 2009 Page 3
