by Ilsa J. Bick
“A guy can dream.” He tore off more bread. “Don’t be such a dweeb.”
“Moi? Never.” A gurgle, then Peter’s swallow and contented sigh. “Want some?”
“Gee.” He pretended to think. “I don’t know … I’m not legal.”
“As a duly appointed officer of the law and your guide, I insist. Promise not to fall off the ridge and no one will know,” Peter said. “Besides, the old rules don’t apply anymore, especially here.”
“Well, when you put it that way.” Chris took the bottle that Peter passed over his shoulder. Cool condensation beaded the glass. When he put the lip to his mouth, what flowed over his tongue was crisp and cold and tasted a little like … grapefruit? Closing his eyes, Chris drank, concentrating on the wine’s flavor.
Thinking: I have to remember this, all of it, every second. This may never come again.
“So.” He could feel the warmth already flooding into his head and thought he really might have to be careful on the way down. If that was an issue here. If Peter ever came down. “Tell me what I’m looking at.”
“Thunder Bay to your left,” Peter said, pointing northwest to a distant, hazy ribbon of purple mountains. “From where we are on the Greenstone Ridge, Amygdaloid Island is the furthest barrier island, that really long, thin one due north. That big splotch to the right”—from the corner of Chris’s right eye, a hand pointed the way—“is the western edge of Five Finger Bay. I’ve portaged all through there. Talk about a killer. All I carried was a kayak and a pack. Think about a canoe. My shoulders ached for days.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“Hence, the need for medicinal wine. But it really is … heaven.”
“No,” Chris said, a little giddy with the wine. “It’s Michigan.”
“Smart-ass. I could hike this whole ridge, all forty-plus miles from one end of Isle Royale to the other, take my time, make this walk as long as I wanted—and still not see a single person or hear anything other than birds and frogs. In spring there are more butterflies than you can imagine. A few times, I’ve even heard the wolves.”
“Weren’t you lonely?”
“Back then? Not really. Maybe because it wasn’t forever. You always went back to your life.”
“What about now?” Dangling the bottle between his fingers, Chris gave the wine a swirl, then took another swallow. Grapefruit and apples and … vanilla? No, that wasn’t right.
“Lonely?” Peter let go of a long breath, and then Chris felt his friend’s hand giving his right shoulder a squeeze. “A little. You get used to it. This is my space, Chris. I can’t go or be anywhere else. But you can.” A small silence. “Are you going to?”
“I don’t know.” He sipped wine. “I’m not sure.”
“No?” When he didn’t reply, Peter gave his shoulder another squeeze. “Hey. Talk to me. What’s going on? This isn’t about Alex, is it?”
“Oh … no, I’m okay with that. This isn’t a dumb love triangle from a book or something. She’s had to deal with enough. Bothers me that she pitches her tent away from us, though. She’s been doing that ever since we walked into the Waucamaw.”
“Maybe because she started this walk, on her own, a long time ago. Besides, she nearly died. You know what that’s like.”
This was true. Thank Tom and what every soldier knew to save a buddy’s life, or his own. Otherwise, Alex never would’ve survived the ride back to Kincaid. Chris still remembered the hiss of escaping air when Tom slid that IV needle high up between two right ribs to help her breathe. How Tom had then tried, so hard, to give Peter a chance, too. For Alex, the only saving grace was that the bullet came in low enough to miss the big arteries and high enough not to take out her liver. That still left that collapsed lung, macerated muscle and tissue, and two smashed ribs. Kincaid had made very good use of that combat pack. Someone—Ellie, Tom, or Chris—stayed by her side the entire journey to Isaac’s new location. Once she could get up, Tom spent hours making her walk even when she didn’t want to, carrying her outside, and, in general, hovering like a hawk.
Since then, Alex had done … okay. Splitting off from Jayden, Greg, Pru, Sarah, and all the children—the Rule kids, and Tom’s—a week ago had tipped some mental scale. Passing that ruined ranger’s booth, the wreckage of her car still in the lot, it seemed to Chris that Alex had retreated a little more into herself with each passing mile.
“Tom and I are just giving her space to figure it out,” Chris said. “Can’t make her want to be with us, although it’s hard on Ellie. We haven’t told her everything, and she doesn’t understand.”
“Do you?”
“A little. Alex is … she’s not all here. You can see the distance in her eyes.” Sometimes, he wondered if memories were all she saw. Given what lived in her head, there was always another possibility, too upsetting to want to think about for long. “Tom spends every evening with her. She’ll talk to him. He understands way better than I ever will.” The ping of hurt was small but still stung. Everything he said to Tom in the jail at Rule, he’d meant. Tom and Alex were just … right for each other. “Tom says it’s like Alex has come back from a long war. That makes sense. She was with the Changed for months. She actually cared about Simon.”
“But Simon does have your face. She never would’ve let herself care or risked her life for him if she didn’t feel the same way about you.”
“I know that. We’re family, I guess. Tom said that once you found your people, you found yourself. Except … I’m still not sure.”
“I thought you liked Jayden.”
“Oh no, he’s great. I’m relieved he came up with this. Forget everything that happened: I’d never have fit with Hannah. She’s too territorial. I want to live someplace I make, try and do it right this time, find a balance. And, you know, avoid Changing or getting eaten.”
“Both are going to be problems for a long time, but not forever. The Change is a dead end, Chris. It’s not a disease. It was an event. The only children who will Change from here on out will be like Ellie—too young to Change right away—or like you, kids who still might Change down the line.”
“Thanks. That’s just so reassuring.”
“But it’s the truth. Then there are the ones like Penny’s baby. Maybe it’ll pop out just like the Changed, and maybe it won’t. Finn talked about this once; said that those babies who weren’t Changed might not live, because their parents would eat them.”
“Come on. They’re not gerbils.”
“Most mammals will destroy defective babies. But say they survive. They won’t be anything like their parents. They might not be able to communicate with them at all. All they’ll have in common is eating people. But that’s a behavior, Chris. It’s not destiny. The Changed could eat other meat, plants; their digestive systems haven’t changed. It’s only their brains that have been altered. For them, it’s permanent.”
Well … maybe. There was Simon, but that might be only a pipe dream. How would you check up on something like that anyway?
“One way or the other,” Peter said, “the Changed are doomed. Either you kill them, their children kill them, or they kill their unaffected children to save themselves. Without children, they’re done for as a species. So, what I’m saying is, yeah, worry about getting eaten, but don’t base your whole future around it.” Peter’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “Chris. You should go to Copper Island with them. Hannah won’t be there. This is your time. Forget the farmland and how hard surviving the first few years will be for a second. Think about the university, the library, the books. Tenured professors hang around until they drop. If some survived, they can help you. You need this just as much as the kids, and maybe more, because you and Tom and Alex and Kincaid and Pru, everyone who’s older … you guys are the teachers now. Not just practical stuff like farming and building a house …”
“All of which I don’t know how to do.” He slid a bit of baguette onto his tongue and let it dissolve. “Or how to bake bread.”
“But you can learn. I’m totally serious about this. The Dark Ages were dark for a lot of reasons, but mainly because the Church controlled everything and burnt books. People stopped learning and forgot how to dream. Yes, Chris, you might Change. But you also know how to dream in a very particular way.”
“That’s from the drug.” And how should he understand all that: coming back from the dead twice over, what he was able to do now in his dreams—crossing into this place, finding Peter? Were these visions? Hallucinations? Was this really heaven, or only one island in the Land of the Dead?
“No, this is all you now, Chris,” Peter said. “Yes, the drug triggered your ability, but you’re in control.”
“Of what? Do you know what this is, Peter? Do you understand why I was”—he almost said chosen—“… how I’m doing this? What it means?”
“No, but that’s what the future’s about, Chris: for you to become and discover who you are. What’s important is that you found me. You brought yourself here, and no one but you can do this. You are truly unique. Now, become more. Dare more. Dream differently, and then teach the kids. Give them the gift of knowledge. Help them learn how to try, because from that springs hope. You may not do it, Chris, but one of these children or their kids will figure out how to turn on the lights again.” Peter’s hand suddenly slid away. “Oh hell. Sorry, but …”
“It’s time? Already?” Sudden tears pooled. It didn’t seem right that all this—the mountain and that valley, this lake—could be so perfect when he could feel this sad. “What if I can’t find you again?”
“You will.” Peter’s voice was even and very calm, as if their roles had reversed. “You can come back anytime you want. All you have to do, Chris, is remember how to dream.”
“But I’m afraid.” He closed his eyes. “I’m afraid I’ll make a mistake again, a big one, like I did with Lena. And what about Simon?”
“Simon will be what he will be. You will make mistakes. Count on it. You’re only human. But you’ve found your people, Chris. Go back now. Help them, and let them heal you.” Peter’s hand cupped his neck. “Finish the wine. Wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”
He tipped the last sweet swallow over his tongue. Apples, he decided. Apples and honey.
Then Chris turned to face his friend. “Peter, I—” But he lost what he wanted to say, his voice suddenly stoppering in his throat as Chris finally saw Peter as he was now.
Peter was in the sun. All Chris’s dazzled eyes made out was a stark silhouette: the form of a head and those broad shoulders and strong chest, and that glistening fall of golden hair. The glow around Peter was so very bright, Chris had to close his eyes.
“Shh. I know. I love you, too. It’ll be all right, I promise.” Peter placed a cool hand over Chris’s eyes. “Wake up now, Chris, and give them back the light.”
Peter’s touch bled away. When Chris woke, it was to Ellie, staring down.
“Hi. Sorry, but Tom said we better go while we still have daylight.” She cradled a cloth sack about the size of a softball in both hands. Ghost was behind her. When the dog saw Chris’s eyes open, his right ear perked while the nubbin of his left only twitched.
“Okay.” He lay swaddled in a sleeping bag on fragrant hemlock. He didn’t want to move, not just yet, afraid he would tear the frail web of that vision. Worried he might never get it back.
“Chris.” The girl’s eyes studied his face, her brows puckering in a frown. “Are you going to be okay? Did you have a bad dream again?”
“No,” Chris said, sitting up and swiping away wet from his cheeks. To the west, the sun was just beginning to melt into the lake. The wind had kicked up and now cut a chill down his spine. Clouds were gathering, too, their underbellies glowing a lush peach with the sunset. From high in the trees came the staccato rata-toc-toc-toc-toc of a woodpecker. A scent of wood smoke hung in the air. He looked to the crackling fire, where Alex and Tom perched on low stones. They weren’t speaking, but Chris saw Tom take her hand and their fingers lace. It didn’t hurt, maybe because he was used to it now and this really wasn’t one of those books. It was late April, almost May, and spring was coming, and these were his people.
“You sure you’re okay?” Ellie asked.
“Yes. I’ll be fine.” He reached to cup her cheek. “For once, sweetie, it was a really good dream.”
Space. That was all Tom said when she asked. Give her some time, honey.
Time, space: Ellie just didn’t get that. She had this terrible feeling about Alex that she couldn’t put into words because they were so tangled up in memories of her dad and how weird he was whenever he came back from Iraq. Sleeping on the floor instead of a bed. Just … not all there. Like Alex.
And time was almost up. Cupping her cloth bag in both hands, Ellie walked between Chris and Tom as Ghost, Jet, and Buck followed. Tomorrow, they’d leave Mirror Point to make their way from the Waucamaw to Houghton and then across the bridge onto Copper Island. She worried about that, too. Houghton had been this major town. Big towns were trouble, even if they were going to cross the bridge and, maybe, blow it if they had to.
Chris and Tom said they couldn’t hide in the woods forever. All the books and equipment and, maybe, professors as old as Isaac and Kincaid were too valuable to just let die. Tom said someone had to be the first to come out of hiding—leave the wire was what he called it—and make a stand. So, might as well be them.
Yeah, just so I don’t get eaten. She arrowed a quick glance toward Alex, but she was on Tom’s right. All Ellie really got was a glimpse of her hair. Just so Alex comes back all the way. If she could. No … that was wrong: if Alex would let herself.
We have to help her stay. Ellie wasn’t sure if she knew how. They had walked for such a long time already. Maybe this was as far as Alex wanted to go. She hadn’t said anything … but Ellie just had this feeling.
She even kind of got why. The first night they made camp in the Waucamaw, she’d screwed up her courage and asked Tom about hiking back up to Moss Knob: It’s where me and Alex left Grandpa Jack. It was a long shot; she wasn’t dumb. October happened six months ago and it was the end of April now. Almost spring, which also meant that Ellie wouldn’t have to wear a parka, like, every single second. Although Alex said spring always came late to the Upper Peninsula—it was why all the trees were still bare and it got cold at night—and they still might get snow. Heck, Alex once saw snow in June when she and her folks went to Marquette and Alex’s dad dared her to jump off Blackrocks because, sometimes, you just feel like a nut.
Mostly, what Ellie liked? That Alex told a story about her parents. It made for a really good time, even if Alex went off to her own tent and away from them after that. Ellie didn’t know why Alex giving them that story was important, but she had a feeling that stories were a kind of remembering. (Like reading to them around the fire at night, another good thing Alex was doing: A Wrinkle in Time, one of Peter’s books. A pretty terrific story Alex said her mom read to her.) And look, Alex gave her the whistle back, said Ellie should keep it safe. Alex still wore Mickey. So if Alex trusted them with all these memories—books and stories and a whistle—that was good, right? You didn’t give memories to just anybody, right?
Anyway, Tom had listened about Moss Knob and then said, “Ellie, if that’s what you want, of course, I’ll help you. But honey, I honestly don’t think he’ll be there. It’s been a long time.”
She wasn’t a stupid little kid anymore. Tom didn’t have to say the rest. Dumb idea. So they didn’t go. But that didn’t mean Grandpa Jack’s ghost wasn’t still hanging around on Moss Knob. That made her sad and a little guilty, too. Like when they walked out of here, his ghost would be lonely. If she could just figure a way to fix that …
“Oh, guys,” Alex suddenly said, and Ellie heard the wonder in her voice. “Look.”
Ellie looked up. Just a few feet away, the trail petered out. What she first spied were the gold underbellies of clouds above and a huge expanse of blue-black wate
r below, spread as far as the eye could see: away into forever. The trees simply ended. In four more steps, Ellie found herself on the narrow crescent of a towering sandstone bluff heavy with moss. To her right, a waterfall cascaded over red and brown and yellow rocks in a silver-white ribbon. She could hear the tick of the dogs’ nails over stone, and hoped like crazy they didn’t slip, because it was a long way down. This being Mirror Point, she wondered if you really could see yourself from way up here. From the clouds in the water, she thought you just might. (The clouds, which had been with them ever since they’d come to the Waucamaw, totally blew. Because Ellie had kept an eye on that moon. Hadn’t said anything to anyone. But she kept turning it over: what if.)
Yet there was still enough sun to spray the bluffs. The sight made her chest go tight, but in a good way. The light turned what you’d only think were regular old rock-rocks into bands of deep rust-red and gold and, best of all, neon orange, as bright as Iraqi sand. On the water itself, the fall’s ripples shimmered like molten lava.
When she saw this, Ellie realized: Alex’s parents were right. This was where Alex’s mom and dad had fallen in love, and Mirror Point was all so bright and beautiful and there were so many colors, even as clouds threatened, it really was the perfect place to begin—and to end. To sleep forever. This didn’t make everything suddenly okay. But the ache in Ellie’s chest wasn’t quite as sharp. It felt like her insides were the lid on a jar of strawberry jam, capped too tight, and now someone strong enough had finally twisted to release all that pressure with a little pop.
Tom must’ve sensed something. He was really good at that. Without her even asking, he bent and picked her up so she could wrap her legs around his middle and thread her arms around his neck and let him carry her to the edge, just the way her daddy used to when she was only a little kid.
Please, God. Gripping her cloth sack by the neck, Ellie buried her face in Tom’s shoulder. Please make it all right. Please make it better so we can be us again.
