by Sam Starbuck
"Sure. He was up here just last week, asking me about the Straw Bear."
"Really," I said, intrigued. "He showed you his masks, I guess."
"A few. He said he had more." Charles was staring almost disconcertingly at my mask. "He's very...deft, I guess you could say. It looks like you."
"What?" I asked, studying my reflection in the big silver urn.
"Well, a little bit. Not the eyebrows, but the face, you know?"
"Huh." I hadn't noticed, but without the glasses perched on Dottore's nose I supposed the narrow, scholarly face would look like mine. "Is Lucas here?"
"Haven't seen him yet, but he'll probably show up. He's been invited, anyway."
Charles set up the water to heat and people began to crowd around us, picking at the trays of food on the table. The children were more concerned with the games that a couple of industrious youngsters were running, where you could win a few pieces of candy or a small toy. The adults wanted coffee to keep them awake.
I felt faintly superior to most of the others there – their masks, if they wore any, were cheap plastic things well below the level of craftsmanship Lucas had put into mine. I got a lot of compliments on it, and a few outright stares.
The children were in much more elaborate outfits than the adults, chasing each other through the room or huddling in groups to plot mischief. I looked around for Lucas but, not seeing him, went to busy myself hopping from group to group, picking up news and redistributing it. All of the players in that season's live-action soap opera – Michael, Nolan, Sandra, Cassie, Nolan's younger sister and one or two other minor characters – were drifting around the party as well, being watched by the village and watching each other warily.
Around nine o'clock, with night well-fallen and some of the younger children already taken home by their parents, people began to slip outside. The cold evening air was almost a welcome relief after the warmth of the basement, and the sense of anticipation among the adults began to grow. I took off my mask and tied it carefully to a belt-loop, joining them in the cemetery.
In twos and threes, bringing their children with them or following them out, the adults began to gather inside the cemetery gates, off to either side of the dirt road that wound around and between the headstones. A group of young teens lounged on the steps of the few mausoleums, some ways off. The children stood at the gates, watchful, either remembering past years or having been told by older siblings what was about to happen. In the distance the edge of a forty-acre forest, marking the far boundary of the cemetery, loomed darkly.
Some of the adults had gone missing in the bustle. Charles, for one, and Leon; Jacob's wife as well. I thought perhaps Leon was the new Sweeper, and about time, since the schoolteacher who had done it for years was laid up with lumbago worse than ever and it was time she passed the broom, so to speak.
It occurred to me that Jacob's wife might be the Fire Man this year. Low Ferry wasn't a paragon of gender equality, but the Fire Man needed to be nimble and light. By and large the men of Low Ferry were built on huge broad lines, good for farming but not for the relative acrobatics the Fire Man needed. The part was usually played by a young man or woman. I'd been asked once, my second year in the village, but I'd had to decline.
My speculations were cut short as the Sweeper appeared, hooting and coughing his way down from the main road. It was certainly Leon, dressed in layers of burlap tied on with bits of yarn and old worn belts. He swept the loose top layer of dirt on the road with his broom, aimlessly, clearing any little remnants of snow to the sides. He shook his head as he came, setting off the little bells tied to the wispy straw wig bound in a topknot and hanging down over his ears. Once inside the gate he moved his broom more vigorously, occasionally shoving a giggling child off the road.
Three or four mounted riders followed him, the horses kicking up mud from the melting snow, ruining the crazy patterns the sweeper left behind him. There was Jacob's wife, along with three young men – one of the Harrison boys and two I couldn't place in the darkness. The riders threw sticks into the crowds for people to catch or scramble after: long poles made of balsa and a few of hollow plastic, not too hard or heavy, hardly dangerous at all. Their horses, decorated with ribbons and more bells, stomped and snorted. A few children playfully sword-fought with the sticks or went haring off into the darkness, already looking for the Straw Bear. Eventually the adults herded them into a group that trailed loosely down the road after the riders.
We walked through the cemetery hollering and whistling, following the riders until they abandoned us at the edge of the trees. They wheeled the horses, well out of range of the children, and broke into a galloping race back to the front gates, the showier ones leaping gravestones as they went.
The rest of us turned to the trees. There was a collective moment of anticipation before a few brave souls walked in first, pushing the low brush aside and starting to look in earnest for the Straw Bear. We were quieter in the forest, and sometimes we could hear the rise of a bird from the brush or the scuttle of a small animal fleeing hastily ahead of us. It was eerie, and a few of the children looked scared, but for the most part people seemed to be enjoying the shadows – venturing into the darkness to beat winter back, to beat back chill and death. This was our ritual, deeper than any church service, all-encompassing. If nothing else, it made us a village, tied us together in an experience that most of Low Ferry had shared since they could walk.
Leon was there, still in-character, brandishing his broom to make the children laugh occasionally. Paula kept poking Nolan in the back with her stick until he swatted at her and wandered off, annoyed. Nora Harrison, well along in her pregnancy, was escorted by several chivalrous junior sons of the extended Harrison clan. Carmen was carrying a tired-looking Clara on her shoulders. It was, in fact, pretty crowded in the trees.
I held back a little, wandering away from the others, content to look up at the stars through the tree branches and listen for the inevitable shout of Straw Bear! Straw Bear! once someone finally found him.
I'd managed to lose sight of everyone, which is no mean feat even in the dark, when I heard a bird-cry off to my left. It was followed by what I thought was the rustle of wings, and instinctively I turned to look for the source of the noise. There was no sudden flight against the sky, however, and no fluttering feathers – instead I came face to face with a wide sheath of plaited straw, behind which a pair of eyes flashed and darted wildly.
I suppose if we were less serious, if it really were a children's game like everyone pretended, Charles would have dropped a wink and lifted his mask. Hello Christopher, where's the rest? Run along and don't tell. I hope I look all right.
I might have winked back and told him he was terribly fearsome and said Good luck scaring the children, but I didn't. Because it wasn't a game, really, not in Low Ferry.
Instead the figure growled and raised his arms, surrounding me in the musty-sweet smell of dry grass and the shifting shadows of his braided costume. Fear rose in my throat, real terror, and I yelled in answer to his low groan.
"Straw Bear! Straw Bear!"
From all around me came the immediate sound of crashing as would-be rescuers ran through the undergrowth. I shied back from the figure and shouted "Straw Bear!" again, even as I fell on my elbows, staring up at him. Two women arrived on the heels of my shouting and batted at the upraised arms of the bear with their sticks, driving him off. He howled and shambled away while they gave chase.
"Straw Bear!" they shouted, terribly serious, more people joining them as they went. I could hear the groans and growls receding in the distance as I was helped to my feet – they sounded like they were moving back towards the cemetery now, as they should be. My heart was beating fast and my breath came short, knocked out of me by the fall.
"You okay, Christopher?" Jacob asked, arriving in a cluster with a few other farmers, and now there were grins all round.
"Fine," I gasped. "Let's go on, we'll miss the Fire Man – which way
is it?" I added, rubbing my chest with one hand.
"This way," someone else said, and we tromped back in the direction of the cemetery, following the noise, Michael offering me a shoulder to lean on as I stumbled along. I couldn't seem to get my breath back.
We emerged from the trees to see the Straw Bear at bay, standing in front of a lumber-pile in the center of the cemetery. The sticks fell in uneven rhythm on his arms and chest, not the random attacks of children but the purposeful, symbolic drumming that others in Low Ferry's past had used to drive off evil –
Thud-ump-ump-thud-ump
Thud-ump-ump-ump-thud-ump
Even as we arrived the Bear roared defiance and the straw suddenly parted, revealing a disheveled and sweating Charles underneath. He shrugged the suit backwards and off, crying out in a very human voice, "Help me! Help me!"
Those who had attended other Halloweens in Low Ferry all knew where to look even before the fire flared to life. Behind the low graveyard wall was a sudden red glow, and a lithe body vaulted over the stone and ran across the graves, carrying a flickering torch made of rags dipped in pitch and wrapped around a long stick. He darted through the crowd, the flame trailing out behind him, and touched the torch to the Straw Bear costume as he ran past. It flared up bright, crackling merrily. The new Fire Man was good. He hadn't even broken stride.
He turned before he reached the bonfire wood and ran back again, leaping straight through the flame of the burning straw. The Fire Man's leggings were thick leather and he didn't wear a shirt which could have caught fire, so it was safe enough. Clearly at some point in our history the village had figured out that it was a good idea to keep the youths from setting themselves aflame, and had arranged a dress-code accordingly.
It was a wonderful sight, as it always is. The Fire Man's mask looked new, made of brilliant strips of red and orange silk stretched across a wire frame. It came to me as he jumped a second time, twirled and danced, and jumped across the flame again that I had seen that kind of mask in the workshop Lucas kept. Hard on the heels of that thought came the realization that Lucas was at the village revels after all.
He was the one leaping over and through the flaming remains of the Straw Bear's costume, the one laughing at the children who clapped and kept time for the dance steps on either side of the leaps. I recognized the cut of his hair and the visible shape of his chin and throat, even if I had never seen him move so quickly or smile so openly. He was different – no tension in his body, no hesitant looks or slouched shoulders.
My chest tightened further, but not with sentiment – it was still hard to breathe, even if I tried to inhale on the rhythm of the clapping hands and stamping feet. Lucas jumped the flame one last time and ran to the wood piled for the bonfire, throwing the torch into the center of it. The whole crowd burst into spontaneous applause as it exploded in light and heat. I was busy trying to get enough air in my lungs to call for help.
The problem was, in the end, that my heart had yet to stop beating triple-time since Charles ambushed me in the forest. I tried to keep up with the clapping, the shouting bounced around and around in my head, but I couldn't. I wanted to see the bonfire and see Lucas pull his mask off and pick a girl for the dancing, but everything was narrowing down to a pinprick of light. Pain was flaring in my chest and my throat felt like it was closing off.
It was in the middle of Low Ferry's oldest ritual, then, that it happened: my heart gave out entirely from the strain and shock and the blow I'd taken when I'd fallen.
To everyone's surprise, mine not least of all, I died.
***
Fortunately for me, it was a short death. Which is not to say that the process of dying was short (though that too) but rather the time I spent dead could be measured in minutes rather than on a scale of "now" to "judgment day".
Everyone nearby knew immediately that something was wrong. People have occasionally passed out at the revels, but I was not known for my impressionable spirit or any kind of religious fervor. I'm told that my eyes rolled up in my head and I simply dropped straight down in a heap with very little fuss, which seems pretty much like me.
Immediately a crowd gathered around and just as quickly they were shoved away by Charles and Jacob, so that Dr. Kirchner had enough room to drop to his knees and revive me. Or perhaps resurrect is the better word, since I had no pulse and wasn't breathing at the time.
Needless to say, I don't remember any of this. A sort of false memory has settled in my mind, though, built up from stories I heard later on. It seemed like nobody's life was complete that winter until they'd come to see me and tell me their version of events. The tales varied wildly, as these things tend to do: in one memorable account of the Temporary Death of Christopher Dusk, my spirit was seen to leave my body as a bright orange glow. I try to ignore that one.
What I recall after the lighting of the bonfire is mainly a sharp, sudden pain, followed by constricting tightness in my chest and then nothing – a void, a gap, until it was replaced with the sensation of bone-deep warmth and the sound of quiet breathing in a different rhythm from my own. And a voice – Dr. Kirchner's deep bass, reassuringly calm.
"Really, Lucas, he's resting quietly. I don't mind you staying here, but you should at least wash your face. You're covered in ash."
"I don't care. He might wake up."
"Sooner or later he will, but it'll be all right if you aren't here. I'll let him know that you were waiting for him."
I tried to move, to let them know I was awake, but when I shifted my weight the muscles in my chest twinged alarmingly. I did get my eyes open, and made a surprised noise when a face loomed close to mine.
"Hello, Christopher," said Dr. Kirchner, smiling reassuringly. "How are you feeling?"
"I...why are you – in my bedroom?" I asked, and he laughed uneasily.
"We're not in your bedroom," he said. "You've had an episode. Are you breathing comfortably?"
"Yes," I answered. "Should I be?"
"It's good that you are. The roads aren't great and I'd hate to have to helicopter you to the hospital."
"I don't need a hospital," I replied. And then, stupidly, "I want to go home."
"I know, but I have to make sure you're all right first."
He helped me to sit up and I saw that we were in the office of the church – I was lying on the pastor's couch, covered in a couple of tattery blankets. Lucas was standing in a corner, near the window, still in the Fire Man's leggings. He was wearing a shirt three sizes too big for him, obviously borrowed from somewhere, and there was grease and ash-dust on his arms and face – a very pale face, under the grime.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," I answered.
"Well, now that's out of the way, back here please," Kirchner said, tipping my chin back so that I was looking at him. He rattled through a series of questions that were both soothingly easy and incredibly invasive, which I answered more or less honestly. I may have lied a little about how well I felt, but I wanted to convince him that I should be allowed to go home. It seemed very urgent at the time.
For a while I forgot Lucas was even in the room, until he moved to leave and gave me a small, shy wave from the doorway. I found out later that he'd been the major conduit of information between the doctor and the rest of the bonfire party, in the first few minutes after they moved my unconscious body to the church and, well, panicked a whole lot. No doubt he was leaving to tell them I was awake.
"I'm going back to my office to get you a heart monitor," Kirchner said finally. "I want you to stay still and rest until I come back. I'm going to have Charles keep an eye on you, all right?"
I nodded and might have drifted off for a minute or two, since the next thing I recall is Charles, bending over and poking me in the forehead.
"Christopher?" he boomed, and the echo bounced around between my ears for a while.
"What?" I groaned.
"Just making sure you're still alive," he answered, and mercifully leaned back. Beyond him, it se
emed like half the town was assembled – though, looking back, it was probably only a few of the church elders and pillars of the community, the kind who always get front-row seats in Low Ferry's dramatic moments.
