Night Forbidden

by Joss Ware

  “Tanya! Tanya, where are you?”

  Because the voice sounded urgent and a little panicked, he began to scramble down the hill, surefooted, with his backpack clunking rhythmically against him.

  “Tanya?” came another voice, from a different direction. “Tanya!”

  And then a male voice, from the original location: “Tanyaaaa!”

  Fence followed the first voice, and as he came closer heard others calling the girl’s name. When he emerged from between two overgrown houses, one whose roof had been flattened by a massive tree trunk some years earlier, he was conscious of his large size and the fact that his entrance was the sudden appearance of a stranger, so he slowed to an efficient amble.

  “Hello,” he called as the man and woman spun to look at him. Hope died from their faces. “Can I help you?” He smiled and stepped across a cracked driveway, its asphalt puzzle pieces outlined by tall grass and a few wild orchids.

  “Who are you?” asked the man, but he seemed less nervous about Fence’s unexpected presence than concerned about Tanya.

  “My name is Fence, I’m from Envy. If you’re from Glenway, then I’m in the right place. I’m looking for a guy named George.”

  “Yeah, he’s here, back there,” said the man, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the town. “Have you seen a little girl? About so tall”—he showed a hip-high height—“dark hair?”

  Fence shook his head. “I heard you calling her and figured I’d come and help. I’m pretty good at tracking, following trails and stuff.” It wasn’t lost on him that despite the fact that a very large man, a stranger, had suddenly appeared in the woods where a young girl was missing, neither seemed to regard him with any suspicion or unease. He relaxed a bit. “If you can tell me where you last saw her, I’ll be happy to help.”

  “This way,” said the man, who introduced himself as Pete.

  “We’re her mom and dad,” said the woman, whose name was Yvonne. “You’re a friend of George?” she asked, her eyes wide and hopeful, her words falling on top of each other without logic. “Tanya!” she shouted, then turned back to him. “You’ll help us? The last we saw her was about two hours ago. At first, we didn’t worry . . . she knows to stay here in the play area. But . . .”

  “I haven’t met George yet,” Fence explained, following Pete. “But he knows a friend of mine, and—”

  “Here,” said Pete. “This is where she was the last we saw.”

  A playground of sorts, a clearing beneath about half a dozen tall pines, with their lowest branches well above Fence’s head. Their rust-colored needles made a soft, soundless cushion beneath tire swings and a few ropes strung between them for climbing and hand over hand swinging. Someone had taken more old tires and pieces of plastic and built an intricate play structure around three of the trees.

  Fence nodded and started to look. “What color hair? How much does she weigh? What was she wearing on her feet, and how was her hair done—in pigtails or long or what?”

  He needed to get a mental image of her so that he knew what to look for—how high she might brush against something, what color thread or fuzz she might leave behind, whether her hair was loose—to lose a strand more easily than if it were confined—how deep an imprint her feet would make and what the prints would look like. There were plenty of hours of daylight left. He didn’t allow himself the distraction of worrying about a little girl lost in the woods or, worse, climbing into and through rickety old buildings. Or coming upon a cougar—the only wild cat that hunted during the day.

  Not yet anyway.

  Absorbed, Fence looked around and found an obvious trail leading from the playground, wishing that Dantès, the big wolf dog that Wyatt, his buddy from the cave, had sort of adopted, was here. But Wyatt was over in Yellow Mountain with Theo and Lou, and Dantès’s owner, Remington Truth.

  A quick glance at the sky told Fence that it was past noon, and the sun would remain high for another eight or nine hours. This whole shifting of the Earth’s axes deal was a pain in the ass when it came to estimating sunrise and sunset, as well as location, but he was getting better at adjusting for the change.

  As he followed the trail, looking for shoe prints and the threads of a pink shirt, the voices calling for Tanya faded into the background. Pete and Yvonne had gone off on another trail, everyone spreading out in a wide radius around the village and playground.

  Reading the little girl’s trail was nearly as simple as reading a book for Fence: he found broken sticks, rumpled bushes, scattered leaves, and footprints that led him farther from the playground. He jumped over a four-foot tree trunk and then skirted a rusted mailbox, its official royal blue paint and USPS logo long since peeled away, and called for Tanya, figuring he’d already gone more than three miles. An eight-year-old girl ought to be getting tired by now, and wanting to sit down and rest.

  When he smelled damp in the air and heard the unmistakable sound of lapping waves, he began to get uneasy. Tanya’s trail had led around a battered strip mall, with every one of the ground-to-roof shop windows broken, allowing trees and bushes to grow inside a hair salon, a café, a video store, and maybe a drugstore. But behind the strip mall he could see a pretty good dip in the ground.

  “Tanya!” he shouted, the sound of water filling his consciousness so that it almost drowned out the small voice calling back. “Tanya!” he shouted again, listening intently as he started down.

  “It’s me!” He heard the little voice. “I’m here!” It didn’t sound distressed, and he felt a little bump of relief in the vicinity of his chest.

  But trees and a few old cars crowded the space around him, and he couldn’t get a good view as he hurried down into the small ravine. At the bottom, a large pool of water looked as if it might have been a quarry, and as Fence peered around the trees, he saw the flash of pink from the girl’s shirt. It seemed higher than it should have been, and then it was gone. Was she in a tree?

  “Tanya!” he called, “your mama and daddy are looking for you! They’ve been really worried.”

  “I’m here! I’m okay,” she shouted back, and then he came through the brush and saw her.

  Oh crap.

  She was walking on a tree trunk that had split and fallen into the pond—no, correction: she was dancing on a tree trunk above the water. His heart stopped, his body freezing. He slid the pack from his back and dropped it on the ground.

  “Tanya, sugarbear, you need to get down from there right now,” Fence said, fighting off the panic. If she falls, if she falls . . . oh God if she falls . . .

  “I’m not a bear. I’m a tree fairy,” she said, and did a little spin on her toes atop the broad trunk, and then a little jump as if to emphasize her words. His heart surged into his throat. The tree branch was about three feet above the water, and extended to the middle of an acre-sized pool.

  “You’re going to fall off there,” Fence said, his voice more strident as he made his way around the edge of the pool to the fallen tree. “Please come down before you fall.”

  “No I’m not!” she shouted back. “I never fall!”

  As she said that, her foot slipped on the bark and she did exactly what Fence had feared.

  A little scream left her lips and she slid right off the tree and splashed into the water below, quick as a blink. Until her entire body went under, Fence wasn’t certain how deep the pool was—but when she disappeared and didn’t immediately reappear, he knew it was deeper than he could handle.

  His heart in his throat, Fence ran to the tree trunk, cursing and swearing like a motherfucker. No, no, no, not this, not this, not me, not here, not now.

  A sturdy branch in hand, he was out on the tree limb with quick agility, forcing himself to ignore the fact that there was water below. He was still dry and out of it, he was good. She was going to come back up in a minute, and he would hand her the end of the branch and she would grab it and he’d pull her out of the water.

  Right? Right, God?

  A little splash cau
ght his attention, and Fence saw her hand come up, then a shoulder and the top of her head, a little mouth, gasping for air . . . but she was too far away for him to reach even with the branch. She slid back under with hardly a sound.

  No, dammit, come back here.

  His stomach heaving and lurching, Fence reached as far as he could with the branch, calling Tanya’s name, his heart pounding in his chest. His fingers clutched the branch as if he were about to fall. Her face emerged again and for a moment he thought she’d heard him, but her arms flailed helplessly, reminding him of Brian all those years ago, and she eased back under the water.

  No. Not Brian again. No.

  Everything was so eerily silent; there were no splashes, no cries for help . . . yet dark terror crushed down on him. I can’t. I can’t, I can’t . . .

  “Help!” he shouted, bellowing with every bit of air in his lungs, even as he stared at the water, willing her to reappear. “Help!”

  Christ. How could he be calling for help? What the hell sort of pussy was he?

  Just dive in.

  I can’t. I can’t. Cold sweat broke out over his forehead, trickling down from beneath his arms. Brian.

  The hands flailed again above the water, and she was even further from the tree branch, and Fence’s whole body was turning cold and numb.

  It can’t be that deep. You’ll probably be able to stand up.

  His breath was coming faster now, shallow, making his head light and his lungs ache. He spun and ran off the tree trunk, back to shore, dashing through brush and over trees along the edge of the water, trying to get closer to Tanya. But she was in the center of the pool, drifting away from the branch.

  “Help!” he shouted again, standing there, looking out over the pool of water—which seemed to have grown wider and larger since his arrival. “Help! Here!”

  A hand appeared . . . a little white hand, the fingers curled . . . and then went back down into the cold, dark, heavy water. Fence stood at the edge, his belly churning, his body trembling. More sweat streaked down his spine. His mouth was dry, his limbs cold.

  You have to do this, you mother-fucking idiot. You can’t let her drown. You can’t stand by and let her drown.

  He took off his shoes, socks . . . quickly, without allowing himself to think about what would come next.

  Just close your eyes and do it . . . or she’ll drown.

  She’ll drown.

  His shirt—he stripped it off and flung it away, the air cold, chilling his body despite the sun beating down.

  You know what she’s feeling right now . . . the water coming into her nose and mouth, choking her. You can’t let her die.

  Fence realized tears had begun to leak from his eyes: tears of terror and shame as he fought his own weaknesses, staying safely on shore while a little girl drowned. His fingers shook and his stomach heaved violently. He stepped into the water, literally forcing his legs to move, focusing on the other side of the pool. Not on the water.

  She’s just a bitty thing. Weak. Tiny. Small.

  The cool sensation made his teeth chatter, the terrible water, rising to his knees, and he stopped, gasping for air, his head pounding. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t, he screamed inside.

  The water was still; the only ripple was from his own movement. Tanya was falling to the bottom . . . down into the deep, dark, heavy water.

  God help me, help me . . . And then, somehow, he made himself move out of the paralysis. Or something pushed him, but the next thing he knew, he was in the water.

  The horrible weight covered him, just as dark and cold and heavy as he’d remembered, and he immediately began to panic. His limbs wanted to thrash and flail, his chest felt constricted, his heart pounded. He wanted to gasp air in, desperate and needy, but forced his eyes open, praying for strength, and somehow made himself move.

  The water was surprisingly clear, and he saw Tanya’s shadowy figure, suspended midway between the bottom and surface. Her long hair floated eerily in the pool, her arms loose and one of her legs half bent at the knee. Around her were other random shapes, or perhaps tricks of the light: snakelike and undulating, perhaps a submerged tree or some twisted metal remnant of life before the Change.

  Fence’s brain screamed, his body rebelled in terror as his limbs moved awkwardly and then more smoothly as he found his rhythm and forced his way to her.

  She was slender and light, nothing like Brian, who’d desperately fought and kicked, and Tanya hardly moved as he wrapped his arm around her waist, tugging her as he kicked up, up, up . . . seeming to take forever. He felt it when her head broke the surface, and then the cool air on his uncovered head, and he gasped a draft of oxygen-laden air. I did it. I did it.

  He focused on those thoughts, kicking toward the shore, praying he hadn’t been too late, that he could get her there, push the water from her lungs . . . for she hadn’t moved since he touched her.

  Then something caught at his leg, scratching it, curling around it, and Fence lost his tenuous hold on sanity. Blind with panic, he thrashed wildly, lost his grip on Tanya, began to descend into the darkness of terror. The tug on his leg seemed to grow stronger and he felt his eyes bulging wide in the water. Something sharp cut into the sides of his torso, beneath his arms, and he kicked, crazed and desperate, the water growing darker and his lungs full and hard, painful, as he tried to free himself.

  He needed oxygen, he needed to breathe . . . he kicked, but now his other leg was captured, and he felt himself being pulled down, deeper, deeper . . .

  And then he gave up. He just . . . gave up.

  I guess this is the way You want me to go, huh, God? You’ve tried twice already . . . so the third time’s the charm.

  He gave up, let the last bit of air out of his lungs, and knew that when he could no longer hold off, the next breath would be water, rushing into him.

  I’m sorry I couldn’t save Tanya. I tried.

  He felt oddly free now, oddly relaxed . . . and then he saw a shadow out of the corner of his eye, above, near the surface.

  And suddenly, Tanya’s legs, which had been floating near him, were gone. Someone was there! They’d pulled her free!

  The panic rushed back, the terror, and the desperation—save me, save me!—and Fence gulped in a relieved breath of air a split second before he realized he couldn’t.

  But it came in, deep and filling, and he didn’t choke. He didn’t cough as the water rushed into his lungs, the cuts on the sides of his torso stinging a bit. This is what it’s like to die, he thought . . . and breathed out, and in again. Painless. Numbing. It’s like breathing in the womb.

  His panic had receded, and with it, he began to move, dreamlike, in the water. He saw now what had caught on his leg . . . what had caused him to tumble into such panic: some vinelike plant that wasn’t pulling him under but simply made him feel that way as he panicked; and the more he’d struggled, the tighter it seemed to get.

  His leg freed, for an instant he lingered between life and death, almost enjoying this protected, womblike state, suspended there in the water.

  Was this how it had been for Brian?

  And then the shadow appeared above him again, and Fence looked up, a sudden desperate desire to live rushing through him. He kicked, hard, and then, with an absurd lack of effort after all of his struggles, he broke through the surface.

  Fresh air—oxygen—filled his body, and he realized where he was and what had happened. The terror barreled through him again—almost as if now that he’d lived, the panic that had eased during those comalike moments came rushing back in full force.

  His arms flailed awkwardly, his legs tried to kick, and the black paralysis once again overtook his consciousness as he battled the water and his fears. He might have connected with or struck someone—he felt as if he touched human skin—but his terror was complete. Panic ruled him, and he could only focus on getting out. Getting out. Getting safe. Desperate, desperate . . .

  When his foot struck ground, Fence had a sur
ge of hope. The deep, black terror, the blind desperation, fell away as he found purchase with his other foot, and he lunged through the water, toward shore, blindly rushing to safety, his body shaking and weak, his belly surging. There were pangs from the wounds on his body as he stumbled onto shore, and then his stomach rebelled.

  Fence collapsed on the ground, puking violently into the rubble-filled grass. His body shook like a leaf in strong wind, and he couldn’t even lift his head. Tears—he wasn’t certain if they were of gratitude, fear, or shame—streamed down his face, which he kept buried in the ground. His fingers curled desperately into the grass and stones and he couldn’t stop shaking. It was as if he were having a seizure, completely uncontrollable and violent.

  A hand touched his bare shoulder, a voice asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Leave me alone,” he snarled in a broken voice, mortified and furious with himself, with his display of weakness and cowardice. “Go away.”

  He tried to get himself under control, to sit up and breathe normally, but his body would not cooperate. He felt as if he’d been pummeled and thrashed on the football field without any gear . . . and the terror, the dark nightmare, still lingered, still made his belly ache and churn.

  “Go away,” he said again between clenched teeth as he half rolled and propped up on a shaky elbow. And then, as he looked at the new arrival, his stomach surged violently again and a renewed wave of disgust flooded him.

  It was Ana, the sun goddess, who crouched next to him.

  Chapter 3

  At his furious command, Ana eased away from Fence. A little stung, a little shocked, and very concerned, she pulled herself gracelessly to her feet and limped a step away. She had no idea what this man was doing here, so far from Envy, yet she’d recognized him even from a distance by his sheer size.

  But the sight of him now, collapsed on the ground and fighting some sort of internal demon, chilled her. At first she’d thought he was drowning, but then he came staggering out of the water, and now . . . he was reacting so oddly.