“Hmm,” Sasha said. “That was easy.”
“No, no,” Karen said. “A visit from Wolf is never that simple.”
THAT MORNING WHEN THE CHILD WOKE, he was unhappy and listless, wan, full of complaint. Soon, he caught a cold and slept for two days. When he woke, it was like something inside him had shifted; as though the little machine of his heart fluttered here and there irregularly, and as a result different chords were pulled in his mind, and the song he sang changed its key. Some days, he was content to play on his own. Other days he was inconsolable. On these days, the fox could feel his wife’s sadness returning. It was like a low fog sifting over the forest floor, pushing at the windows of their den, trying to get in. Month after month passed, and they became exhausted, short with one another, angry themselves.
If the child cried for more than a day, sometimes the fox’s wife took the cloak from its peg and transformed into a young woman. Her paws became fingers, her brown eyes turned blue. From the door she would glide to wherever the child was and take him in her arms, sing softly, wipe his tears with her thumb. This always calmed him. And once he was asleep, she would remove the cloak, lie down next to her husband, and quietly weep on his shoulder.
“FOR MONTHS,” KAREN SAID, “this sadness afflicted them. They began to feel … helpless. There was nothing to be done. The forest was heavy with snow, the light was flat. The child wanted nothing to do with either of them. He sat cross-legged in a corner, stared at the wall. He walked in small circles in the center of the room. When picked up, he thrashed and screamed. Sometimes he would cry for hours, and the crying would make him vomit. He stopped eating.
“And then one day,” Karen said, “they woke up and the child was gone.” She paused. “They looked everywhere,” she finally said. “They had not left their door open, and the child could not unlatch it. There were no windows left ajar. A child like that could not just disappear, but that seemed to be exactly what had happened. For a week they walked the woods, calling his name. They left the door open at night in the hope that he would return on his own, left food in places around the forest, they begged and cried and prayed, but he didn’t return. Soon a winter storm arrived. The temperature dropped, and the wind picked up, and the forest floor was covered even more deeply with snow. It was the worst storm they’d seen in years. Neither would say it, but they knew all hope of finding the child was lost. Soon, his wife took to their bed and would not leave it. When the fox tried to talk to her, to reassure her, it was like talking to an empty box. She’d gone vacant. When he brought her food, it remained uneaten.”
Karen cleared her throat. “When the storm relented, he left her and resumed his search in the woods. He crossed the stream and traveled farther than he ever had, to the darkest parts of the forest, asking everyone he met about the human child. The answer was always the same. He knew the woman had not found and taken the child back—every night he ventured to her house to peer into her windows. She sat alone in her living room, staring into whatever dark space unfurled in front of her. The child had not returned.”
“He just disappeared?” Sasha said.
“You need to stop interrupting,” Karen said, and looked at him with what appeared, to Anna and Nils, to be genuine anger. “The three of you have been talking all night,” she said. “You asked for a story, it’s almost done.”
“Sorry,” Nils said,
“Yes,” said Anna, “please continue.”
EVENTUALLY, WITH HIS WIFE still sick in bed, the fox went in search of Wolf. After two days of walking and calling for the child even though he knew all hope was lost, the forest opened, and he found Wolf standing at the mouth of a great cave. Near the entrance, blanched and cracked skulls were heaped like stones. Enormous worms wound around his paws. Wolf nodded to the fox. He grinned, then dropped his head and returned to licking the pile of bones at his feet. I have, he said, no idea why you’ve come.
The fox was struck dumb. The darkness that orbited Wolf stretched its living fingers and beckoned to him. But then he felt anger surging from his shoulders like an old thought. He crossed the distance between them and lunged.
Oh, ho! said Wolf, surprised and even slightly pleased at the fox’s stupidity. He bit again and again at Wolf’s neck while Wolf stood to his full height and did nothing at all. The fox felt the large worms wrap around him. They squeezed his legs, his hips, his chest. Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding, Wolf finally said. Tell me when you are tired, and then I will show you something. Eventually, the fox could no longer stand, and with great heaving gulps of air lay down. With a yawn, Wolf turned and stepped into his cave without a backward look.
The fox felt as though he’d left the earth. He no longer cared about anything at all. The walls of the cave were wet and putrid, and as he followed Wolf, the sounds of the forest receded behind him. It was as though he were slowly entering a cold and unforgiving afterlife. With some sadness, he realized his memories of his own father had been wiped clean: when he tried to think of him now, he saw only a dark and bending absence. Finally, the tunnel opened up to a great cavern, lit by torches. He was met by the smell of decomposing leaves. There was no sound at all. The floor was piled high with bones. You see? Wolf said, and shrugged. There are no children here.
KAREN ADJUSTED HERSELF on the couch and looked quickly around the room.
“His wife did not recover. In the morning he brought her tea, breakfast. She refused to eat. She refused to leave the bed. She refused to allow him to move the child’s belongings—the cloak she’d made, the toys. His clothes. In the evening, he crawled next to her and sometimes it was like sleeping with a statue. Other times, she talked in her sleep, thrashed, and nested; she roamed her own unconscious, dark roads that did not end. One night, she opened her eyes, looked directly at her husband, and said: That’s not true. The fox didn’t know to what she was referring. He knew that he had brought her great pain, but he had not said anything for days.
“And so they moved carefully through the fraught and fragile months. They searched the forest out of habit. They took no pleasure in the passing hours. During the first year, the child visited them both in their sleep, and in these dream visions the fox saw a young man standing near the edge of the forest, one arm raised in greeting. His wife saw him running through the woods, with sunlight at his back. Neither saw him for what he was.
“As time passed, the fox found he could no longer remember what the child looked like. When he tried to imagine him, all he saw was a large white stone that gave off a shimmering light and vibrated with hatred for him and what he’d done. His wife remembered, though. She could describe the child’s chubby legs, and the constellation of his birthmarks, his thick black hair, the feel of his toothless gums on her outstretched wrist. His smell. She removed the cloak from its peg, transformed into a woman, and sat in the middle of the room for days as if to call him back. But it was for naught. The boy, the fox felt, no longer existed, and after his disappearance they’d invented and replaced him with a different child made from memory—it was this they were mourning, and warming themselves by. It was not enough, but it was what they had.”
“And so,” Karen said, “that was how they aged.”
“And he never tells her,” Anna said. “Not about Wolf, not about the woman, not about the child.”
“Well,” Karen said. “It’s complicated. One of the things he’d seen in the cave were the small bones of their stillborn children. So he was shaken, and he tried hard to forget that, and did his best to keep that knowledge from his wife. If you keep one secret, you can’t tell another—even-tually all of it will come out. Many years passed, however,” she said. “And finally, when they were old and near death themselves, and all of this was a distant memory, and perhaps he thought he’d be forgiven, the fox confessed to what he’d done. He began on the day he brought the child home, and he told her about the woman, and his visits to her house, and how, one spring morning, he’d opened the doo
r and seen Wolf. She listened patiently. Her face made no expression he recognized. He felt unburdened, like a weight was off his neck and shoulders; but he also felt deep shame at the way he had kept this from her. She did not rescue him from this feeling.”
“Good,” said Anna. “That seems about right.”
THE NEXT DAY, he woke to an empty bed. He sat up and saw she’d cleaned their den. Everything was in its place: the floor swept, the child’s toys tucked neatly in the corner, the clothes she’d sewn for him years ago folded and stacked. She stood near the fire. Take me to her, she instructed her husband. She opened the door and stepped out.
By the time they got to the village, the sun was going down and the sky was gold-streaked and orange. They shared the cloak, now old and moth-bitten, and felt the quickening of their transformation: a short old woman and a fat, ugly old man, shuffling together, arm-in-arm. No one paid them any mind. They passed husbands, wives, children; through open windows they heard dinner conversations, spoons on plates, the sounds of family happiness. Finally, they reached the house they were looking for. It was as he remembered it.
The woman answered. She’d had little company over the years, and her face betrayed neither shock nor recognition at the sight of this odd couple at her door. She was polite and invited them in. She led them through the small house, and they sat facing one another in ratty and dirty chairs as the sky dimmed, banded blue, then went dark.
I’d offer you tea, but I have none, the woman finally said. She was old now. Her features were like carved wood, and her eyes were as dark as night. She studied them closely, violently cleared her throat, and resumed staring.
I’ve been waiting for you, she finally said, and I know why you’re here. Then she said the child’s name. The fox’s wife began to cry. Are you here to bring him back? the woman asked.
When neither the fox nor his wife spoke, she had her answer. She sighed and looked out the window. She composed herself and dabbed at her cheeks with a large square of blue cloth. The fox recognized it as the blanket he’d left on her doorstep years ago.
Finally, the fox felt his wife tug at the cloak, and saw the woman startle at their change in appearance.
His wife spoke first. She described their den in the forest, the light of the seasons, where they lived and how. She described how they’d made the child’s bed, taught him to run and burrow and hide. She talked of the long nights when he had a fever and the relief she felt when it broke.
The woman listened closely. Was he very happy? she finally said. Did he sleep through the night? Did he pull his ear to soothe himself like he used to?
This is some sort of trap, the fox thought. He tried to look for her teeth, to see if she’d sharpened them, but she kept them well hidden, and he found that he could answer these questions, and that talking like this settled his mind. The woman leaned forward in her chair.
You’ve brought him back to me, she said.
No, the fox’s wife said, and let out a soft cry. No, we haven’t. He’s gone.
The woman spread her arms.
You’ve brought him back, she said. She seemed to grow in her seat. It was the not knowing, she said. It was imagining the darkness, and his pain. That’s what it was. That’s all it is. This is the end of your life. That’s all it could ever be.
And then she wept too.
“AND THAT’S THE END?” Sasha said.
“Yes,” Karen said.
“They just cry?” said Nils.
“Well, there’s another version,” said Karen, “in which there is no reunion. And another version, where the woman reaches for the fox and squeezes him to death with her bare hands for what he did. And a third version, where the child returns, now a man.” Karen was sweating slightly. She seemed relieved to finally put the story down, ready to go to bed. She had one hand on her belly and rubbed it as though it might bring her luck. “The three of you. You should see your faces,” she said. “Do you want to hear what Wolf originally said? It’s an old poem. He said: Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy. Pain is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Trust the physician and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility. I didn’t include that this time, though. Even though I like it.”
“Huh,” Sasha said.
Karen was looking out the window now. “This is the end of your life,” she said.
IT WAS LATE. The fable had taken them long into the night, and there would be no more stories. Anna and Nils knew their babysitter was most likely asleep on their couch, the television quiet and casting a blue light across her tranquil, young face. For a long time no one moved, and the four of them sat as though rooted to the couch. To someone standing outside the house, peering in, they would’ve appeared as a still life in which each solitary figure was lost in thought, flat-lipped, as though on the verge of hearing the answer to some private riddle. But of course, they had heard the answer. Finally, someone coughed and the spell was broken.
“Did you ever open your hats?” Sasha said.
“We didn’t,” said Nils. “I forgot mine completely.”
A young snow began pelting the roof. They would need to leave soon; they should’ve left hours ago. Perhaps now, Anna thought, they would never leave. But just then, there was a thunderous crack, and the lights in the kitchen cut out. The fire sputtered, hissed, and went out as well, and the room was plunged into complete darkness.
“Here’s the scary story you were asking for,” Sasha said. He stood. “We’ve got candles somewhere.”
“Don’t bother,” Nils said. “Our eyes will adjust.” But Sasha was already knocking into furniture as he crossed the room.
“I liked that story,” Anna said. “Very much.”
“Thank you,” Karen said.
Nils reached for his wife in the darkness, but when he grasped, he felt nothing but air. Had she moved? He heard noise from the kitchen, cabinets being open and shut. It sounded like an animal was rooting around. “Anna,” he said, but she didn’t answer. Finally, he saw her and was struck by a pale fear, though he didn’t know why. She had stood and was at the window. “Anna,” he said again, but she was thinking of something else. An image had come to her: their first child, in her arms, in the early morning, both of them lost in those tired happy days that never seemed to end but could not be remembered, and would not come again.
“I’ve got one,” Sasha said from the kitchen. “I’ve found a candle. Hang on, hang on, hang on. Nobody move. Soon there will be light. Nobody move a muscle. I’ll be right there.”
They waited, but he never came.
ANGUS AND ANNABEL
IT WAS DARK NOW and the night birds sang. Angus heard their calls through his bedroom window and wished them gone. Annabel stirred in the bed next to him, kicked, but didn’t wake. For the last four days she’d been unwell. Tonight, he’d lain with her in their small room until she quieted, listened as her breathing became regular and she lost rigidity to sleep. He imagined her mind at rest, a leniency. She was nine years old, younger than he by three years.
These birds—their music was anxious and obscure, songs of distance heralding distance. Eventually they quelled and silence descended. He listened to the fire in the next room, the soft push of air, and fixed his eyes on the low ceiling above them. Now his sister’s grip loosened and her arm, pressed to his, became slack and heavy. It was just the two of them in the house. Their mother was dead, their father would be returning soon.
He left the bed and made his way out of their room. He fed a log to the dimming fire, laced his boots. He stopped at the front door and listened for any sound from where his sister lay. Hearing none, he lifted the latch and let himself outside.
It was late September, the temperature on the verge of plunging. From where he stood, Angus could clearly see where the cut grass of their property gave wa
y to thicker growth, the dark silhouette of closer trees against the perfect black of the forest behind. A young moon hung low in the sky. Inside, the darkness of these nights was flat, without depth—it encroached and pushed at the windows, asking to be let in. But outside, the dark had quality, a palette and texture of its own.
It was the elm—the one in their yard, their mother’s tree—that had upset his sister. He could see it now, a whorl in the darkness, its branches bending gently in the wind. Tonight, when her fit started, she’d pointed to the window and said the tree had been reaching for them. Angus had not seen this. He’d tried to calm her, but she wouldn’t be calmed. This was the tree their mother had loved and named, decorated in the spring when she was still herself. The decorations were gone now—their father, in his anger and grief, had seen to it—but the thick tree still stood. Its trunk was too large for the two of them, holding hands, to circle. They touched it gently when they thought no one was looking. He’d seen his sister lean her forehead on its rough bark on her way to the barn.
Now, near the door of their house, he stood motionless, daring the tree to show him something, fearful it might. The wind moved through the leaves with a sound like creek water. An image of their mother and the doctor came to him, and he tried to push it from his mind. To remember is to call forth, he thought.
Earlier, when his sister’s fit had begun, he’d cradled her to prevent her head from hitting the floor with too much force; and when he’d taken her to their room, he’d been careful not to disturb her. He knew his presence helped. If he were not next to her, in the bed they shared, her kicking would not stop. She would cry out and speak of things he could make no sense of. He could not guess where the danger to her came from, or how it began; its arrival was sudden. Over the last few days, as these visions had come to her, rooted, and left, they thought only of their mother and what their father had done. She’d had no fever. Now, to recover, his sister would place her hand in his, a cold grip, and press her head firmly to her pillow as if willing herself still. He pulled her close, whispered comfort in her ear. He smoothed her sweat-stiffened hair. It’ll pass, he said. Be patient. It’ll pass.
Farthest South & Other Stories Page 10
