by Robert Reed
Every so often Beth would squeak a note, or a half note, catching herself before she actually sang. Cody and Jack were somewhere on the opposite side of the oak, sitting apart and hiding. Marshall was squatting behind the oak’s trunk, on its side, the trigger string in both hands. We had piled brush and old boards on the slope below, burying the speakers and their wires, and the net was overhead, suspended and ready, and any time now we would hear the first false screams beckoning to the dragon.
There was an excitement to the scene. A delicious suspense. I was aware of little motions and the swelling buzz of insects, and I worked to keep alert and ready. I wouldn’t get lost, I told myself. I was eager and part of things and I wouldn’t—
—the scream!
It was too loud. I trembled and hugged myself, thinking all the wild parkland must have heard the sound. The insects stopped their buzzing for a long moment, in respect. Then they started again and I could scarcely hear anything else. I felt Beth’s hand take mine and the warm moist skin of her palm and fingers squeezed hard. She said, “You’re shaking, Ryder,” with her mouth close to my ear. “Don’t shake.” I couldn’t help myself, however. All at once I was remembering something…this place and Beth tripping some switch in my head.
We had had a rare blizzard, and afterwards the wind was still ripping from the north and Cody called me and asked if I wanted to meet her at the almost-pond and help shovel it clean. I had said, “Okay,” and dressed and crossed the pasture, following Cody’s prints in the new snow. I had passed beneath the then-empty oak—this very ground—and I saw again the bright white bottoms and the woods beyond. I left Cody’s trail so I could walk beside the woods. I paused at one of the stone basins, smelling the warm sweet water, and suddenly I looked up and saw Beth standing beside a massive cottonwood tree, out of the wind. She said, “Hi,” and I gave a little jump, startled. She blinked and smiled, saying, “Hi,” once again.
I said, “Hello,” with the wind pulling away my white breath.
“I’ve seen you,” she confessed. “You’re down here a lot, aren’t you?”
“I guess.”
She told me her name. She seemed small and very pretty, but she wasn’t so shy anymore. And not nearly as mysterious. I felt warm when I looked at her face. I told her my name, and she repeated, “Ryder,” aloud. Then we spoke for several minutes, the conversation small and bland. All the countless hours spent thinking about Beth and her amazing circumstances—me envisioning her as being one sort of person, sad and profound—and yet now she seemed like anyone else. I asked why she had run away from me, from us, that day last fall. “Was that you? All I heard was someone shouting at me!” She had an ordinary voice, not at all foreign, and she told me she had always been in the States. She made no mention of her poor folks. Instead she told me some ordinary jokes and talked about school with the same giggling voice any girl would use. She admitted to being shy, yes. “But I’m getting better,” she told me. “I’m just not comfortable around people right away, see?” She seemed pleasant and contented, and I was disappointed. All those terrible tragedies—her folks living sad, painful lives and her trapped in that house with them. I felt cheated, and I felt a little angry. I had put so much time and compassion into her plight, and here she stood giggling. She was telling some story about a funny teacher and how a classroom personal had been reprogrammed to curse every so often…and I did something stupid. I couldn’t help myself. I looked at Beth and wondered aloud, “Why don’t your folks go outside? Huh?”
She blinked, startled. “They can’t,” she told me. “They’re sick a lot, you see. They can’t.”
“Why are they sick?”
Beth watched me. “Reasons,” she said, and she shrugged.
“They were in prison, weren’t they?”
She didn’t speak.
“And you take care of them. Don’t you?”
“Sometimes.”
I asked, “Why aren’t you taking care of them now? Huh?”
“Because they’re fine—”
“You’re sure?” She wasn’t special. I had envisioned Beth as being such a good person. Tireless. Saintly. But she could be any kid, it seemed to me. She didn’t want to talk about her sick folks, and that wasn’t right. I said, “Maybe they need you now. Maybe.”
“They don’t.”
“How do you know?”
She opened her mouth, but she made no sound.
I told her, “I’m glad you don’t take care of me.”
“Why?” she squeaked.
“Because you’re not doing much of a job, I think.” I was angry, barely able to think.
“Why are you so cruel? You’re just wicked—”
“Are you ashamed of them?” I felt wonderfully cruel and angry.
“Who?” she wondered. “Who do you mean?”
“Your folks. I bet you’re ashamed—”
“Will you stop?” she sobbed. “Please?!”
And then I felt awful. My anger evaporated, and I realized just how terrible I must have sounded. All at once. It wasn’t me who had been talking. Not the real me. I had been carrying this perfect image of Beth inside myself, and this Beth had seemed so…I don’t know…run-of-the-mill. Ordinary. Unworthy of my admiration…
Beth turned and fled, crunching through the snow.
She must have been crying, and I stood watching her retreat, feeling wicked and tainted and foolish. It was my fault, all mine, and I was so stupid. So thoughtless. Then some distant part of me said, “You’re lost, Ryder. Ryder? Blink hard and come back, Ryder. Come on.” Which I did. I blinked and focused and found myself sitting in the underbrush again, in the spring, and nothing was changed, but a coat of guilt lay over me like new paint…and I blinked again, trying to shake free the guilt. Trying to peel it off me.
—the scream!
It seemed louder this time, and closer, and I felt it through my bones and my teeth and the sockets of my eyes. I held my breath for a long, cold moment, trying to concentrate, wondering how long I had been lost. Not too long, I decided. This was the second scream, wasn’t it? I felt Beth next to me and nearly asked. Then I heard something moving, and I tensed and realized it was the wind in the trees. Relax, I told myself. Relax. I glanced at the oak and saw Marshall pressed against the trunk, waiting—
—then the scream!
Only it came early. I was certain it was early—that was my first thought—and I blinked and knew that the sound had come from across the weed-choked bottoms, from the woods, and it wasn’t so loud this time. There was something alive in that voice, challenging everything and everyone to make way. Beware! This wasn’t amplified synthesized sound, no. It was from a flesh-and-bone throat, from muscles and lungs. I could very nearly understand its intent; and I sat motionless, never blinking, knowing the dragon was shouting at me. Back off! Blow off! Don’t screw with me!
Our own scream repeated itself.
I could find differences, subtle but distinctive. The speakers distorted the sound just slightly, and maybe the dragon would mark the differences and hold its voice—
—no! It answered at once, no hesitations. I shuddered and turned to my right, the scream coming from somewhere north of the bottoms. I blinked and wondered if it was circling us, listening and measuring and maybe approaching us. Maybe not. Beth stirred beside me, grasping my hand once again. She understood. And Marshall did too. I saw his face moving, his expression tense in the broken moonlight; and our scream came again, clumsy and false and shattering the night sounds.
Beth squeezed my hand.
The unseen dragon answered us after a short moment. It was closer now! No doubts! I heard its voice carry off the pasture, from straight behind us, and I imagined it slipping through the high grass with its big triangular head lifting to survey the scene. The tension was bracing. I quit thinking about Beth and my guilt, wondering what if the dragon was crawling toward us now? The wind made branches nod again, and I nearly jumped. Then I breathed and bit my lip and wait
ed, the fear diminishing to fun again. And again our personal screamed.
The quarry answered. I thought I heard a certain fury—that was my first thought—and then I realized the dragon was toward the south now, very close. Beth pushed her arm against me and held her breath and straightened her back, starting to tremble. I watched the bottoms. The weeds were fat with sunlight and rainwater, and something low-built and sleek was passing through those weeds. I heard a gentle rustling and saw seedy heads nodding, ever so slightly nodding, and I held my breath and focused and saw the big white rattlesnake head emerge at the base of the slope. In the dull moonlight its fur had a lustrous quality, almost a glow, and I thought of milk and new snow and bright white cotton, watching it pull itself into the open now. I could see all of the dragon.
It had grown through these last weeks—a foot was added to its length, and bulk to its muscled sides. I didn’t breath. I waited. It wasn’t quite beneath the net, not yet, and Marshall moved the trigger string ever so slightly. Our scream rose from the pile of brush and rubbish. The dragon answered the challenge at once, lifting its great head and opening its mouth and roaring. It moved forward when it roared, probably by reflex, and I can still see Marshall jerking the trigger string and the dragon catching that motion—or maybe smelling a human scent on the breeze—and it dove backwards into the high weeds. The net was tumbling, spreading until huge and catching nothing. The dragon was gone, and Marshall was up and charging hard down the slope. “There!” he shouted. “Don’t let it…there!” Cody and Jack boiled out of their hiding places, Jack saying, “I told you. I said so. He couldn’t catch it.” He was talking to Cody, and Cody said, “Shut up.” Beth and I rose and went down to the empty net, and she bumped me so I could feel her hard breast against my elbow, for a long moment, and when the breast was gone she said, “Let’s go look for it? Okay? Ryder? Okay?”
I had a flashlight snapped to my belt. I took it and pulled the beam in every direction, searching for motion and confident we wouldn’t see the dragon again. We were walking toward the northwest, roughly toward Beth’s house, and Beth stopped and said, “Hear them? Can you?” The others were a long way off, their voices muffled by the trees. I listened to Marshall cursing his luck, I saw a weak flash of light and then a bug bit me on the back of my hand.
I swatted it.
Beth was close to me. I smelled her breath and felt the heat from her body for a moment, and then the guilt began tugging at me again. I couldn’t help but remember how shabbily I had treated her, and it didn’t seem like something in the past. I felt sick inside. I felt weak and sorry, but I couldn’t speak—
“Anyway,” said Beth.
I shifted my weight and waited.
Then she said, “The time,” and passed her glowing watch in front of my face. “I should go home, I think.”
I looked at Beth.
“Walk me?”
I said, “Okay,” and we cut through the woods to her staircase. We climbed the uneven steps in a cautious, practiced way, the ground falling away and the tree branches close enough to touch. Beth said, “Ryder?”
I stopped and asked, “What?”
“Nothing,” she said.
We climbed to within a step of her back fence and gate and yard, and she tugged at my belt with one hand, saying, “Let’s rest,” and then she said, “Look at everything. Isn’t it pretty?”
We were level with the treetops. The moon seemed brighter now, and I wished I hadn’t left my binoculars under the oak. I would have liked a long look at the moon. Again I felt Beth’s hand on my wrist, and suddenly I remembered the day a couple years ago when Marshall brought his newest friend to meet us. “This is Beth, everyone.” They had become friends in their literature class. Cody and I were working on the new treehouse, Cody carrying the first long boards into the oak; and Beth looked at me and said, “I know Ryder,” with a hard, quiet voice.
“Do you?” asked Marshall, irritated to find his introduction spoiled. “From where?”
“Somewhere,” she said.
I made no sound.
She told Marshall, “He’s a cruel boy. I know him well.”
“Cruel?” Marshall shook his head. “Oh, no! You’re wrong, Beth!” I was amazed by his conviction, and I felt so unworthy. “Ryder’s a whole lot better than any of us! He is!”
“He’s cruel!”
“No no no!”
“Ryder?” said Beth.
I blinked, returning to the present.
“Are you cold?” she asked. “You’re shaking now.”
I felt so terribly cold. I was leaning against the smooth stone wall, and Beth got on the step above me and hugged me and rubbed my closer arm, saying, “There, there,” with satisfaction. “You’re okay.”
I found myself crying.
“Tell me,” she said. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry—”
“For what, Ryder?” She didn’t understand. She had forgiven me long ago, in a series of gradual easy steps, and I knew there was no point in telling her what I was remembering. It wasn’t real anymore. Not for her. It was something forgotten, and gone…
It was just the past…
Eight
Dad was watching the news and Mom was beside him, her eyes shut and her head resting on a fluffy lemon-colored pillow. I was on the floor, a book unrolled on my lap, but my eyes were fixed on the TV the moment someone mentioned shuttles to the moon’s moon. The reporter was a stocky woman with make-up and a rough voice. She stood at the entrance to Dr. Florida’s private launch facility in Hawaii. Uniformed guards were staring while she told us that over twelve hundred passengers—an enormous number—had embarked for the moon’s moon during the last weeks. All of them were employees of Dr. Florida’s, and recent unconfirmed reports stated that there were significant irregularities in the records kept. Dad said, “Gwinn,” once, softly. Mom lifted her head and started to speak, and he told her, “Quiet. Listen,” and nodded at the big flat screen.
The reporter mentioned U.N. regulations and how all space traffic was supposed to be monitored. She couldn’t name sources or culprits, but she told us that several Florida companies had falsified a certain number of cargo manifests—
“What is this?” asked Mom.
“I don’t know,” Dad confessed. “Shush!”
“An investigation is under way,” said the reporter, “and while not admitting to any wrongdoing on anyone’s part, U.N. officials are quick to call the violations minor and assure the press that there is no danger to public health or public concerns. The irregularities likely mean nothing, one official told me. And a Florida spokeswoman is certain the issue will be resolved in a few weeks. At the most.”
“That’s a lot of people,” said Dad. “Twelve hundred? What do you suppose our dear friend is doing with them?”
He meant Dr. Florida, I realized.
Mom asked, “Why make a point of saying there’s no danger?”
“I don’t know, love. To avoid needless worry, perhaps?”
Mom was sitting upright. “Remember your story about the wife and the absent husband? Kip?”
“I sure do.”
“Well,” she said, “do you suppose he’s one of the twelve hundred?”
“Could be.”
“Has he come home yet?”
“I don’t know. Honestly.” Dad paused, stroking his mouth with a fingertip. “I know she was getting messages from him. He was fine and happy, and so on. Full of reassurances.”
I sat motionless, thinking to myself.
“It’s nothing,” Dad cautioned. “What do you bet?”
“Oh, I know,” Mom nodded, but her eyes were concerned nonetheless. After a moment she made herself smile, then giggle. “Do you suppose it’s going to fall? Maybe?”
“What’s falling, dear?”
“The moon’s moon. Maybe those people are trying to keep it from tumbling down—”
Dad saw the joke and laughed. Then he said, “Ryder
? Ryder? Can you explain to your mother about orbits and gravity? Please?”
I felt so very strange. “Can I go to bed now please?” I asked.
They looked at me for a moment, then Mom said, “Of course, dear.”
“Good night,” I told them, and I rose and left.
They told me, “Good night,” with one voice. I climbed the stairs, sports scores and commercials rising after me; and I undressed and slid under the sheets, thinking hard, trying to focus and remember clues from everywhere. Dr. Florida’s tiredness and moods seemed important. I thought of Lillith’s empty stares. Then I brought back that moment on the pasture, Dr. Florida telling Lillith to tell John—Dr. Samuelson?—to find three more teams. Teams of what? What could it mean? I wondered. My clues were like crooked branches in a tree. After a lot of good hard thinking, I was full of possible clues; but all I could see was a shadowy tangle without the faintest sense. None.
Marshall wasn’t sad for long about the dragon’s escape. He had lured it in with his cleverness, after all, and that was something to tell people. The same as he told people about us going to Dr. Florida’s and sharing lunch with the man. Two things worth bragging about for weeks. At least. And maybe—no, positively—he could lure in the dragon again and nab it this time. Net it and put it in a box and bring it up to school to show the kids and everyone.
The two of us were sitting in the big room, and Marshall was patching the net. It was stretched out on the floor, with a ragged hole near one edge. I bent forward and touched the frayed ends of the fabric, and he admitted, “I did it. With the clawed end of a hammer.”
“Why?”
