*****
“Did you talk to them, Paul?”
He sat in one of the kitchen chairs. “Talk to them?”
“Yes, those hunters. Did you ask them what they thought they were doing—building fires on our land, in our woods?”
Paul sighed. “No. No, I didn’t talk to them. They’re not going to hurt anybody, Rachel. They’ll be gone soon.”
“You were out there quite a long time, Paul. What did you do if you didn’t talk to them?”
“Nothing. I was just…being careful. It was pitch-black out there, without the lantern, I mean.”
She came over to him, put her hands on his shoulders. “They’ll be gone soon? How do you know that, darling?”
Darling. He smiled wistfully, though of thanking her. “I just know it,” he said. “How long can they stay out there in the cold?”
“Well, I just hope you’re right, that’s all.”
“We’ll be leaving soon, anyway, Rachel. So what does it matter?” He turned his head, looked questioningly at her.
She shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t matter.” She paused. “Here, let me get this coat off you.”
“No. Not right now, please. I’m still cold. God, I’m chilled to the bone.”
“You’re going to start sweating if you keep that coat on, silly.” She leaned over him, started unbuttoning the coat. He grabbed her hand, held it tightly. “No, please, Rachel.”
She stared incredulously. “Paul…your hand! What’s wrong with your hand?”
He looked. An almost inaudible gasp came from him. He withdrew the hand, clasped it in his other hand, put both hands between his knees.
“Nothing,” he whispered. “Nothing. They’re cold. They’re cold. I didn’t have any gloves. It’s frostbite. It’s nothing.” He stood quickly. “I’ve got to get them warm, that’s all. I’ve got to get them warm.”
He ran into the living room.
When Rachel followed, she found him in front of the fireplace, hands extended over the fire. The ugly brown splotches she’d seen on them only a minute earlier had all but vanished.
DECEMBER 5—EVENING
“They’re halfway to the house, now, Paul.” She turned, faced her husband; he was sitting quietly in his chair. “Paul?”
“I heard you.”
She turned back to the window. She saw two fires—one bright and large and undulating, the other its dim, off-angle miniature, the secondary image on the window glass.
And she saw three dark figures seated around the fire. She sketched in her mind the geometry, the symmetry those still figures represented.
Her eyes lowered. Her gaze fell on the four remaining snow-covered piles of wood, the beehives, the lopsided pyramids Paul had asked her to build weeks ago.
She glanced at him. His eyes were closed now. He seemed in pain, somehow, seemed to be undergoing some deep inner turmoil.
She looked again at the bright, warmly undulating fire.
And awareness as bright and as sure as the flames, came to her.
“They’re not hunters at all, are they?” she said.
After a long moment, Paul answered, “No, they aren’t.” He opened his eyes, kept his gaze on the opposite wall. “I was going to tell you.”
“Were you?”
“Yes, I was going to tell you. Later. After we left this place.”
“Then we are leaving?”
“Yes. Tomorrow. Early.”
She looked out the window again. “I’ll understand, Paul… If you don’t want to leave, I’ll understand.”
“Why would I want to stay?” He waited for her answer. She said nothing. “I asked why I would want to stay, Rachel.”
She took a deep breath, held it a moment. “How soon will they die, Paul? Do you think that fire of theirs keeps them warm?”
He looked at her. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw that he was looking. She turned her head. Their eyes met. She extended her hand and he took it. “Come here,” she coaxed. He joined her at the window. “It’s their last night, isn’t it, Paul?”
He squeezed her hand and his eyes watered. “And our first night,” he said. She leaned against him. “Rachel, they want us to stay.”
“I know.”
“And I wish we could. But…I’ve…I’ve grown beyond them, I think. I’ve grown beyond them.”
Rachel said nothing.
“I thought,” Paul continued, “that I owed them something. And perhaps I do. But if I owe them anything, I owe them myself, not you.”
Again Rachel kept silence.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
And she did understand, had understood, she knew, for weeks, and only now—the evidence so clear—able to admit it, or begin to understand it.
Paul had been one of them. It was as simple as that. He had been one of the children born of the earth itself. And then he had become “Paul Griffin.” He had learned, had grown, had survived, had been transformed. And now, two decades later, what he had been was coming back, was destroying him, had been destroying him since their first day at the house, because it (she didn’t know what to call it; she knew so little about it, only what the boy had shown her) no longer recognized him, and could no longer trust him. Just as Lumas hadn’t recognized him. Or trusted him. Because the world outside the land and the farmhouse had done its awful work.
“I love you,” she said, because she was part of him, part of the man called Paul Griffin and the things outside this place that he represented. “I love you,” she repeated, because she wanted so much to also be a part of what he had been, what he still was, the creature that frightened her and awed her and hurt her. And was…immortal, could make her immortal. Just as the earth itself is immortal.
“I love you,” he said. “I do love you.”
And, seeing the pain and the pleading in h is eyes, she knew that he did. In his way.
LATE EVENING
Even as she struggled from sleep, Rachel knew the source of the acrid smell that filled her nostrils. She nudged Paul, asleep beside her. “Paul,” she said aloud. “Wake up!”
“It’s too cold,” he groaned.
She shook him. “Paul, Paul, wake up!”
He opened his eyes, raised his head a little. “What’s wrong? What’s that smell?” He sat up, suddenly. “My God!”
He swung his feet to the floor, stood, grabbed the doorknob tightly, yanked his hand back. He cursed.
Rachel scrambled from the bed.
“The doorknob’s hot.” Paul’s voice was trembling. “It’s the house, Rachel! It’s on fire!”
“No,” Rachel said steadily. “It can’t be.”
And they both saw the band of flickering yellow light beneath the door.
Paul ran to the window, unlocked it, pushed up. The window wouldn’t budge.
He glanced around. “Rachel,” he shouted, “the washbasin! On the dresser! Give it to me!”
Rachel grabbed the washbasin. “I don’t understand, Paul,” she said as she crossed the room. “We put the fire out. Why do you want this?” She gave him the washbasin. “I don’t understand. Please, Paul…” She turned. “I don’t understand.” She crossed to the door, put her hand on the doorknob. “Why don’t we just—“
“Rachel, no!” Paul shouted.
She let go of the doorknob, stepped back. Her body was shaking.
“Don’t open that door, Rachel!”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’m sorry.”
Paul brought his arm back, washbasin in hand.
Rachel turned, faced him. “They did this, Paul. They want us to stay.”
Paul brought his arm forward. “No,” he murmured, and stopped his arm halfway to the window. “No!” he screamed. “No, you won’t, you can’t. I won’t let you, she’s not yours!”
He crossed the room.
He threw the door open.
And in the instant before the flames swept over her, Rachel saw the three dark, perfect faces beyond the window.
And she understood.
A smile started on her lips.
The words Thank you, Paul came to her.
THE MORNING
The child, a boy, is intrigued by the gleaming, bulbous thing in the ashes. He reaches for it. A girl nearby reaches at the same time. “I don’t understand,” she says. “I don’t understand.” The boy screeches and lashes out at her. She grunts and moves off.
The boy picks up the bulbous thing and turns it around and around, studying it. He puts it into his mouth, tests it with his tongue, bites it, throws it to the ground, and continues searching.
One of the girls lifts a soot-blackened jar from the ashes and studies it hopefully. At last, she tosses it down and it shatters against the dark bulk of the stove. Soon, a pungent odor wafts over to her and she turns quickly and moves over to the remains of the jar. Then the other children are upon her, variously tearing at her, trying to push her away, and tearing at the stuff from within the jar. Soon, there is no trace of it, and the children continue searching.
No longer are their bellies constantly full. Or their skins warm. No longer have they time for desire.
And so they poke through the ashes.
And tear fitfully at the one to find the bones.
While, around them, the frigid morning collects itself. A December morning. Quiet, but with promise.
In time, there will be no more bones.
And winter is upon them.
THE END
~ ***~
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