far
deeper spell lay over these. Robbie felt it powerfully. It wasn't a place for
whimsy. You wouldn't find shade or safety. You felt only unease. Your eyes
searched—and you searched your mind—for something familiar. But everything here
seemed foreign: unheard-of, unthought-of, unknown.
"I'll mark the way," he said.
A taller tree stood in the clear a few
paces forward. He sloshed over to it. The spruce was leaning badly—weak, dizzy.
Or drawn by something invisible—who could say? Its arms were short and spiky,
its trunk was scabbed with ashen flakes. Robbie pulled a sock from his pocket
and tied it to a branch.
Cuck. Cuck.
A bird called in the stillness. Robbie
turned. Through the black spikes, he caught the flash of calm water. He held his
finger to his lips and motioned to Fristeen, and the two of them crept through
the leaning trees.
Cuck. Cuck.
The twigs of the spruce were tangled and
matted, like your hair when it's dirty and needs to be washed. Some of their
arms were twisted, some broken and hanging. Were they like the trees with
leaves? If you put your hand to their trunks, would you hear their thoughts?
Maybe you wouldn't want to get that close. Maybe they were thoughts you didn't
want to hear. They stood apart from each other, and their branches didn't
touch. Maybe they didn't share their thoughts, even with other trees.
They came upon a channel with water
flashing within. It led straight toward the shore of a glowing lake. They
followed it. Grass bunched up and the black trees stood back. A curtain of
reeds. Robbie stepped up to it, pushed his fingers through and drew the reeds
apart. And there was the Pool.
It was a bowl, and the water in it was red.
The hills rolled down to it, and then rolled back up on its far shore. The
clouds had spun a thick basket above it, and a single wand of sun jabbed
through.
"It's a needle," Fristeen said,
pointing to where the ray touched the surface.
Robbie nodded. The Pool was a lens of
blood. And in that lens was a world of secrets: turbid mud and coiling breeze,
hidden hummocks where silver eels nested, while on the surface water bugs
skittered and swept, scribing an alien prophecy in ciphers. On one side, the
Pool's surface was rimmed by glowing platinum; on the other, by black trees
growing upside down.
At their feet, oily rainbows scalloped the
mud. Fristeen knelt and so did Robbie, and they put their fingers in and made
the rainbows loop and swirl.
Cuck. Cuck.
They jumped. The bird was ten feet away:
black with a yellow eye, perched on an overhanging branch, staring at Fristeen.
As they watched, its attention shifted to the reeds. Something was rattling
there.
A pair of dragonflies hovered among the
shoots, wings whirring. Their long bodies glittered lemon and turquoise, beaded
as if they had risen a moment before from the depths of the Pool.
"Look at their eyes," Robbie
whispered.
They were giant globes, swollen to
bursting, cyan and gold in fluid swirls. But opaque, unfathomable.
The dragonflies fixed suddenly on other
business. They darted like thoughts across the scarlet water and into the black
trees.
Fristeen sighed.
Robbie yawned and glanced around. The spot
behind the reeds was flat and dry.
She read his mind and scooted back. Then
she smiled and stretched out.
Robbie lay down beside her and they fell
asleep.
Something called Robbie back from a
harrowing dream. He awoke, dizzy and muddled, eyes searching for some
reassuring sight. Above him was a deep gray sky, and in its center there was a
cavern of light, so dim and constricted by clouds that it might have been the
moon. He shuddered and rolled over, rising to his knees.
"Fristeen?"
His vision was blurred, but he could see
her beside him. He shuddered again, thrown back for a moment into his dream. It was a dream, wasn't it? Needles from the heavens pricked him endlessly, and a horde
of dragonflies held him down while his blood fed the Pool.
"Fristeen," Robbie whispered. He
was in the
deeper spell lay over these. Robbie felt it powerfully. It wasn't a place for
whimsy. You wouldn't find shade or safety. You felt only unease. Your eyes
searched—and you searched your mind—for something familiar. But everything here
seemed foreign: unheard-of, unthought-of, unknown.
"I'll mark the way," he said.
A taller tree stood in the clear a few
paces forward. He sloshed over to it. The spruce was leaning badly—weak, dizzy.
Or drawn by something invisible—who could say? Its arms were short and spiky,
its trunk was scabbed with ashen flakes. Robbie pulled a sock from his pocket
and tied it to a branch.
Cuck. Cuck.
A bird called in the stillness. Robbie
turned. Through the black spikes, he caught the flash of calm water. He held his
finger to his lips and motioned to Fristeen, and the two of them crept through
the leaning trees.
Cuck. Cuck.
The twigs of the spruce were tangled and
matted, like your hair when it's dirty and needs to be washed. Some of their
arms were twisted, some broken and hanging. Were they like the trees with
leaves? If you put your hand to their trunks, would you hear their thoughts?
Maybe you wouldn't want to get that close. Maybe they were thoughts you didn't
want to hear. They stood apart from each other, and their branches didn't
touch. Maybe they didn't share their thoughts, even with other trees.
They came upon a channel with water
flashing within. It led straight toward the shore of a glowing lake. They
followed it. Grass bunched up and the black trees stood back. A curtain of
reeds. Robbie stepped up to it, pushed his fingers through and drew the reeds
apart. And there was the Pool.
It was a bowl, and the water in it was red.
The hills rolled down to it, and then rolled back up on its far shore. The
clouds had spun a thick basket above it, and a single wand of sun jabbed
through.
"It's a needle," Fristeen said,
pointing to where the ray touched the surface.
Robbie nodded. The Pool was a lens of
blood. And in that lens was a world of secrets: turbid mud and coiling breeze,
hidden hummocks where silver eels nested, while on the surface water bugs
skittered and swept, scribing an alien prophecy in ciphers. On one side, the
Pool's surface was rimmed by glowing platinum; on the other, by black trees
growing upside down.
At their feet, oily rainbows scalloped the
mud. Fristeen knelt and so did Robbie, and they put their fingers in and made
the rainbows loop and swirl.
Cuck. Cuck.
They jumped. The bird was ten feet away:
black with a yellow eye, perched on an overhanging branch, staring at Fristeen.
As they watched, its attention shifted to the reeds. Something was rattling
there.
A pair of dragonflies hovered among the
shoots, wings whirring. Their long bodies glittered lemon and turquoise, beaded
as if they had risen a moment before from the depths of the Pool.
"Look at their eyes," Robbie
whispered.
They were giant globes, swollen to
bursting, cyan and gold in fluid swirls. But opaque, unfathomable.
The dragonflies fixed suddenly on other
business. They darted like thoughts across the scarlet water and into the black
trees.
Fristeen sighed.
Robbie yawned and glanced around. The spot
behind the reeds was flat and dry.
She read his mind and scooted back. Then
she smiled and stretched out.
Robbie lay down beside her and they fell
asleep.
Something called Robbie back from a
harrowing dream. He awoke, dizzy and muddled, eyes searching for some
reassuring sight. Above him was a deep gray sky, and in its center there was a
cavern of light, so dim and constricted by clouds that it might have been the
moon. He shuddered and rolled over, rising to his knees.
"Fristeen?"
His vision was blurred, but he could see
her beside him. He shuddered again, thrown back for a moment into his dream. It was a dream, wasn't it? Needles from the heavens pricked him endlessly, and a horde
of dragonflies held him down while his blood fed the Pool.
"Fristeen," Robbie whispered. He
was in the
Similar Books
