I could almost put a name to it, like a well-known but seldom-seen acquaintance. I closed my eyes for a second to get some relief from the blinding light, and when I opened them again I was staring into the eyes of Sherwood.
Her face grew brighter still, until all I could see was radiant light. I was adrift in a formless void, an impossibly bright fog without shape or form. The only sound was a faint susurration like wind or surf. I stood there for a while, at a loss. Then I heard the softest whisper of a tune, barely audible above the background noise. It was hard to locate—the sound came from all directions at once. I stood quietly, hoping it would increase in volume enough to provide a direction, but no luck. I could hardly start walking off into the featureless void; God only knew if I’d be able to find my way back. Where the hell was Lou, now that I really needed him?
A sharp nose poking into the back of my knee answered that question. I should have known. Another poke, more insistent. I bent down and grabbed hold of his collar, and the second I did, he started moving off in what I assumed was a direction. This wasn’t going to work, though. Since he’s only a foot tall, the only way I could keep hold of the collar and walk was to bend over almost double and shuffle along like a very old man.
“Lou!” I said, letting go of the collar. “Go ahead. Bark, so I can follow.”
I had expected my voice to sound muffled, like it would have been in thick fog, but it was surprisingly clear. Lou gave a short bark and moved off. A few seconds later I heard a strong bark up ahead, and as I moved in that direction another bark, farther on.
We did this bark-and-follow routine for a while, until the formless light began to ease, and I could see dim outlines of a landscape. At the same time, the song I’d been hearing grew louder until I could make out the words and tune.
It was an old Irish ballad Sherwood had dug up from somewhere, one of her favorite tunes. I’d even worked out a simple guitar arrangement for her so she could accompany herself when she sang. And it was her voice singing; I’d heard her sing it often enough so there was no doubt. The haunting tune echoed over the emerging landscape, or maybe it was echoing in my head.
Won’t you come from out that shadow,
Will you turn your back on grief?
You can lie down here beside me
If that brings some small relief.
I could hear it clearly enough now to follow the sound. As I walked, the landscape solidified, slipping into focus. I was on a high moor, with rocky crags and gorse and heather stretching out to a distant horizon in every direction. A chill wind was gusting, whipping around my ears and blowing through my hair, which had grown longer than usual of late. Wisps of fog drifted over the ground, blotting out some features and suddenly revealing others. I could smell the odor of plant and peat, smoky and clean at the same time.
Lou trotted along beside me, unflappable as ever. To him, this sort of experience wasn’t that different from a trip to the burrito store. But this wasn’t a real place. There were a lot of reasons it couldn’t be, but I didn’t need to be clever about it. There was one obvious clue, large enough even for me to get it. Everything was in black and white.
It wasn’t a problem with my vision. Lou still had his tan chest patch and tan paws and those tan marks over his eyes. But everything else was like a black-and-white movie, The Hound of the Baskervilles , maybe. Or even better, Wuthering Heights . The minute I thought of that I knew it made sense. Why, I had no idea, but it was no coincidence. Wuthering Heights had been Sherwood’s favorite movie, the one with Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon. A strange, romantic choice for someone otherwise so practical, but there it was.
She’d made me watch it once, bringing over a DVD, and surprisingly, I liked it. But when I made a comment about what an asshole Heathcliff basically
Her face grew brighter still, until all I could see was radiant light. I was adrift in a formless void, an impossibly bright fog without shape or form. The only sound was a faint susurration like wind or surf. I stood there for a while, at a loss. Then I heard the softest whisper of a tune, barely audible above the background noise. It was hard to locate—the sound came from all directions at once. I stood quietly, hoping it would increase in volume enough to provide a direction, but no luck. I could hardly start walking off into the featureless void; God only knew if I’d be able to find my way back. Where the hell was Lou, now that I really needed him?
A sharp nose poking into the back of my knee answered that question. I should have known. Another poke, more insistent. I bent down and grabbed hold of his collar, and the second I did, he started moving off in what I assumed was a direction. This wasn’t going to work, though. Since he’s only a foot tall, the only way I could keep hold of the collar and walk was to bend over almost double and shuffle along like a very old man.
“Lou!” I said, letting go of the collar. “Go ahead. Bark, so I can follow.”
I had expected my voice to sound muffled, like it would have been in thick fog, but it was surprisingly clear. Lou gave a short bark and moved off. A few seconds later I heard a strong bark up ahead, and as I moved in that direction another bark, farther on.
We did this bark-and-follow routine for a while, until the formless light began to ease, and I could see dim outlines of a landscape. At the same time, the song I’d been hearing grew louder until I could make out the words and tune.
It was an old Irish ballad Sherwood had dug up from somewhere, one of her favorite tunes. I’d even worked out a simple guitar arrangement for her so she could accompany herself when she sang. And it was her voice singing; I’d heard her sing it often enough so there was no doubt. The haunting tune echoed over the emerging landscape, or maybe it was echoing in my head.
Won’t you come from out that shadow,
Will you turn your back on grief?
You can lie down here beside me
If that brings some small relief.
I could hear it clearly enough now to follow the sound. As I walked, the landscape solidified, slipping into focus. I was on a high moor, with rocky crags and gorse and heather stretching out to a distant horizon in every direction. A chill wind was gusting, whipping around my ears and blowing through my hair, which had grown longer than usual of late. Wisps of fog drifted over the ground, blotting out some features and suddenly revealing others. I could smell the odor of plant and peat, smoky and clean at the same time.
Lou trotted along beside me, unflappable as ever. To him, this sort of experience wasn’t that different from a trip to the burrito store. But this wasn’t a real place. There were a lot of reasons it couldn’t be, but I didn’t need to be clever about it. There was one obvious clue, large enough even for me to get it. Everything was in black and white.
It wasn’t a problem with my vision. Lou still had his tan chest patch and tan paws and those tan marks over his eyes. But everything else was like a black-and-white movie, The Hound of the Baskervilles , maybe. Or even better, Wuthering Heights . The minute I thought of that I knew it made sense. Why, I had no idea, but it was no coincidence. Wuthering Heights had been Sherwood’s favorite movie, the one with Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon. A strange, romantic choice for someone otherwise so practical, but there it was.
She’d made me watch it once, bringing over a DVD, and surprisingly, I liked it. But when I made a comment about what an asshole Heathcliff basically
Similar Books
