“We must be close, though.” Alicia sounded suddenly eager. “Aren’t we close? Wouldn’t this be good enough?”
“I dunno,” said Frank. “If we stayed here I’d have to learn a whole new way of doing business. I don’t know how it works here. I don’t think I’m ready for a reality where everybody tells the truth every time. Bet politics here are interesting. I wonder if our reality is exactly the opposite of this one. I mean, where we come from, it sometimes seems like you get elected for telling the biggest lie.” He looked sharply at his wife. “Are you ready for all your friends to tell you exactly what they think of you?”
She hesitated, slumped slightly. “No. No, I guess not. I guess we better not stay here.”
“If we’re this close, then surely the next off ramp will be the right one.” He tried to sound encouraging, reading the discouragement in her face. “At least this line isn’t dangerous.” He cut a chunk of steak. “The food’s normal enough. Downright good.”
So was the motel, as its managers would have honestly admitted. They had real beds with thick mattresses, a full-sized shower bath, and strangely honest television to watch.
Not wanting to send their friends off in the dark, Frank insisted Burnfingers and Mouse spend the night in the empty motor home. Both accepted, albeit Mouse tentatively. As always she was anxious to be on her way. As he prepared to climb into bed, Frank found himself checking the clock and almost laughed out loud. Time meant nothing to them until they made it back home. The numbers on the plastic face bore no relation to their experiences of the past couple of days.
Yet despite his exhaustion and the warmth of Alicia’s slumbering form next to his own he found he was unable to fall asleep. The memories were too immediate, too strong. Alicia could sleep anywhere, anytime. The children had dropped off quickly. Only he was left to gaze at the ceiling, at the sweeps and curves in the stucco feebly illuminated by the light from the motel parking lot that filtered into the room around the edges of the curtains.
Now that they were close to the right reality line, near to home, he found himself pondering all they’d been through and experienced. Bad dreams, the stuff of nightmares. Tomorrow they’d find the right off ramp and take it all the way to Salt Lake or Los Angeles Tomorrow they would drive back to reality. In the morning they would rid themselves of the enigmatic child-woman who called herself Mouse and the wandering maybe-crazy Burnfingers Begay.
Meanwhile it was silly to lie here trying to decide how much of the past was real and how much hallucination. If he couldn’t rent a plane or taxi, they’d have to drive all the way into Salt Lake. He rolled over, forced himself to close his eyes.
It was a quiet room, especially for someone used to traffic-laden Los Angeles He thought he heard a coyote howl out by the city limits, near the mountain slopes. Probably only a dog.
He was nearly asleep when he heard something else.
At first he thought it was a bird singing at the moon. The longer he listened, the more unlikely that seemed. Though no naturalist, he did watch a lot of nature programs on TV, and he’d never heard of any bird holding a single note for so long.
Alicia’s back was ivory in the dim light. She hardly moved, deep in sleep, and he was reluctant to disturb her for an opinion. Yet as he started to lie back down the sound came again, a thin, lilting melody halfway between a song and a cry. It was weak with distance but still unmistakable.
Tension and curiosity had conspired to bring him wide-awake. Frustrated, he pushed back the covers and quietly climbed out of bed. He donned jeans and shirt as silently as he opened the door.
It was much cooler than it had been in the desert. The mountain air chilled his skin like alcohol as he carefully shut the door behind him. Around him hung the silence of Utah night.
He stood motionless, listening. Just as he began to wonder at his foolishness he heard it afresh. Out in the parking lot the motor home squatted like a shipping container on wheels. The sound didn’t come from its vicinity or from any part of the motel.
The concrete walkway that bordered the front of the motel led him to a deep arroyo, which cut through forested land. A small creek gleamed like silver ribbon at the bottom, coursing toward the culvert that would lead it beneath the road. Abandoning the walkway at its terminus he followed the running water into the pines.
As long as he watched where he put his feet, the three-quarters-full moon provided ample light to walk by. Pine needles and leaves from other growths formed a stale carpet that crunched underfoot. Trees made a wall that soon obliterated the motel from sight.
There were no houses here at this end of town. Conscious of his increasing solitude, he would have turned back if the song had not continued to grow louder. It hung in the air between the trees, hypnotic and insistent.
A petite form appeared in the moonlight, standing by the water where the creek slowed and broadened to create a small pond. Silken tresses and folds of silk fluttered auralike around it, despite the absence of a breeze. As he drew close, a gentle wind sprang from the earth itself, curling about him. It was as if he were undergoing inspection by a ghost.
Head tilted back, the figure was singing to the sky. Stars of especial brightness twinkled through the atmosphere as though responding to that song, as if replying with light via some mysterious stellar Morse code.
She sensed his approach, or heard his footsteps compressing the forest detritus, because she stopped and turned to look straight at him. The silenced song hung in the night air like a physical presence.
“Be careful here, Frank Sonderberg.”
“Mouse, what are you doing out here? I mean, you’re singing: I can see that. But I thought you needed to save your voice for the Spinner?”
She smiled understandingly. “Sometimes I simply have to sing, regardless of other considerations. It’s like breathing to me. It relaxes me and keeps me whole.” As he continued toward her she put up a warning hand. “Truly be careful, Frank, or you will fall.”
A yard away from her he halted, grinning in the weak light. “Where? The creek?” He gestured to his right. “Not much of a tumble.”
“Not into the creek.” Her head cocked sideways and those enormous violet eyes shone like amethysts. “Are you a brave man, Frank Sonderberg? Do you have real courage?”
After all they’d been through recently he thought it was an unnecessary question, but he answered anyway. “Depends how you define ‘brave,’ I guess. I’ve made it this far. I built up a nearly nationwide business on guts and determination, and I’ve never avoided a challenge. Never had to shoot anybody or anything, but I think I could if I had to.”
“Weapons do not make a man brave. True bravery is here”—she touched a finger to her head—“and here.” She repeated the same gesture, this time touching her hand to her chest above her heart. “Are you afraid of heights?”
“No more or less so than the average guy, I guess. Why?” Off to his right the creek rang like water from a dripping faucet. He doubted it was more than six feet deep.
“Not there,” she told him. She appeared to hesitate for a moment, then turned and gestured. “Here. But watch your footing. If you slip I’m not strong enough to catch you.”
“I’ll be careful.” He tried to stand a little taller and keep his gut sucked in, always a strain and one that grew worse each year. In a moment he was standing alongside her. Though only of average height he towered above her slight form.
The wind was much stronger now. He turned away from her and looked toward his feet.
Six inches in front of his toes the earth vanished, along with the trees, mountains, and moonlight. A few incredibly distant objects fought vainly against the void, though what those minuscule pinpricks of light might be he could not tell. It was emptier than the night through which they’d driven to reach this place, an unholy abyss hard by his left foot.
He inhaled sharply. His brain screamed at him to step back from that awful infinity, but mindful of Mouse’s words he was determined to hold his ground. As he felt her left hand on his arm he knew what she’d said was true: if he fell she wouldn’t be able to drag him back. In spite of that her touch was immeasurably reassuring, the fingers warm on his bare skin.
“There are a few places where reality simply ends. Not just in this world but in every world. Places where nothing is, not even Chaos. The congruent void. This is one of those places. A dangerous place to stand, but an exhilarating spot to sing.”
Frank wasn’t afraid of falling anymore, perhaps because he was frozen to the spot. Astonishing how the utter and complete absence of anything could be so fascinating.
“When I was a kid we used to dare each other to walk to the edge of a roof at school and step off.” He slipped another inch forward and felt her fingers tighten on his arm.
“This is no place for childhood pranks,” she warned him. “If you step off this soil you will never stop falling. You’ll never hit bottom because there is no bottom. You will just keep falling and falling until you perish of thirst or hunger or fear.”
“What the hell. It’s just like the second floor at Whitney Elementary. The only thing that’s different is the scale.”
