Our introduction to the shadow traders Astolfo and Falco came in our March 2007 issue with “Dance of Shadows.” (Those of you who missed the story can find it reprinted on our Website this month.) Their new adventure places Falco in some rough company as he pursues his trade.
Fred Chappell has been pursuing the writing trade for more than five decades, during which time he has published eight novels, seventeen collections of poetry, two books of essays, and two volumes of short fiction. A third story collection, entitled Ancestors and Others, is due out later this year. A two-time winner of the World Fantasy Award, he was honored with the Thomas Wolfe Prize in 2005. He lives in North Carolina.

We read in Pausanias's account of ancient Arkady (lib. VIII, cap. 34) of the Dark Vale stretching southward from the eastern foot of Mount Lykaion. That was a place shunned by men because whoever entered there lost his shadow and perished within a twelvemonth. Fearing no local superstition, the satrap Dousonious marched his small army through this valley to surprise his foe's rearward in the Lykaionian Meadows. His final order to his ministers was to make certain the chroniclers set down the loss of his troops to plague. Even on his bivouac deathbed, Dousonious clung to his peculiar pattern of rationality.

A deadly place, then, and that is one reason that plants taken from similar locations are so avidly sought after. The nobility of Tardocco and the outlying counties are a race proud of their gardens. They roll out smooth greenswards and carve parterres tier upon tier; they shear topiary into curious shapes, heraldic, and allegorical and obscene; they plant gaudy exotic flowers rank after rank. They vaunt themselves according to the magnificence of their grounds and comb the world to search out rarities.

To speak accurately, they send out mercenaries like myself and my colleague Mutano to make their searches for them, after having first deliberated with Master Astolfo, our mentor and employer. Trusting to his knowledge of all that has to do with shadows, they gape their purses generously to acquire plants that will throw fantastically contoured shadows upon the ground, shadows to complement their fountains and statuary, shadows to cool an enclosure or adorn an open space. They are confident that Astolfo shall deliver happy result. Trust is justified, for in matters where he lacks informancy and skill, he declines commission. The enterprise of shadow-dealing is sufficiently dangerous, he declares, without adding to it the perils of attendant ignorance.

All this substance I communicated to my host, the hill-country bandit Torronio, as we sat around the hungry small fire in this cave where he and his band had brought me as captive. They had taken me as I traveled the steep path through the pass below and offered violence if I did not follow them to their smoky lair and there deliver to them my gold.

This was an odd proceeding, I thought. Why did they not attempt to chop me down where I stood and lighten my quivering corpus of valuables? I discovered they were avid for news of the world beyond their hill. They would have had difficulty in putting my silver to use, exiled to the wilderness and with tall bounties prominent upon their heads.

Torronio passed to me a companionable jug of sourish ale and informed me that they would be taking my purse, as a matter of course.

"Let us negotiate,” I said. “I will hand over six eagles, one to each of your men, and two to you. For this amount, I shall expect you to feed and water my horse, share your eatables with me, and lodge me here by your fire for this night."

"Do you take me for your groom?"

"Signor Torronio, I do not. But my mount is thirsty. I should be pleased to spare a coin or two that we might be looked after."

"You but invite us to take all your coin and your makeshift nag also."

"The mount is not mine to bestow. I was reluctant to bring my own horse upon this journey and so hired this gelding whose name, I was told, is Belus. I have heard that there are bandits in this wood that prey upon travelers. Some, I understand, are so penurious they would make a meal of horseflesh."

"Do you not think the five of us can work our will upon you?"

"Mayhap,” I said. “Yet the struggle would cost you sweat and hard breathing and at least two lives. Why should you suffer such exertion when I would share a few eagles willingly?"

He stared at me long, as if to judge of the soundness of my wits. Then he laughed softly. “Well, thou'rt no coward. It is also to your credit that you are so mindful of the horse. Yet five upon one make the chance strong in our favor."

I looked where the others sat together on an uneven ledge of stone and studied their shadows the fire threw upon the cave wall. “I should begin by skewering that beanpole fellow in the patched hose,” I said. “He has no fight in him and his quick dispatch will undermine the courage of the others. Then I should look to the fate of that shifty little man there, he with the twitching squint. He only enters a fray when he sees the opponent already hotly engaged and he tries then to sneak about to the blind side. The red-haired lout with the vile laugh fancies himself an accomplished duelist and he does possess arm strength; but his feet are large and clumsy and are not always upon conformable terms with his intentions. That other gent, the dark, silent footpad, will pretend to engage with the sword while looking for opportunity to fling the dagger from his belt into my thigh. I should take pains to press him hard, so that he gaineth not space to ply his jape."

Torronio smiled less happily. “And I?"

"Thou art the ablest. If you were of a mind to spare lives, you and I might try our steels in a private set-to."

"The night is long and you are travel-weary. You must sleep sooner or later and then we, having traded watch, will undo your head at the neck and count your gold. But this Belus seemeth too aged to make a palatable stew."

"You would not play me such a scurvy turn."

"Why say you so?"

"You shadow belieth you.” I pointed to its shape on the moisturous wall. “The outlines of your colleagues are vague and hazy. They lack true character and so might take my life underhandedly. But your lines are firm and in the center of your shade there is a straight line so black it tendeth to a purple. Uprightness of character produces such a figure. You, Signor Torronio, are no bandit by nature but an upright man fallen upon stingy times."

"These things you know by looking at mere shadows?"

"Let me unfold myself to you a little,” I said and, after telling him something of my situation in the port city of Tardocco with Maestro Astolfo (though without saying the shadow master's name) and describing briefly some aspects of the shadow trade, I told him the story of the Dark Vale and how men were reputed to lose their shadows there and how the herbs and flowers and shrubs and trees of that place would be in sharp demand among the dissolute wealthy and how I now traveled with the purpose of transporting some of these fabled flora out of their obscurity.

"And will you be well paid for this rooty plunder?” he asked.

"We shall all be well remitted—you and I the more handsomely, of course."

"All?"

"You five and I would make up a competent troop. By all signs, you do not flourish grandly. As I came up the hill path, I observed that none hath traveled here since the rains of last sennight. Scant must be your takings. You must be highly desirable to guard troops and shire-reeves to squirm you into such a hole and feed upon vermin like that stoat turning there upon the spit."

"My history—our history—is no affair of yours."

"Indeed not,” I replied, “nor of any interest whatsoe'er, unless you might wish to better your plight."

"You speak,” he said, “as if you had expected to be waylaid by us. You give out your sentences as might an actor upon a stage. You came a-purpose to recruit."

"If I know of you and your whereabouts, so must others. They only wait till hunger brings you out of hiding. Already the noose prefigures your neck in its blank oval."

"What is't you offer to better us? Only the opportunity to meet a death more spectral in your Dark Vale of Arkady."

"Not in Arkady,” I replied. “That country is lost to the historied ages. I go up through the hills to the Moluvorio Mountains. In their midst lies another Dark Vale said to snatch shadows and to put forth plants of great value. We can make up a company and seek a fortune, or you may stay hunched in this smoking hole to wither away. In any case, six eagles are all you shall gather from me this night."

"Let me think on't till morn."

"Think then. But meantime you should advise that dusky little hop-o'-my-thumb to stay his hand free of his dagger. From where I sit I can place mine in his ear before he turns toward me."

He gave the fellow a look and quietly spoke his name. “Rinaldo."

The man shrugged, assenting, and turned his attention elsewise.

"Six eagles be it, then,” Torronio said. “We'll give thee meat and sup, poor though they are. We will water and provender your nag. Tomorrow we shall take consult upon the matter of your shadow bushes.” He put forth his hand for the coins. “Count out six."

I did so, pleased not to have to cross blades. Torronio was of medium height, lithe and tawny, and his black-pupiled eyes brooded with intelligence. I would have had difficulty blooding him without killing and I wanted sleep, that healing balm poets prate of.

He gave over the jug again and I drank and it tasted not so sour as before.

I woke to the sound of their jawing as they debated my offer. My sword was in my right hand and when I sat up, I took care they should see I had held it ready through the night. They looked me over incuriously, then took up their jangle again. I found a dented tin ewer and took a swallow of water to spit out and splashed my face and wrists and inspected what weather I could see through the cave mouth.

Then Torronio beckoned me to join the group. “We would put to you some questions."

"I will answer four,” I said, “be they brief."

The little dirk-flinger spoke. His voice rasped like a saw-blade over flint. “Do you know how to find the Vale or must we wander on the slopes like shepherdless goats?"

"I have a map."

"I should like to see this map."

"It is invisible,” I said and touched my forehead. “Count two.” I did not tell that I carried upon my person two maps, a true one and a false.

"How can we know you do not draw us into a trap to reap the bounties?"

"What need for that? If I were intent upon bounty gold, my colleagues would surround us now. Count three."

The red-haired louty one: “How should we provision us? Your supplies are as invisible as your map."

"Are we not a merry band of cutthroats? We shall denude the sheepish we find in our way."

He began: “But there are few who—"

"And so conclude,” I said. “Four are four."

"I do not like the look of this,” said the tall, mopish one. He fingered the hilt of his hanger until I rested my gaze upon the weapon. Then he withdrew his hand.

"Thou'lt like it less till the success of the venture persuadeth thee otherwise. Thou'rt of a sour mien and henceforth shall be addressed as Crossgrain. You—” I gestured toward the dark, small one “—are to be known as Sneakdirk. Tall yellow-hair shall be named Goldenrod and Rinaldo shall be Squint. Accustom these names to your persons. Use them habitually. In the heat of affray, do not allow your former names to escape your lips. From this time, we are secret men."

"And I?” inquired Torronio. “What insultive cognomen will you try upon me?"

"Thou art Torronio, since that was never your true name."

"Thyself?"

I thought for a trice. “Call me Stalwart,” I said, “though by rights I should be called Quartermaster."

"How so?"

"I have arranged to break our morning fast in a handsomer style than you are used to. If Sneakdirk and Goldenrod will take my horse down the path for about a mile the way I came, they shall find a little gray mule tethered by a stream in the grove. That mule is laden with provisions and weapons and maybe a pannier or two of stout wine."

Torronio laughed aloud. “Well, we have been foreknown,” he said. “You have made it foolish to do else than follow your directives."

"It is good to meet a man of sense."

He replied jocularly: “And what shall be the name of the mule?"

"Woman, I call her because she hath a mind all her own and will never learn by being beaten."

Goldenrod and Sneakdirk returned a little before midmorning. Their brightened faces told that they had searched through the bundles Woman had carried and had been pleased with what they found. Some of the implements and instruments would mean naught to them, but the dozen quick-edged swords and the array of smaller blades had struck their desires. They had discovered the brandy too and had a pull or two at a bottle and I did not begrudge them. A guard troop customarily plies new recruits with strong waters as a means to fellowship They had broken out the loaves of brown bread and Goldenrod brandished one of them above his head as he trudged along behind Sneakdirk on Belus, with Woman in tow.

We ate and drank awhile and then I began the oration I had written out in my mind, telling them that the crimes for which they were hunted were no worse than what any ordinary man might commit; that is, upon finding a shipwreck perched on a reef on the coast north of Tardocco, they had undertaken to plunder it, according to the custom of salvagers. They could not have known that the murderous pirate Morbruzzo and his men had lured the Silvereen to ruin with false lights on the beach and then hid away till nightfall. Our four petty plunderers had been sighted bearing away some silks and casques by townsfolk who described them to the local guard troops. They fled, abandoning their gains. These events had placed them in their present pinched circumstances.

"Better for my purposes were you of a more criminal breed,” I said, “for what I have in mind will require steady nerve in the face of dangers you have never bethought. Yet you may bring yourselves to the point if desire of gold can spur you."

"Gold is ever a reliable spur,” Torronio said. “Tales of gold are ever unreliable."

"We shall be mining gold from shadows, as I explained. We shall be gathering plants to carry from the Dark Vale to be sold in Tardocco. I will demonstrate how to transport this herbage with as little damage as possible. You will be astonied to see how much a single Herba umbrae supplex can bring."

"In the supplies you loaded on Woman were no sorts of agricultural tools,” said Goldenrod. “No spades or shovels or mattocks to dig with."

"We shall trust to the Fates to throw such things in our way."

At these words they declined their polls doubtfully.

"How much?” asked Squint.

"Two hundred eagles at the least, fifty for Stalwart, thirty for Torronio, the rest divided as you see fit."

"If so much gold accrues to mere husbandry—digging plants and carting them away—why do not venturers flock to the place and make themselves wealthy with ease?” This was Torronio's pointed question.

"Reasons three,” I said. “Few know the location of the ancient and fabled vale; fewer still have heard of these strange flora. Foremost, though, is the danger. We may lose our lives and the manner of our deaths, while mysterious, is reputed most unpleasant."

"Whom must we fear?” asked Goldenrod. He thrust his chest forward to signify bravery.

"I know only that they are shadows."

They gazed at me, then at one another.

"I fear no shadow,” Squint said.

"Then naught stands in our way."

Torronio shook his head. “I stay doubtful. You have not told us all. Something in this matter conturbeth me."

"I say again, Dangers abound."

"Well,” he said, “we shall go to this vale. We have long since left a life of safety behind."

Torronio was wise to doubt, for I had told them only so much as might persuade them to fall in with me. I had not told them that more gold was at stake and that some part of it, should we end happily, must go to Maestro Astolfo, by whose commission the enterprise was undertaken. It was he who must inspect these plants, pass on their authenticity, and market them to the vanity of that circle of nobility who named themselves the Green Knights and Verdant Ladies, they who harbored such passion for their sumptuous and curious gardens. It was Astolfo who had outfitted me for the venture—and not me alone.

This horticultural task was not only a commission, it was a test of skills. I had been now four years in service to Astolfo alongside his manservant Mutano. Ours had become a companionable rivalry after I had thoroughly partaken of the education in shadow-craft that Mutano relayed to me, generally by means of kicks and blows in my early days at Astolfo's town villa, later by means of mischievous jocoseries designed to make me lose countenance.

Nowadays our rivalry had risen to such a pitch that Astolfo proposed this present quest for us as a matching of our abilities. He told us of this particular Dark Vale, described its treasures, spoke of the attendant perils, and then set this trial of judgment: “Whoso of you first delivereth to me handsome specimens, truly desirable plants, shall possess as much as seven parts of our profit. From the remaining portion I will pay all accrued expenses and keep for myself only what is left from the rest. If all goes well, one of you shall amass heaping chests full."

His proposal suited. I had been gaining skills and knowledge, laboring in the craft, and had scored successes by my own efforts and Mutano had begun to hold jealousy toward me; he found me mounting the ladder of Astolfo's esteem while he remained in his accustomed station. Too, he had suffered a mishap. In attempting to reacquire the beautiful voice that had been robbed from him by violence, he had acquired instead a voice not his own at all, together with an uncommunicative language. These days he could speak only in the voice of a cat, a voice that had fastened to him like a disease of the throat. He burned with fury—not against the Maestro or myself—but against the unjust circumstances that sometimes betrayed him to ridicule and scarlet embarrassment.

For these reasons, I thought I might have an advantage. Mutano was eager to shine; he would be impatient to make a start; he might neglect some point of proper preparation. If he misstepped, I must seize opportunity to repay some of the knockabout, kick-arse treatment he had visited upon me. Here lay a chance to make myself his equal.

Accordingly, I gave myself to long study of certain of the villa's library of books, manuscripts, codices, and maps. One edition of Mandeville's Travels was inlaid with many a map, richly colored and decorated with mermaids and monsters, but I soon thrust it away as untrustworthy and inspected more recent cartography in the Collecteana of Gaius Junius Solinus and in the anonymous Imago Mundi. In short, I examined every source with any least promise down to its last majuscule.

Meanwhile, I studied also Mutano, marking in my mind the pages and maps he most often turned to and gauging what sheets most keenly roused his interest. When the day came that he decided to desert the company of ancient authors and strike toward the northern mountains, I was confident I knew what route he had inscribed in his mind.

Over and again he had studied De Casa's Mappae Mundi Magnae and had copied out one page on a sturdy vellum that could withstand the rigors of hard journeying. He must have been pleased with his thoughts because he began insensibly to emit a feline purr so resonant that it filled the silence of the room like a bowed viol string. He had even been so neglectful of his best interest as to trace out lines on the page with his thumbnail, so that I was able to follow the projected course of his route with ease.

Keeping that track in mind, I consulted the newer maps and journals of the region by Duclessis, Filomorio, Amerigus, Getzner, and the brothers Muzzino, among others.

I had hoped I might discover a swifter and more efficient path to the Vale than Mutano's, a path that might cross his own at a farther point so that I should be ahead of him on the track.

This hope was fulfilled. I hit upon a more efficacious trail to the valley, one less littered with obstacles, and made a serviceable map. I also made another map, a feigning one, of no use to a traveler. If one of my maps were to fall into the hands of others, this false one must be it. Ship captains wary of pirates keep such false maps and logs at their disposal.

Then it was necessary that I should try to confirm some of the rumors I had heard in the street-stalls and taverns about the flight from justice of a luckless quartet of fishermen who plundered the vessel that Morbruzzo the pirate had lured to reef-wrack. They had afterward leagued, it was said, with the dispossessed scion Eleazar del Binnoto, also a fugitive, though not from public justice. He had become embroiled in a tiresome family squabble over estate property, had boxed a cousin's ears, and offered to duel. His father disowned him—or pretended to, for the sake of propriety—and Torronio, as he now called himself, had exiled his existence to the savage wilds, there to bemoan his fate to the trees and rocks like a lovesick shepherd.

Holding all this matter in mind, I depleted my small personal treasury, gathered weapons and other usefuls, provided my pouch with eagles, and set out to be captured by the Wreckers, as townspeople named the ill-starred five. In the rumor galleries of Tardocco they were reputed a fearsome group. I did not credit such report.

These were the reasons, therefore, that on our second day of the journey toward the Dark Vale, I gave my band of illicit dependents certain orders.

"In a short while, we shall come to a place where the path widens to receive the jointure of another trail to the west. We shall go past this fork two furlongs or so, then we shall return to efface every trace of our coming there. No pebble, no hoof-print, not a displaced leaf shall show disturbance. Then we shall go back to the farther point, set up a cold camp, dig holes to cache supplies in, and await our guest."

"Who is this guest to be?” Torronio asked.

"He is our provider,” I said. “He bringeth the spades and other implements we must labor with. And if I mistake not, he will be supplied with wine, cheese, salt meat, and bread. These stuffs will provide for our meals into the Vale and back again and on to Tardocco, where I will merchant our prizes."

"He must be a generous soul, so graciously to charitize."

"He is as yet insensible of his munificence. You must employ persuasion."

"You—and not we?"

"You will have an easier time if he see me not. The sight of my visage would redouble his fury and he would fight like twelve devils."

"How furiously will he fight with you viewless?"

"Be well prepared,” I said, “for you must not take his life or wound him in any serious fashion. If he come to real harm, we are all done for."

"How so?"

"He hath powerful friends. In particular, he owneth one friend whose reach is long and whose grasp would be merciless."

"Who is this all-powerful eminence?"

"You need not know. Sufficeth that I have provided easy takings necessary for our enterprise."

"The more I learn of you, the more I find to mistrust,” Torronio said.

"Your misgivings are natural. But do be mindful of this man's person. He will be of use to us in other ways at a later time."

"If so you say.” He shrugged and turned away.

The business went almost as planned. Attentive to my request that Mutano not be harmed in any serious way, they decided to overpower him rather than to brandish steel. Sneakdirk shinnied up into an oak which overhung the trail and knotted a rope to climb before dropping it to Squint. There in the leafage they made seats as comfortable as they might and then Sneakdirk climbed to the tip where he might overlook the trail behind.

I stationed myself in a thicket to eastward where I could observe unseen and hoped that I had calculated with some accuracy the pace of Mutano's passage. He had taken the shorter route as it was laid out on his favored map but neglected to search into the condition of the track. Washed away in places, with two bridgeless streams to cross, hindered with fallen timber, it was the slower way. I computed Mutano at about seven hours in arrears of me and, if I proved correct, he must be nearing us now.

And here he was, pat on cue like the cat i’ th’ adage. Sneakdirk clambered to his lower perch and told groundlings Crossgrain and Goldenrod that our man approached from the west, mounted on a roan horse and leading in train two mules laden with boxes and chests lashed with diamond hitches. Squint uncoiled his rope, saw to the loop knot, and snugged into the leafage so closely I could hardly make out his form.

Along came Mutano, careless under a cloudless sky, thinking no doubt of the profit he would soon turn with easy spadework. But when Squint dropped the loop around his shoulders and began to spin the rope around him like a spider enwrapping a hornet, Mutano let out a ferocious roar, loud as any lion in the Hyrcanian desert waylaid by pygmies.

I had heard Mutano's feline voice only in domestic setting when he would purr to himself or meow to me in hopes I might begin to decipher his cattish dialect. This great, hoarse roaring startled me. One would not think that a man's breast held breath sufficient to give it utterance. The hairs stood erect on my neck.

The sound startled his mount also and it bounded from beneath him and galloped up the trail ahead. The mules, being loosed, ran off into the bordering woods for they took fright equally with the horse. If Squint had not already twirled two loops around Mutano, the large man would have landed on his feet, ready to defend himself. As it was, he swung there in the air for a short space, time enough for Crossgrain and Goldenrod to emerge from the bushes and tether more rope upon him.

Mutano's voice had been accidentally bartered for that of a big housecat. Yet he growled and spat and hissed as loud as a lynx caught in a forester's net. If I closed my eyes, I might declare it was not my colleague there but a big and dangerous animal bristling with fight.

In fact, this description fit Mutano at this moment, as he gave battle with legs and feet and tried to wrest his arm free to get at his sword. He was beginning to make some headway out of his toils when Goldenrod wrapped his arms around the legs and pulled Mutano down as if plucking an apple from a limb. Then they bound him tightly, Sneakdirk and Squint dropping down to aid, and all taking care to keep clear of his boots and his teeth—for he snapped at them as he spat and hissed and his eyes were tiger-wild.

Crossgrain tied Mutano to a sturdy ash tree and stood by to keep guard. The others set out in search of the mules and I struggled to the other side of my thicket and stalked up the trail in pursuit of the horse.

In the span of about half an hourglass, I found Gaetano, Mutano's mount, cropping grass beside the trail. This horse knew me of old and did not gallop away as I came to take the reins and lead him a little farther still, to where we had set up camp. There I awaited to hear the approach of the Wreckers with Mutano in tow and when I heard their voices and the shuffle of the mules on the trail, I slipped away into the surrounding wood where I could observe the doings in camp.

So far, all had succeeded as I planned, except for the leonine roar that had cost us some bit of trouble with the mules. And my makeshift band of hapless highwaymen followed my orders in regard to Mutano. They made him a place by the fire that they now set spark to, not knowing that he had exchanged his own tongue for that of a cat.

In a while Torronio strayed casually from the site and sought me out. “Well,” he began, “it has been as you said. I may now be willing to believe these miraculous tales you tell of man-eating shadows and gardener nobility and easy wealth."

"'Twill be none so easy. We have but made a start. We will push on tomorrow sun-up and make the longer part of our journey."

"What of our captive?"

"Before we set out, you shall give him his freedom, leave him sufficient eatables, and tell him that you shall return to rescue him from the wilderness. Also you must hide away, in the hidden cache-holes we dug, food and drink to enable us to march back to Tardocco from here. Tell him also that if he have patience, he shall possess his mount again."

"Should not you deliver these tidings?"

"He must not spy me."

"As you say, then. Shall I fetch bread and water for you here?"

"Thank you,” I said. “Do so discreetly. In the morning, join with me about half a league farther on. I will ride Mutano's horse. Sneakdirk may ride my hireling mount and bring along Woman. He showed a capable hand in taking our captive."

"He has a fisherman's wrist for casting rope,” Torronio said, departing.

They made a late start from camp; the sun was over the treetops when they joined me on the trail. We went on, the six of us with three horses and three mules, making slow progress, with Crossgrain quarreling over his turn to ride and Goldenrod complaining that he, being a jolly sailor, was not suited to stony trails in thickety hills. When we came to an open space at ridge-top, I halted our train and gestured toward the forward vista. “Behind yonder mountain lie our fortunes."

Though it was a league from us, it looked to stand as close as the wall of a castle and seemed as sheer in its slope. Green and pleasant shone its foot, but the incline darkened to a misty blue and then to purple and along its topmost ridge a fringe of frost silvered the peaks against a bright blue heaven. Our trail meandered from our vantage through a grassy, unpeopled plain, then disappeared into the mountain's lower forest.

"This day's march shall bring us to the foot,” I said, “and there we shall make camp for tonight and all next day. We shall be climbing that eminence for two nights, lying doggo during daylight. We must accustom ourselves to moving in darkness and we shall not enter the Dark Vale until the dark o’ the moon."

"Why so?” asked Crossgrain. “The Vale does not retreat. Let us make haste and reap its lettuces and sell them off and spread our beds on massy heaps of coin."

"Daylight is too perilous in that place,” I replied and did not explain, though I saw by his expression that impatience sat restless on his mind like an unhooded falcon on a hunter's wrist. “Alive you may sleep on coin; dead you can sleep as comfortably on stones and thorns."

So on we went at leisure. The sky was pleasant, the verdure appealing, and by the foot of the mountain ran a river where we filled our two casks and watered the beasts and refreshed ourselves, bathing in the cold water.

We found an easy glade a little above the plain and set up camp and lazed and ate. When night fell, I went to my supply chest and brought out four lanthorns fashioned to my particular design.

"You see how this lanthorn is made,” I said, “with top and all sides but one so tightly enclosed that no ray of light can escape its innards."

They looked on gravely.

With a scrap of tinder and a quick steel spark I lit the oiled wick inside. “You see?” I closed the black tin door so that no light showed, opened it again to let light shine out, then clapped it shut quickly. “You see?"

They stood silent. Squint shrugged and I called him forth.

"Stand here,” I said, placing him between the lanthorn and the thick, whitish trunk of a plane tree. I opened the lanthorn blind then snapped it closed. To the others: “You see?"

"What is there to see?” Crossgrain said. “Anyone can open and shut the blind of a lanthorn."

"His shadow on the tree trunk—what did you observe?"

"That without the lamplight it does not appear and when you loose the light upon him his shadow darkens the wood. ‘Tis but a child's game."

"How long does his shadow stay on the wood?"

"Briefly, of course."

"What else did you see of the surroundings?"

"Little. The light went away too quickly."

"This then is our exercise,” I explained. “In that brief space of time while the lamplight is loosed we must each learn to see and locate the objects about us accurately and remember where they are. And we must not allow our shadows to lie on any surface for more than the swiftest of moments."

"Why so?” asked Torronio.

"If our shadows be not visible, they cannot be taken from us. Yet in the dark we cannot find the objects of our desire. So we must learn to place them in our minds as ‘twere by the flash of a lightning bolt and then go to them in the ensuing blackness. If we are deft at this sleight o’ hand, we shall take our prizes."

They gazed at one another for some moments and then laughed softly.

"We are fishers,” said Sneakdirk. “We work our boats and nets at sea when no light from landward shows. We float silent in the darkest night."

"That is one reason I have enlisted you,” I replied. “But fishermen labor in moonlight and starlight. We enter the Vale in the dark of the moon. Have you seen your shadow cast by starlight?"

"Faintish to discern."

"Too faint, too flimsy, we shall hope, to be snatched away from us. We shall toil when the moon is absent in a place where little starlight enters. If we work quickly, our shadows shall be secure."

"Shadows are often stolen from men and women,” Torronio said. “I have heard that in Tardocco town there dwelleth a master thief named Astolfo whose trade in shadow-filching is profitable as well as venerable. Yet I never heard that they who lose their shadows to him perish afterward."

"Those shadows still exist in our world,” I said. “They only go to serve the purposes of others. But shadows forfeited in the Dark Vale are destroyed utterly—so all the sages agree. It has been said that they are devoured. Such a destruction must bring the end of life."

"This seemeth a tale for an idle chimney nook,” he said.

"We shall take precautions,” I stated firmly and with that we set at it again, opening the lanthorn blinds quickly and clapping them shut. We advanced so well in this practice that in the time required for the least gray glimmer of a shadow to appear on the tree trunk, we had thrust into memory much detail of the surroundings.

When this employment began to wear the aspect of sport, I called a halt and we made ready for sleep.

"By tomorrow midday we shall reach the limits of the Vale,” I told them. “There we will stop and observe. In the dark we shall enter."

"Well,” said Torronio. The others said nothing. Solemnity had crept upon them.

"Stalwart, where are you?"

It was Crossgrain inquiring, but his voice lacked its customary querulous tone. There was no reason to whisper as Sneakdirk did, since we were going not among men or animals but only plants. The Dark Vale, it was said, was void of animal life. Only plants throve there, as in that happy age of the world before humanity arrived to sully creation.

That fancy proved delusory.

"Here I am,” I said.

"I cannot see you. I can see nothing."

I grasped his shoulder from behind and, startled, he made a tremulous half leap.

"Gods!”

I had wrapped myself all in a thin black cloak, muffling the green-forest colors of hose and doublet and eclipsing the glitter of buttons and silver buckles. My colleagues were outfitted less prudently and I could just make out their forms, dark against the dark.

We had made our way in the gloaming down the disused trail through the hill cleft and had paused till full dark before descending into the Vale itself. I had spent the daylight on the hilltop, scanning the area with my glass, trying to distinguish the more valuable plants and locating them in memory. This was a vague undertaking. The terrain would be much different at the lower levels than it appeared from a height and the darkness made this landskip a different world.

Commercing with shadows, as I had done now for so many seasons, I had experienced darknesses of every shade, texture, and smell, but this night in the Dark Vale brought forth a voluminous atmosphere aggressive in blackness. Here might be one of the world's origins of darkness, I thought, and there was writing to the effect that great earth-mouths in the Vale opened to a world below and visible darkness poured forth from these orifices like streams gathering themselves to rivers from woodland springs. It had been conjectured by Albertus and Lullius that the precious flora of the Vale had first developed in these local subterranean caverns and over their long generations had progressed gradually to the surface, braving the light and changing their pallid mushroom hues to dark greens nigh black in their flat dullness. It was proposed by some half dozen wise herbalists that these plants—ferns, flowers, creeping shrubs, and low bushes—fed upon shadows to replenish the obscure powers they had derived from their underworld beginnings.

We had fared middling well so far. Squint had proved the aptest among us for facility in opening and closing the lanthorn blinds and Goldenrod was most capable at locating specimens in the black intervals. But the farther we penetrated into the depths of the Vale, the deeper the obscurity thickened and this had caused Crossgrain to lose all sense of where I was and where the others might be.

"All goes well,” I told him. “I am here at your side."

"I can see nothing. I feel this dreadful darkness pressing upon my eyes like dusty cloth."

"'Tis thick,” I admitted.

"No! My eyes—"

"Light us,” I told Squint. “Be quick."

He unblinded the lanthorn and shut it again and in that instant we saw that Crossgrain's eyes had been taken from him. That was our swift impression. Then when the dark returned and the glimmer-echo of the light had faded from my eyeballs, I understood. A great black moth had lit upon Crossgrain's forehead—the size of a trencher, this insect—and its velvet wings spread over his eyes.

"It is but a bug,” I said. “Cast it from you. The gleam of your eye-water drew it to you."

"'Tis monstrous,” he said.

"There will be more. We must take all care."

"There was to be no animal in here. So you said. What else might there be?"

"Our business is with plants. Did you not glimpse a night-bloomer just now in reach of your right-hand side?"

We heard him step away and heard the rustle of his hand amid foliage. “Yes,” he said. “I feel a huge blossom here. Moist and pulpy, like the tongue of a young heifer, though not wet."

"Feel below where its stem joins to the main stalk. Snip there and place the blossom in your pouch. Then follow the stalk to the ground and find whether you can lift it out or we must dig."

We heard him fumbling with the plant and breathing hoarsely as he stooped, though not from exertion. The black moth had quickened the breath of each of us.

Then he swore. “The ground is covered with—"

We waited. “What is it?"

"Light!"

Squint complied and we saw that the ground about Crossgrain's feet writhed as if with throbbing vines. A network of ebon vines undulated, shiny and repulsive. When he closed the lanthorn, we waited a space to try to comprehend what we had seen.

Goldenrod spoke first. “Black serpents. They are all around us. I can feel them over my boots and crawling upward."

"We are undone,” said Crossgrain.

"Courage,” I said. “If they were noxious, we should already be shrieking with pain. But there is nothing here for a poison serpent to strike. The plants consume the shadows of anything that moves."

"These serpents move most unpleasantly,” said Goldenrod.

"But they cast no shadow, being so close to the ground."

"What if they be attracted to eye-gleams like the moth?"

"Did you not note that they have no eyes? They are harmless to us. Let us set about our tasks."

"What is that smell?” asked Torronio. “It much clingeth."

We made sounds of disgust nigh unto sickness. A passerby in this deep night, if any could be in this place, would surmise that we had all fallen foul of spoilt oysters.

"It smells as of an ancient offal pit, filled with excrement and diseased corpses."

"It is odorous as a hundred turnip-fed bum-blasts."

"A devil has shat here and been proud of his work."

Squint ascertained the source. “It is those cursed blind serpents. They exude an oil that smears upon the skins of things. They need not fangs to repulse their enemies. Their perfumery is more daunting than the sharpest bite."

"Take heart, lads. Let us cleave to our purpose. Keep in your mind's eye the picture of gold coins stacked into a tower. Let it glow before you in this foul darkness like a beacon on a promontory."

They answered not, but Squint was busily opening and closing the shutter of the lanthorn and the Wreckers were gathering leaves, buds, roots, and blossoms as quickly as they could. They were not discriminate in their collecting, but I had no heart to admonish. I longed to depart this noisome hole as avidly as did they.

We were at this tedious work for the rest of the watch. The Wreckers tried to lighten their burden with common shipmate raillery, as when Goldenrod said to Crossgrain, “Had'st not thou once a wife who smelled as of this place?” and he retorted, “If you say so, then thou know'st more than is well for thee.” But there was more determination than true humor in their chat and when the east began to lighten they were glad to hear me give order to depart.

"Take care to tie up the bags and keep the vial lids tight,” I said. “We must not cast our shadows on our prizes."

They mumbled assent and we turned to go back up the slope, but I had miscalculated the hours and more light was spread through the sky than was healthy for our welfare. A saving grace was that clouds thinly veiled the east; we did not cast dark shadows with sharpish edges but only ghostly emanations, the tinges of shadow, as ‘twere, and these the pulpy leaves rubbed against and the questing tendrils of vines touched searchingly.

Wrapped in my black cloak, I was less affected than the others, but when a great black leaf that looked something like a burdock swept against my tinge-shadow my forearms went gooseflesh and my neck hair prickled. I urged them along more quickly and they did not hang back. “Come along.” They struggled upward as fast as they could.

When we arrived at camp on the crest of the ridge the sun was almost ready to peer over the horizon and I ordered them to cache all our goods in the holes we had dug to store them and to cover these over with canvas and brush.

This done, we looked to one another. Squint must have caught the worst of it. His pupils were enlarged and unfocused, gray sweat bathed his neck and forehead, and his face and arms and hands had taken on a sickly, blue-gray pallor, as of a consumptive shut long away indoors.

"Brandy,” I said. Goldenrod reached for the bottle in our chest of potables and Squint dosed himself with three liberal swallows. His eyes became calmer, but his complexion remained gray.

"How goest thou?” I asked.

He considered. “It felt like something was being pulled out of me,” he said. “Out of my chest, from between the ribs."

"Like a knife withdrawn?"

"No.... Like a length of wool-stuff slipped through the fingers."

"Painful?"

He shook his head and tottered and his mates settled him to the ground where he put his head between his knees and coughed dryly.

"Is anyone else affected?"

"Here, cap'n,” Sneakdirk nodded. “Naught but only a twinge, like the passing of a dead woman's hand over my front.” He wiped his forehead. “'Tis away from me now ... I will take brandy for it."

"Better conserve,” I said. “We know not but we may have need."

"Let us all take a sup now,” Goldenrod suggested. “I am certain it hath power to ward off evil aforehand."

I let them jolly along with such talk, then put it to them: “What think you? Shall we try the Dark Vale again tomorrow night? We have learned that it is indeed the danger it is fabled to be, though we know not what causes it to be so."

"But we have learned,” said Torronio, “that our precautions are good defenses, if we take pains to follow them aright. We were only tardy in taking leave, so that our palest shades betrayed us. If we approach in full dark and depart so, we shall be secure enough."

"But we would not return to the same place,” objected Crossgrain. “If we go back, we must thrust farther to gain a different variety of herbage."

When they looked at me, I nodded. “He says true. There will be more profit in a wide selection. But are we willing to face those slime-snakes and their dire stenches again? Maybe we can ablute ourselves with a substance to keep the ooze from us."

"But look!” said Sneakdirk. “The slime is drying."

So it was. Goldenrod had been most thoroughly covered with the ooze and I asked him to stand forward against the sunrise now full on the horizon. As we watched, the black oils whitened like campfire coals embering, gathered to a gray dust, and fell from him like flour through a sifter. He shook himself like a bear that has forded a cold river and all that substance dropped away.

"I am game to return,” he said.

When I put it to them that we must capture some of those black serpents to bring out of the Vale, they were displeased. The hour was drawing toward twilight and it would soon be time to reenter.

"Wherefore?” scolded Crossgrain. “I do not relish going again amongst these smelly slime-worms, but I will do so to obtain plants. Yet I see no profit in the serpents. No sound mind would purchase such ugliness."

"I have not become enamored of them,” I replied, “but I have had a thought. The slime that covered Goldenrod changed to white powder when the sunrays struck it. Upon examining, I found it to resemble that generative fine dust the ancients called pollis or pollen, necessary to the propagation of all flora excepting the ferns. I think that if we carry our Dark Vale plants away, they will not propagate without the aid of those black snakes."

"So you think,” retorted Crossgrain, “but you do not know."

"True.... Can you conjecture another purpose for such animals?"

"They exist,” said Sneakdirk, “in order to sour the innards of anyone who attempts to uproot those plants. Their guardian purpose is to sicken by putridity, in the fashion of vultures that protect themselves by vomiting."

"I will perform this task myself,” I said, “since none else hath heart for it. If the rest of you will gather the flora, I will collect the serpents. I may take as my reward a slightly larger portion of profit."

"And welcome to it,” said Goldenrod.

So we returned to the Vale, following the track as before but pushing a little farther into the valley where the darkness seemed to grow thicker and more malodorous with every pace. Squint had acquired a swift skill in unblinding and reblinding his lanthorn and the others grew defter in plucking, snipping, and uprooting. I judged that we would have a broad variety of plant life to take away.

My duty with the serpents went none so pleasingly. I grasped them up, dropped them in disgust, found others and thrust them into a leathern bag. Though eyeless, they struck at my hands and legs as would any of their breed, but they had no fangs. It was something like catching eels, except that people make dishes of eels. The man who would eat these serpents must be a starving omnivore, capable of ingesting iron, stone, and the burdens of privies.

Yet again I had miscalculated the amount of time our expedition must consume and my error cost us grievous. There being no birds in the Vale, there were no foredawn songs to warn of daybreak and, too, we had penetrated farther and would require more time to leave.

The light came on sooner than we were prepared for and on this return our shadows were more substantial than before. Torronio advised his Wreckers to keep close to one another, reasoning that in a group they would cast but one large shadow instead of five smaller ones and the plants would not be able to tear such a large one away.

'Twas a sound stratagem until Goldenrod gave in to his terror, broke from the pack, and struggled up the slope past me as I led them. There he stood plain against the light that slanted over the ridge-top. He had climbed some six paces before me, panting stumbling, sobbing. I saw that his shadow, though not solid, had sufficient body for a black, spiny bush to catch its edge with a thorny twig.

There was an instant when his shadow seemed to stretch like a woolen stocking pulled from the leg. And then came a sudden chuck of sound as of an arrow striking into an oat-straw archery target. The tall fellow uttered no more than a squeak; a mouse in the claws of a tabby would make a louder sound.

His shadow I could not see as the bush enveloped it, but the effect on the plant was evident. The ebon thing shuddered from ground to top leaf. It wriggled within itself, enlarging its shape, and the pulpy leaves rubbed against one another, with a motion like a butcher washing his hands after a slaughter.

Goldenrod—or rather, his corpus, for he was no longer a living man nor even the same man now dead—pitched southwise off our track like a statue toppling. As life left him, I could feel the serpents in my bag suddenly roil and tumble together. The other plants around set up an inward commotion. All about us there was a change in everything, even in the soil. Everything shifted.

Now the Vale gave birth to an eerie music, a moanful dirge mingled of the voices of scores of men, a chorus of those who had died here, their shadows absorbed into the bodies of plants as red wine is absorbed into a swatch of linen. What mouths produced this music we never discovered. I have conjectured that the sad chords emitted from animals we had not seen, but Torronio proposed that the blind serpents sang out when a shadow was taken by the Vale.

There was no time to debate. We redoubled our efforts, straining every muscle to haste us out of that place. Each of us felt a mucid clutching at his shadow, a sensation we would feel in our sleep for long to come.

We climbed at last out of the reach of the Vale and no more of us were stricken fatally, yet none was soundly whole. Each had lost some part, though small, of his shadow and of his vis naturae.

We stored last night's gathering quickly and then flung ourselves to the ground in silence and lay like shipwrecked men cast ashore. I felt strengthless, as after a long bout with grippe, and force did not return to my limbs for some part of an hour.

My case was not the worst. Crossgrain lay perspiring in rivulets, staring sightlessly at the high blue sky. He heaved for breath and his teeth chattered. We rose to our feet to gaze down upon him but offered no aid, for none knew how to minister to one whose shadow had been half devoured. Squint thought to pour brandy into him, but his chattering teeth and the convulsions of his breast prevented that succor. Sneakdirk thought to allay his anguish somewhat by holding a blanket between him and the light, so that his sadly torn shadow did not lie in the sun, and this did seem to alleviate his suffering. In a while he quietened and closed his eyes in unpeaceful sleep.

We moved ourselves to eat and drink, though none had stomach, and afterward we sat silent, looking sorrowfully at one another. In time I said what all waited to hear: “We must bring Goldenrod out of the Vale."

"Why must we?” demanded Crossgrain. “He lives not. He has no wife nor child to mourn. His elder brother died off the coast of Clamorga in a great tempest. There is scant reason to risk ourselves."

"He is our friend and comrade fallen in the enterprise,” Torronio said. “This duty bears upon us."

Crossgrain objected. “I would not call him friend. We ill sorted."

"It matters not,” said Squint. “It is our duty regardless."

"Our time there would be better spent in collecting more herbage,” Crossgrain said. “We have much expense to make up for now."

"As to that,” I said, “we shall gather no more. I spoke beforehand of the perils we might meet, but this mortality is too sorrowful. We must return to bring Goldenrod away and bury him with proper honor."

"We have no honor—” he began, but Crossgrain was shouted down. I believe that each felt that any of us might have failed of his nerve and broken rank and suffered shadow-loss and died dreadfully in an alien place. We did not wish to live with that thought unreconciled.

We decided to put our gatherings in order, go back after dark to the Vale, and bear Goldenrod away and depart on the morrow for the bivouac where Mutano stood abandoned.

Events did not fall in so orderly a succession.

As soon as it was securely dark we made our way back down the ridge slope, our estimation being that Goldenrod's body would lie about halfway to the valley floor on the overgrown path. We had to steel ourselves to begin the lightless decline and our spirits were sorely battered. I tried to assure Torronio and the remaining Wreckers that our shadows would regenerate from their damaged states and, over a healing period, make themselves whole again.

I did not know if this conjecture would prove true. Shadows damaged by clumsy thieves or by accident or combat or otherwise will indeed return to their earlier conditions or near, but a shadow devoured must be lost, I thought. Yet I said naught for it was best not to dishearten my fellows.

Nor had I been wholly truthful in the matter of Goldenrod. In a different instance, I would have let him lie to decompose into the evil soil of the Vale or to be eaten by whatever tenebrous scavengers ranged therein. My hidden desire was to examine the corpse, to determine if the manner of his dying left marks by which I might discover some method of defense against the deadly flora of the place. If I could find such a thing, a fortune lay before me.

Down the pathway we struggled, keeping close company and hearing about us the succulous leaves rubbing one against another and feeling, more than hearing, the blind black snakes crawling all about. We made ourselves silent as the night and place demanded.

Then we could not ascertain the spot where Goldenrod must lie. The track had overgrown notably during the brief time we had come away from it. There was an abrupt steepness of the slope where our comrade had fallen, but he was not near it.

"I misremember it being so close-knit here,” Sneakdirk whispered and we assented silently as we scattered out to search.

We were sufficiently diligent, I am sure, to have turned him up, but that tall, lanky body was nowhere to be found. He seemed to have melted into the surrounding Nature as a pinch of salt will melt in a pail of water. Squint unblinkered our light more times than was safe, but naught was to be seen.

"Come away, lads,” I said. “There are mysteries in this place we have not resource to comprehend. Our friend is gone from us, taken by peril, as I foretold you."

They agreed readily, except for Sneakdirk who averred that Goldenrod had owed him some small amount he wished to reclaim from the corpus. His objection was swept away.

The starry midnight had passed by the time we returned to camp. We composed ourselves for sleep and lay in our places, keeping well away from the pallet where Goldenrod had lain. My sleep was uneasy with nervy dreams and, to judge by the muttering and restlessness, so was that of all.

In the morning we were brisker, boiling up tea and munching the biscuit and salt beef we had found in Mutano's store of victual. We spent a goodish deal of time putting our samples in order to travel and it was then that my bagful of a dozen or so of the black serpents disclosed itself as a clutch of inert vines or roots.

They had been snakes when I thrust them into the leathern bag—slime-sheathed, offal-smelling, writhing, and blindly striking. But when I brought them out into the light to place them in a wicker basket, they had changed into solid, woody lengths, so stiff as to be almost rigid. Except for the general shape, there was little to recall their former serpentine nature. An indentation here might suggest a mouth or some lichenous mottling elsewhere might recall scales, but these details seemed but accidental as the early sunlight fell upon them.

The others gathered round to gaze and wonder, but only Torronio supplied a useful thought. “Your adders,” he said, “must share something of the nature of the Vale's flora. We have guarded the health of our plants by hiding them away from the light. Try if darkness will restore them to serpents."

I placed the lengths of root and vine in the bag, but no change transpired.

"Perhaps,” he said, “a momentary darkness is insufficient. It may be that the deep nighttime only will reveal what they are."

"Perhaps,” I said, shaking my head over this conundrum that but added to our store of ignorance.

We finished our preparations and departed the place of this mount that walled off the Dark Vale from the rest of the world.

I had anticipated encountering Mutano at the place where Torronio and the Wreckers had abandoned him. He did not know of my connection with his situation and of my small but sweet retribution for his overly strenuous methods of training me in the shadow trade. I had pictured myself riding into his bivouac with Torronio at the head of our band of makeshift plants-men, exhibiting with dramatic flourish the specimens we had obtained, and flaunting my triumph with pretended nonchalance.

We made good time on the journey back and our spirits lightened as we came farther away from the Vale. No rain had fallen in recent days and we could follow backward our track with ease for a long while. Then at one point in our trace that seemed most familiar, all evidence of our passing disappeared. Our surroundings seemed less well known here and I wondered if we had strayed. I spoke my misgiving to Torronio.

"There was one spacious width in this road I am sure I would recognize,” he said. “It cannot be far ahead."

I reflected then that Mutano had been keeping a solitary watch for three days and nights and might have devised a way to recover his losses from the Wreckers, if he expected them to pass this way again.

We trudged around a slow bend and Torronio pointed and said, “There we made our camp. I recall how wide the space was and what refreshment that hospitable canopy of leaves offered. Yet there is no sign of our encampment. That man—Mutano, you call him?—must have moved along to where he came from, trusting to fortune for shelter and direction."

"He is not one to joy in a long journey afoot,” I replied. “Something is amiss. Let us keep keen watch for trickery."

As soon as I spoke, that coolsome canopy of leaves came falling down upon us, covering us over, men and beasts, with a coarse, tatterdemalion netting of rope and rags and thongs all interlaced with foliage. It offered an obstruction that the five of us could not make short work of, but I think our wits as well as our bodies had been weakened by our recent struggles. Boxes and baggage went tumbling; our comrades swore and wrestled against the tatty netting, even as it grew tighter around us.

And then there was Mutano, of course, with a short staff in his left hand and a rope that served as drawstring for the netting in his right. With the rope he pulled the reticulate mass close about our ankles; with the staff he poked and belabored us in every undefendable place our carcasses presented. All the while, he was howling in the way that cats do, with a wailing that sounds like angry grief to men but signifies ardency of erotic joy to the claw-foot race. As soon as I saw the happy smirk on his face, I knew that Mutano had understood I was involved in the waylaying of him and that I must have planned the whole business. My knowledge was confirmed by the severe drubbing his staff laid upon my ribs.

We were too pressed upon one another to unlimber our blades, but Sneakdirk managed to squirm a small dagger from inside his doublet. He began sawing at a joint knot, but Mutano spied him and with a sharp stroke broke the blade and, to judge by the outcry, one of Sneakdirk's fingers into the bargain. Then, with expressive motions of his hands and contortions of his features, he made known that we were to divest ourselves of iron and push all weapons onto the ground outside our leafy cage. He encouraged us heartily with licks and pokes and as a matter of course I received the most and heartiest.

Further expressive pantomime indicated that we were to thrust our hands through the netting and when we did so, he bound our wrists and set us free one by one. He stood us in a line and stalked back and forth before us, purring like any fat housepuss sated with cream. Now and again he paused and with a knock or two brought our stances to more erect, military postures.

Here was another sad moment for poor Falco. Pleased with myself as we had come back along the track, I had been spinning fancies of the commendations I would receive from Maestro Astolfo, of the coin I would collect from my herbalizing, and of the trinkets and cates and amorous companionship I would purchase. But now again I was under Mutano's thumb, or beneath his heel, and must bow to his will.

Forward and back again he strode, looking us over severely, taking close views of Torronio and Squint. Myself he hardly deigned to notice until with a smart rap to a shinbone he directed me to follow him apart and seated me on the scabby butt of a fallen plane tree. Pointing with his staff, he indicated which boxes, bags, and canvas-wrapped vials he desired Squint to bring forth and place on the ground before me.

Then commenced the most awkward and intense lesson in grammar a backward schoolboy could ever have endured. I had gathered some smattering of Mutano's feline dialect over the past two seasons, but now I was to learn in earnest what the different growls and half growls, the purrings hoarse or mellifluous, the quiet or importuning meowings intended to convey.

He thumped a box of stoppered vials with his staff, a stout green length of ash with a few leafy twigs dangling, and uttered what was unmistakably a question: “Mrowwwr-mirr?"

When I shook my head uncomprehendingly, he boxed my ears. His notion seemed to be that I understood him well enough but pretended not to. I was accustomed to such blows from Mutano. What vexed me more was the laughter it drew from the Wreckers where they stood all in line by the fallen nettage. It was good to note that Torronio did not join in.

In fact, I did perceive what my shadow-trade colleague wished to find out, but the situation confused me. Did he expect me to answer him in the cat language? A slap to my forehead brought me around.

Yet I could not return answers I did not have. “These plants we gathered in dark of deepest night in the darkest of valleys,” I said. “We worked quickly and crudely, more by sense of touch than by sight. We only gathered in the mass and have had no opportunity to examine our findings."

"Mrr mrr-mrr mrrieu?"

"Yes, I believe them to be of sound value,” I said, after puzzling for long moments. “I could not set a price. In a sense, they are beyond price, for our man Goldenrod gave up his life to find them."

Mutano's eyebrows rose and his expression grew pensive. This was something he could not have known.

"He was forewarned,” I said.

He touched one of the oblong boxes with his greenstaff. “Murr rr."

"Best not to unseal the baggage here. Sunlight has a deleterious effect upon this flora of the darkness. We have already lost several fine specimens."

"Mir?” He gave me a skeptical look but let the matter go. He brought from an inner pocket of his doublet a square of soiled vellum and thrust it at me. It was the map he had made from study of the old books, the map that had brought him here by a toilsome, hindrous journey.

I shrugged and he pushed it into my face. Then he flung it down and held out his hand, demanding my more helpful map to take him back to Tardocco.

Here was a point requiring careful judgment. If I handed over the false map immediately, he might suspect something amiss, knock me over, and ransack my clothing. If I held back for long, I would be inviting bruises purple and yellow. I decided to chance three blows before pretending to give in and present the deceptive document. But Mutano was no tyro in the skill of tendering punishment and one solid thwack upon my shoulders sealed my decision.

Groaning and swearing, I brought out the counterfeit with all its elaborate notations and whimsical instructions. Mutano examined it front and back, then turned about for the advantage of better light, and pored it over. I retained all confidence in this map wherein I had mingled the true and the misleading with judicious balance. Many of the features he would know from his travel or by hearsay; others were in plausible relations with those; still others were but mere brain-wisps and shared likeness with no place on the round Earth.

After long study, he tucked it inside his doublet. Then he turned his attention to the Wreckers. His grin broadened as he surveyed them and I surmised that he was proud to have caught the five of us in the same trap we had laid for him, dropping from the trees. At length he tapped Crossgrain on each of his shoulders, like a prince knighting a worthy squire, and motioned him forth, always keeping his staffless hand near his sword hilt. Under his direction, Crossgrain began gathering up the containers and loading them on the mounts and mules. Goaded by the greenstaff, Squint aided in the task.

He looked at the sky to ascertain that a half-day's light remained, then Mutano mounted Gaetano and departed, taking with him not only our herbal treasures but all our weapons and almost all the food we had robbed him of.

We watched him out of sight, then all eyes turned upon Falco.

"Now, Stalwart,” said Torronio, “Thou'st brought us to a pretty pass. Are we to starve in this wilderness or have you another fume-witted scheme to bring us to destruction?"

"Be of better cheer,” I said. “Let us find our former camping ground. It cannot be far down this pathway. You will recall that we made a cache of provisions there to replenish us homeward."

This sentence struck a more pleasant note, but Sneakdirk reminded me that now we had no horse.

"After we find our provisions, we shall have but a five-day march to Tardocco."

"Why go we there?” he asked. “The noose awaits us and this Mutano will anticipate our coming."

"If my cartographic skills stand good, we shall arrive before Mutano by some hours if not days. Then I shall make arrangements."

"Arrangements?"

"Let us stir along,” I said. “I shall enlighten you as we go."

When I introduced Torronio to Maestro Astolfo, the shadow master looked him over side to side, bottom to top. Then he spoke in his calm voice: “I know the set of these features. Are you not of the family Binotti? There is a certain length of jaw line—"

"My name is Torronio. That is all the world need know."

Astolfo's gaze rested on him still, those mild gray eyes never roving from his face. “There was a story of one of them who fell into disfavor with the clan and fared into the forest to live as a celibate hermit and ponder the ills of life."

Torronio sighed. “Celibate I am, and for a long while. But the ills of life thrive stoutly without my thinking on ‘em."

Astolfo nodded. “And you are confederate with Falco in this scheme to gull his friend and cohort, my man Mutano?"

"If Stalwart be Falco, then I am bound with him. As for gulling, are we not the parties injured? We have not the herbal treasures we labored after and this Mutano, where'er he be, enjoys their possession. I am no cony to cheat and delude; if I rob, I rob forthrightly, in order to keep spirit and corpus united."

Astolfo turned to me. “I must inform you, Falco, that lately such exotica of greenery has dropped from fashion. You will recall Ser Marchiotti who prided himself on his great collection of noxious plants. He hath fallen prey to a peculiarly miasmic lily and his health is much shaken. The exotic mania may be running its course."

"Have we then no buyers?” asked Torronio.

"Have you any wares?” Astolfo inquired.

"We shall have within three days or fewer such oddments of nature that even the most jaded of the Green Knights and Verdant Ladies will vie for,” I said. “These specimens follow behind us by messenger."

I did not say that the messenger was Mutano and that I had stationed Sneakdirk, Crossgrain, and Squint a half league above Tardocco on the Via Auster to waylay him and once more lighten him of his precious burdens. I counted upon my delusive map to bring him down from the mountains by the Via Auster and not the Via Boreas to eastward.

"Perhaps you overvalue this cargo,” Astolfo suggested.

"I think not,” I said and went on to describe the character of some of the plants we were bringing forth. The march from the mountains had made us dusty, weary, and footsore, but its tediousness had lent me time to think on our travails in the Dark Vale and upon the things we found there. I recalled the silence that was thicker than silence, with the whispery sibilance at its heart; I recalled the mucid, velvety leaves and blooms of the shrubs and how they rubbed upon our clothing and how the vine tendrils sought for our patches of bare flesh. I pondered the fetid gum that clung to us and sublimed to white powder in sunlight and thought long upon the black adders that changed their forms to become hard roots and vines.

"I believe the flora and fauna of that valley to league in convolvement together,” I told Astolfo. “Their properest food is the shadows of animals, though they doubtless derive some nourishment also from rain and soil. It is not that they eat shadows as donkeys munch down hay. They take into themselves the shadows they capture and within them are preserved the living shades of passersby—of the troops and caravans and robber bands and solitaries who come that way. Undoubtedly, they also hold captive from early times the shadows of bears and boars and deer and suchlike. All these shadows are interwoven into a single entity through the roots and vines underground and above. It is a thing like—like a fisherman's net.” I almost said, Like the leaf-net that Mutano dropped upon us from treetop, but bit my tongue in time. “They propagate by means of an evil-smelling slime that blind snakes exude, crowding amongst ‘em. And all this dark herbage, together with the serpents and some invisible flying creatures like black moths, make up, all of them at once, a single intelligence, darkly knowing, ravenous in its need for animate shadows."

As I was speaking, Astolfo closed his eyes, the better to comprehend my meaning. He was silent a long time. Then: “All this matter, if't be true, will be a discovery to the world. Such plants would have a value beyond any price that might be set."

I agreed.

"But,” he continued, “there are dangers attending, known and unknown."

Again I agreed.

"If one of these plants, be it set in soil and nurtured, grow to maturity, may it not snatch away the shadow of its possessor or of some other?"

"It may."

"Will this raped shadow join to the great knot of them?"

"I know not. The Vale is far."

"Yet the night lappeth all the world."

"I take you not."

"The sea hath its currents, as do the river and the lake. Fish and other water creatures know and traverse such flowings. Midnight owns its currents also which these ombraphagous plants must know and utilize."

"How so?"

He fell silent. Then: “I do not know. ‘Twill be a matter of constrained study."

"You imply that our plants are too dangerous for human possession."

Sighing ruefully, he shook his head. “The peril only makes ‘em the more precious to those of a certain cast of mind. We shall not lack buyers, but we must be at pains to inform them how to ensure their safety."

"We!” said Torronio. “How are you concerned with the selling?"

"Our expedition was undertaken at the Maestro's commission,” I said. “He hath vested coin and the labor of his servants, mine and Mutano's."

"If so you say.” He took the news with ill grace, feeling deceived.

"Fear not,” Astolfo said. “My interest here is more philosophical than monetary. There is an unthought world to be known of these plants, if indeed they come into our hands. And it may be that Mutano will return with an entirely different store of specimens and a different history."

"That may be,” I said, keeping my laughter silent. “Meanwhile, Torronio and I must go to look after our own."

"Well, then."

This time it fell out more easy.

Torronio, Sneakdirk, Squint, and Crossgrain accosted Mutano and his pack animals on the Via Auster a league above the western gate of Tardocco. He offered but puny resistance, Torronio reported. His long and fruitless wandering had sapped strength of body and vitality of spirit. He drew his cutlass but threw it down when the four raised their points toward him. He handed over the reins with the air of an aged prince abdicating a weary throne.

I did not make my presence known to him until I had overlooked the cargo and ascertained it was in fair good order and had performed certain experiments with lamps, mirrors, and sheets of fine-wove linen.

Our trio of confederates must not enter the precincts of the city, so Torronio and I presented ourselves with the containers of roots, blossoms, and so forth before Astolfo and then requested that Mutano be sent for.

When he entered and saw me there, he showed no surprise. He must have understood that in following the circuitous, perplexing routes my false map laid out he had fallen into a ruse. He eyed me with silent resignation, but I heard from his throat, or perhaps his brain, a small feline growling that promised retribution.

I must keep watch on him, I thought.

Yet he did not go unrewarded, for Astolfo promised to apportion him a small share of whatever profits might accrue. It would be my duty to study these materials and to turn them to trade. Meanwhile, Astolfo advanced a fat pouch of eagles to share out with Torronio and his comrade exiles. There would be sufficient for all to buy off the bounties that had been set upon them.

"Mrrir mrrir?"

"Mutano inquires,” I told Astolfo, “about what might happen if I fail to find profit in these specimens."

"Then the materials will be placed in his charge,” he answered, “to see if he may do better."

At these words, Mutano grinned cheerfully and that grin, more than the prospect of coin, gave spine to my resolve. I would research these black plants and their husband serpents and make experiment. I would bring their secrets to light.

As if in answer to my thoughts, the adders fell into a commotion in their leathern bag, tumbling and thumping, and a small, quiet, sourceless music sounded in the room.

Astolfo looked a question toward me.

"Some errant pilgrim has wandered into the Vale,” I said. “His shadow is his no more."

Breaking Dawn, by Stephenie Meyer, Little, Brown, 2008, $22.99.

This is a splendid conclusion to Meyer's ongoing Twilight series and that's all I'm going to say until I've let you know that there are spoilers ahead (it's hard to avoid them when you're talking about the last book in a series). So read on with that in mind.

There, that's done.

If you've been reading the Twilight books you already know that Bella (our heroine) has been pressing Edward Cullen (her romantic interest, a vampire) to turn her into a vampire so that they can be together forever. This infuriates Jacob Black (her best friend, a werewolf) because a) he loves Bella, b) for her to become a vampire she has to die first, and c) vampires and werewolves are mortal enemies, so there goes their friendship and any hopes Jacob has that Edward might conveniently die, or at least disappear, so that he can press his case with Bella again.

At the end of the last book, Edward finally gave in to Bella, but only on his own terms: they had to be married first. So this final book opens with the wedding preparations, the wedding itself, the honeymoon, and then—literally within days, and before Edward can change her—Bella becomes pregnant. The unborn child grows at an alarming rate and within weeks, Bella's already showing.

Now, in Meyer's world, vampire children are anathema. Upon their discovery, they and their creator are both immediately destroyed by the ruling vampires, the Volturi. Bella and Edward's child was conceived, rather than created (by being bitten), but that won't make any difference to the Volturi if they find out, because they've just been looking for an opportunity to take down Edward's family. They'll simply kill first and ask questions later.

Yes, I know. This is all rather complicated, which is why it took Meyer some 2100 pages in the first three books to set everything up, but it's actually not all that hard to follow if you've been reading them.

Anyway, first Bella has to survive the birth of the child, which is now feeding on her and will probably kill her. Then she has to survive being turned into a vampire, which involves a couple of years of raging bloodlust. She won't have time to adjust, however, because Edward's sister Alice (who can see flashes of the future) has a vision that the Volturi are on their way and will arrive at the Cullens’ house with the first snowfall—which is expected in a few weeks.

Breaking Dawn has none of the excessive (and some might say endless) pining for one's true love to be found in the first three books, though to be fair, her target audience (teenage girls, or anyone who can access the teenage girl inside them) had no complaints. The reason for the change is simple enough. Meyer hasn't suddenly “grown up” as a writer; rather the story doesn't need it anymore because Bella and Edward are together now. Instead, they have a whole new set of problems.

How it all plays out brings the series to a wonderful and satisfying conclusion, and throughout, Meyer's imagination stays in high gear. From Bella's child, through the gifts that certain vampires have, to the revelation of what the werewolves really are, she springs surprise after surprise upon us, but as we come to each, we see the seeds were laid down long before in the story.

The pacing is brisk (though I could have done with a little less in the honeymoon section) and keeps the reader guessing. For the most part. I mean, sure, we all know Alice would never turn her back on the rest of her family, but maybe she did, and if she didn't, why did she leave them when they needed her most?

As I mentioned in the reviews of the previous installments, the Twilight books aren't for everyone, but I have no trouble understanding why they're as popular as they are. With the different, and adult, novel The Host under her belt now, it's going to be very interesting to see what Meyer does next.

How to Make Friends with Demons, by Graham Joyce, Night Shade Books, 2008, $24.95.

This new novel from Graham Joyce is pure genius. It's one of those books that can be read as a fascinating character study in which some of the participants have hyperactive imaginations, or as a supernatural novel, but either way, it's a terrific read. That's because Joyce is one of those writers who totally inhabits his characters, which makes us believe in them completely. I can't explain it, exactly. It's not just the details, or even how the story is laid out, so much as the voice itself—especially when it's in first person. The tone is always right.

In How to Make Friends with Demons our narrator (for the most part) is literate and world-weary William Heaney, a man successful in his working life as well as the one he conducts in the shadows (forging rare books, ghost-writing poetry, with all the proceeds going to a homeless shelter), but not so good at maintaining relationships or managing his life. His ex-wife has made a new life with a celebrity chef, his teenage son is a stuck-up twit, he has a drinking problem, and he hates his government job.

The problem is that he sees the demons that haunt us and push us toward doing the things that we do—all one thousand five hundred and sixty-seven of them. He knows too well which ones haunt him. And he knows where they came from. But he's become very good at compartmentalizing troubles from his past and keeping people at arm's length.

Still, as we all know, from the books we read as well as our own lives, what hasn't been dealt with in the past has a way of showing up again—usually when we least want or expect it. In Heaney's case it's a beautiful young woman, a homeless Desert Storm veteran, and a smarmy university acquaintance who's now a successful author.

Adding to his problems, Heaney goes deeply into debt bailing out the homeless shelter he supports, hoping to cover it with the money from his latest rare book scam, except the scam seems to be falling through.

Heaney thinks he just needs some time and space to get himself together again. But what he really needs is redemption.

I mentioned above the two ways you can look at this book. The beautiful thing is, it doesn't matter which you choose. Either way, How to Make Friends with Demons is a terrific book.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The Long Way Home, by Joss Whedon & Georges Jeanty, Dark Horse Books, 2008, $15.95.

Echo: Moon Lake, by Terry Moore, Abstract Studio, 2008, $15.95.

I've mentioned the Echo and “Season Eight” Buffy comics in previous installments of this column. When I did, I only had one issue of each in hand, but enough time has now gone by that I can assure you that both comics are living up to the promise of those first issues.

That isn't always a given. Like the pilots for TV series, lots of energy, commitment and (in the case of TV) money goes into the production of a first issue/pilot. The problem is that all too often, there isn't a follow-through of commitment and quality. The audience drops and the comic or new TV show disappears, often in the middle of the story.

Now Terry Moore has already proved he can stay the course with his long-running Strangers in Paradise series, and since he also self-publishes, you can be pretty sure some bean-counter in the accounting department of a big firm isn't going to pull the plug on him. Which is great because now that he's tackled a contemporary sf story—bringing to it all the humanity, humor, and drama that he brought to Strangers in Paradise—it would be a shame not to see this through to the end.

Brief recap: Photographer Julie Martin is out in the California desert when she observes an explosion in the sky. In the aftermath, she's showered with liquid metal pellets that adhere to her skin, forming a mysterious chest plate that can't be removed and zaps anyone who tries to do so. Now the government (or at least the part of it involved in the explosion) wants her dead and the only person who can help her is the woman who died in the explosion.

Moore is building a fascinating cast to support an already gripping story and you can catch up on it all with this trade paperback that collects the first five issues. Try it and I guarantee you'll be hooked.

The Long Way Home collects the first story arc and a stand-alone from what the creators are calling “Season Eight” of the Buffy the Vampire Killer story since it follows Joss Whedon's vision of where the series would have gone if it had stayed on the air—with a lot bigger budget, mind you, since the special effects required to tell this story would strain the money available to a TV series. But here, all you have to do is make sure the artist gets his paycheck.

It's not just whiz-bang special effects, however—and some of them are low-key, yet integral to the story (I'd tell you just what, but why spoil your surprise when, for instance, you turn the page and get your first view of Buffy's sister Dawn?) At the heart of this comic, what stands out is Whedon's gift for characterization. He has an incredible ear for dialogue, and paints a deep portrait with very few strokes.

As for the story, maybe you'll be disappointed, maybe you won't (Buffy fans, like Harry Potter, Star Wars, and Star Trek fans, have always had strong opinions). But I love what he's done with the idea of so many slayers now populating the world.

Material to be considered for review in this column should be sent to Charles de Lint, P. O. Box 9480, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada K1G 3V2.

Best American Fantasy 2008, guest edited by Ann & Jeff VanderMeer, Series Editor Matthew Cheney, Prime Books, 2008, $14.95.

Midnight Picnic, by Nick Antosca, Impetus Press, 2008, $15.95.

The Love We Share Without Knowing, by Christopher Barzak, Bantam Books, 2008, $12.

A Year's Best anthology may not be the most accurate way to measure a genre's health and general well-being: it's more like resting a hand upon literature's fevered brow, rather than hooking it up to an array of state-of-the-art diagnostic machines. Still, it's not a bad indicator of trends. Obviously one must factor in the taste of the editor/s at the helm. As with Best American Short Stories (which seems to be its model), Best American Fantasy features guest editors, which adds a nice frisson to the anticipation of reading it. Michel Houllebecq's selections will perhaps differ from Michael Crichton's.

It's been ages since I reviewed a YB volume, or read one (for my own pleasure) cover to cover. There are just too many to keep up with these days, a far cry from back when the late Judith Merril's Year's Best S-F was the gold standard, the only sf anthology that could be found on library shelves.[*]

[*I innocently wonder if the current number of YB volumes can possibly relate to the tribble-like proliferation of genre awards? Merril's series ran from 1956-1967 and was originally titled Year's Greatest Science Fiction and Fantasy. Perhaps we could simplify things and just give a Greatest SF/F Writer Award, or perhaps an Award Award?]

Usually I dip into these books, read the usual suspects whose work I like or am familiar with, progress to stories by writers I've heard good (or bad) things about, skim a few opening sentences by unknowns and revel in a new find, etc. A scattershot approach, but one that leaves open the always-pleasant chance for discovery, for dipping into the same volume at some later date and stumbling upon a marvelous story I somehow missed, and then hurrying off to find everything I can by the author. BAF08 offers several such opportunities for discovery, along with a smattering of names that may be more familiar to readers of this magazine.

Series editor Matthew Cheney is a well-known writer and reviewer. Guest editor Ann VanderMeer is fiction editor of Weird Tales; her husband Jeff is a novelist of note, and in addition to the BAF 2007 and BAF08, they've co-edited theme anthologies The New Weird and Steampunk. Their combined taste skews toward the sort of American magic realism that once seemed like a genuinely original offshoot of most contemporary fiction, and certainly a distinct change from stories that featured those members of the eldritch cohort who, years past, reliably decamped within the covers of year's best collections.

Now, however, the magic realist stream of fantastika (critic John Clute's useful catchall term for the various modes of fantastic literature) doesn't seem any more exotic than the tattooed elves, gay fey, post-postmodernist dragons, environmentally threatened merfolk, mallrat zombies, and suburban vampires you find in most genre magazines, and not a few mainstream ones. Contemporary fiction's cutting edge has been blunted. This doesn't mean individual stories (in BAF08 and elsewhere) aren't good, in some instances very good, and occasionally great.

But they've lost some of their power to impart that sharp sense of the numinous and unknown that, for a long, long time, was one of the hallmarks of the fantastic. Most of this, of course, is because genre fiction has successfully colonized mainstream literature and pop culture. Factor in the tsunami of material that inundates us every millisecond via the Internet and more archaic media like television, and one begins to suffer from fantastika fatigue. There's also the McSweeney's Effect, a pleasantly soporific drift into a recognizable though subtly altered, nebulous early-twenty-first-century American landscape (malls, convenience stores, highways, exurbs, abandoned tract housing, drowned beachfront condominiums) that causes Constant Reader to feel as though she's dreamed or read the same vaguely magic realist story before, maybe by a different writer, or maybe the same one, or maybe even herself. I don't blame McSweeney's—I love McSweeneys, honest! also The Believer!—and in fact I suspect there's a scientific explanation for this, though I'm reluctant to call it a conspiracy: If one rifled through the medicine cabinets of all the published writers in America, would one find the same bottles of Zoloft and Prozac and Paxil and Wellbutrin, Celexa and Lexipro and Zyban?

I found myself falling victim to the McSweeney's Effect while reading BAF08, enough so that I subjected the volume to a rigorous statistical analysis. Of the nineteen stories of BAF08, ten are from “mainstream,” “literary” magazines—Conjunctions, Cincinnati Review, Tin House, et al.

Four first appeared in genre print magazines such as the one you are reading; four from original genre anthologies; one was published online and will be reprinted in a genre mag. Seven stories are by writers associated with McSweeney's. And one of those stories is by Rick Moody, who also guest-edited the issue of Tin House from which two of the other BAF08 stories were drawn. (In future columns, I will discuss the Moody Paradox.)

Moody's contribution, “Story with Advice II: Back from the Dead,” is one of the best pieces in BAF08, a collection of letters from a man who was, in life, advice columnist for a crummy freebie weekly, and whose posthumously written advice column has now been published. Sample letter:

Dear Olive, nice to make your acquaintance and thanks for writing to Story with Advice II: Back from the Dead!
...Olive, you do not, in the afterlife, get to keep your books, your records, your dollhouses, your family heirlooms, your silver chest, your art collection, your Kiss action figures, your exotic musical instruments, your plastic handbags, your ceramic bears, your toy piano, your erotic etchings, your antique furniture, your comical hats. But you do get to keep at hand your memories of childhood disgrace....

Peter S. Beagle's entry here is also wonderful, and has an even longer title[*]: “The Last and Only, or, Mr. Moscowitz Becomes French,” a lovely, sly, and surprisingly moving tale in which an ordinary American university librarian gradually becomes the Platonic eidos of France, much to the chagrin of his wife, colleagues and, eventually, his entire adopted country. Kelly Link's sublime “Light” takes place in a marvelously evoked world nearly identical to our own, save for the intrusion of countless pocket universes which can, at any time, appear and transform the thin fabric of reality. Jeffrey Ford's bleak, haunting “The Drowned World” is a far darker vision of a not dissimilar world; a story of personal and national disintegration that plumbs the terrifying moral abyss glimpsed in Robert Aickman's best supernatural fiction, filtered through Ford's distinct and increasingly fine prose. Somewhat more traditional genre stories are represented by Erik Amundsen's excellent “Bufo Rex” [frog prince]; Kage Baker's underpowered “The Ruby Incomparable” [young female mage]; and M. Rickert's elegant, melancholy “Memoir of a Deer Woman.”

[* Perhaps caused by DFW Interaction, wherein writers are exposed to the sometimes life-altering gravitional pull of the late, great David Foster Wallace.]

As for discoveries (mine): Michelle Redmond's “Logorrhea” is a delicate tale of reverse metamorphosis, featuring a woman whose husband develops, then loses the gorgeous reptilian scales that first attracted her. David Hollander's “The Naming of the Islands” charts a dark journey across nightmarish seas, evoking Jan Potocki's Sargasso Manuscript, William Hope Hodgson's The Boats of the Glen Carrig, and C. S. Lewis's Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Finally, Michaela Morrissette's “Ave Maria” raises the sort of goosebumps I haven't felt since reading Angela Carter's fiction or Karen Joy Fowler's Sarah Canary; a pitch-perfect account of the discovery of a bird-woman in rural France that combines enchantment and the everyday.

Kudos to the editors behind Best American Fantasy 2008. Next year's volume will be guest-edited by Kevin Brockmeier, whose short fiction has appeared in McSweeney's, among numerous other publications.

Novels featuring posthumous characters are another modish trend; not traditional zombies (always in style, enjoying a vogue) but eerily disassociated protagonists who mingle freely with the living and who don't always seem to realize they're dead, and, when they do, sometimes react with varying degrees of annoyance or ennui rather than horror. Books such as Kevin Brockmeier's The Brief History of the Dead; Chris Adrian's The Children's Hospital; Deb Olin Unferth's Vacation all come to mind.

Nick Antosca's excellent first novel, Fires, charted the downward spiral of its sexually obsessed narrator into a suburban holocaust, a housing development ravaged by wildfire. His second novel, Midnight Picnic, is even better. It deftly utilizes a number of early twenty-first-century literary tropes—diffuse sense of time; a deracinated protagonist; ghosts who are nearly indistinguishable from the living; a blighted modern landscape—without sacrificing urgency and a sense of genuine old-fashioned terror. The story opens with a scream and doesn't let up:

Bram pulls into the parking lot half-asleep and the crunch of gravel under his tires becomes the crunch of bone. Something screams.

It's three a.m., and Bram has run over a deerhound named Baby outside the grotesquely decaying building where they both live. Unfortunately, that's the high point of his day. An encounter with a troubled neighbor bearing the bones of a child leads Bram to an encounter with Adam Dovey, a six-year-old boy. Adam's repeated refrain—"Help me get Jacob Bunny,” at first poignant, grows increasingly disturbed and, finally, terrifying.

"Jacob Bunny's been alive for twenty-three years since I died,” says Adam Dovey. “Nobody punished him. He still lives in the woods. He's alive and I'm dead and nobody punished him. That's wrong."

Midnight Picnic subverts reader expectations on almost every page. The horror here derives not from Jacob Bunny's crime (dreadful as it is) but from Adam's obsessive, sharklike hunger for revenge. He's a brilliant, terrifying creation, equal parts pathetic child and vengeful revenant. Antosca's shifts in focus are expertly done, from Adam to Bram to Jacob to Owen, and Bram's final journey with Adam through an exurban wasteland generates the heart-clutching fear of a recurring nightmare. Midnight Picnic is beautifully written, a literary ghost story that doesn't stint on old-fashioned terror: it's a dark, polished gem of a novel.

Christopher Barzak is another young writer who has avoided sophomore slump. One for Sorrow, his first book, was a lovely, lyrical ghost story, a melancholy ode to working-class adolescence that managed to be both affecting and humorous. His second novel, The Love We Share Without Knowing, is even better, one of the best books of the year.

Set in contemporary Tokyo, the novel traces the fragile web of connections between a number of young people—American and Japanese, men and women, gay and straight—many of them strangers to each other, but all linked by their individual ties to four members of a suicide club. The four embark upon this tragic course as though it were a holiday, drinking a toast to their decision.

And in a way it is a holiday, a permanent vacation from their profound sense of dislocation and romantic disappointment. The four are casual acquaintances before the formation of the suicide club. Asami is in her mid-twenties, overweight in a country where nymphet schoolgirls are part of the urban wallpaper. Like Asami, Hitomi is “Christmas cake,” twenty-six years old and still single. Kazuko is thirty, married but estranged from her salaryman husband. Tadashi, the only man, is derailed by the breakup of his relationship with a Canadian lover. Barzak expertly places this tragic quartet, and the daisy chain of friends and lovers surrounding them, within the deracinated, pathologically detached culture of twenty-first-century Japan. Within this context, their decision becomes even more poignant, and even understandable.

"Four was comfortable, though. Four was enough to feel like a family."

Yet it's a family or club that functions in reverse: rather than banding together to sustain the group and create a new generation, it exists solely to destroy its members. When the three founders raise their wineglasses, they toast to fellowship—issho ni, “together."

They went home thinking the toast was nothing more than a joke. But as each crawled inside her separate covers, as each laid her head on her pillow and stared at the moonshine on the frosted glass of her window, the humor and flippancy of their joining became transparent, and soon they were caught in the embrace of the possibility of escaping the confines of their individual disappointments. This was the closest any of them had come to feeling like their lives were real in years.

The deaths happen early in the novel. The remainder unfolds as a dreamy journey through the lives of those left behind, lovers and friends who are haunted by the suicides. Barzak skillfully plays with the conventions of the ghost story by showing how, for the living, there may be no difference between a memory and a revenant, a fox fairy and a suicidal teenager. His novel finds a few inches of common ground in the work of the novelist Koji Suzuki, whose Ringu was the source material for the successful horror film. Barzak's novel is still more evocative of the traditional ghost stories in Lafcadio Hearn's collection Kwaidan, another brilliant assay into Japan's supernatural world by an American writer (and basis for Masaki Kobayashi's atmospheric film of the same name).

Most of all, though, The Love We Share Without Knowing is an homage to The House of the Sleeping Beauties, the brilliant novella by the Nobel Prize-winning writer Yasunari Kawabata. Barzak captures the strange, half-awake tone of that book, with Barzak's ghosts acting as voyeurs who prey upon the living much as Kawabata's men pay to gaze at sleeping teenage girls. The Love We Share Without Knowing is elegiac but not depressing, a love song in a minor key that will echo for a long time in the minds of its fortunate readers.

Last month, Charlie Finlay took us back to the days of the American Revolution. This month he takes us into the future with a decidedly different take on matters of State....

In the Texas panhandle, the heat made everything shimmer. Still, the blur on the horizon was definitely a convoy of trucks. They rolled over the old broken highway, kicking up spumes of dust that the wind bowled north, as if even the dirt were eager to escape such a desolate stretch of land.

Marine Captain Mungus lowered his binoculars. “Sanders,” he said to the driver of his open-top humvee. “Remind me why we're out here in this god-fucked waste."

Sanders, whose left eye socket was covered by a dirty patch of gauze where he'd been slashed by shrapnel, closed the book he was reading, and lifted his head. “Because no one else is crazy enough to come here."

"Right,” Mungus said. He looked around at the rest of his Recon unit, vehicles and men spread out in the shade of the abandoned rest stop on the side of the old highway. “So what's that convoy doing out here?"

"Reason says they came this way because they didn't expect to see anything or anyone either."

"Mm-hmm.” Mungus looked toward his flagtank, and to the tattered banners that snapped at the end of its antenna. “Is that still the stars-and-stripes we're flying?"

"Blood red, bone white, and true blue, sir. Bit ragged and faded, but still proud and free."

"You think they've seen it?"

"Well, as we've seen them, they've had a fair chance to see us,” Sanders said, which wasn't quite true, as their unit was sitting still, and aside from the sparks thrown up by the welders trying to patch the shielding on one of the three tanks, they didn't stand out in any way from the dusty brown landscape around them. A fair streak made him add, “Although if they had seen it, they would likely be reversing their direction."

"Maybe they're desperate men,” Mungus offered.

"Could be,” Sanders replied skeptically. “Maybe they've seen those Arklahoma women, since they're coming from that way."

"I was married to one once—desperate about sums it up."

That bad marriage, along with no job and no prospects, was what sent him out to the desert to join Recon. Best decision he'd ever made. He stood in his seat, knuckled the grit from his eyes, and peered through the binoculars again. He counted fourteen, maybe sixteen, trailer trucks in the convoy, with a couple mounted guns on pickups, roving as flankers for an escort, and a fuel tanker riding in the middle of the line.

It didn't make sense. There was nothing out here but ghost towns and tumbleweed, not all the way to the Mexican gobernador's base in Albuquerque. Which was why Mungus brought his outfit out here to hide after their last raid north to the rebel states for food and fuel.

He lowered the binoculars. The sun's glare made him squint, but he could see his own troops well enough. The more alert had also noticed the clouds of dust and were stirring the rest from their usual afternoon torpor. They amounted to barely a hundred and fifty men, not even company size, although they still carried battalion colors. And he only had three tanks, and one of those useless with the shielding peeled off, plus a half dozen of the two-man dee-pee-vees and a motley fleet of LAVs and humvees. Some of those were sitting dead until they could refuel.

They were supposed to protect the open roads, but the fuel truck in the center was too much to resist.

He picked up the radio. “Wake up, Recon. We're deploying for Operation Bake Sale."

There were shouts along the shell of the rest stop, and men tugging on equipment as they ran toward their vehicles. Sanders sank down in his seat and mumbled, “I don't like it."

Mungus ignored him.

"We're going to blockade both sides of the highway, just west of the bridge,” he said into the radio. “Lopez, you've got the road. Leave one lane open, with room to squeeze by the tanks."

"Yes, sir,” came the rough voice of the platoon sergeant. Both tanks rattled toward the road, followed by a group of humvees.

"Giuliani, take your bottle rockets up on that hill, and that hill there.” He stood on the back of his seat and pointed. Giuliani was a small man who looked like a bookkeeper, with a pocket protector to keep leaky pens from ruining his one good shirt; he leaned out of the window of his LAV at the far end of the lot and nodded confirmation.

"And Guns,” Mungus said.

"Yeah?” Giuliani replied over the radio.

"I want snipers spread out along the length of that convoy once they stop."

"Like I don't know my job?” the voice came back.

"That's ‘don't know my job, SIR.’”

Giuliani saluted Mungus from his window as the LAV rolled down the exit ramp, followed by more of the eight-wheeled vehicles. They bounced over the old curb and crossed the hills toward their position.

"Talley?” he said, calling the last of his sergeants, also the oldest and most experienced.

The radio crackled. “Yes, sir?"

"Sprinkle surface mines across the riverbed, make them think twice about trying to go off-road that way. Then go do that thing you do so well."

"On it."

The dee-pee-vees, little two-man go-carts with guns mounted on back, zipped off behind the old rest stop and out of sight while a second group, mostly humvees, headed off-road toward the dry riverbed. Only one more order to give.

"Keebler?” Mungus said.

"Sir!” came the enthusiastic reply.

"Set up your table and cookies in the open lane, down there in front of Lopez's tank. We'll need at least twenty plates."

Keebler's real name was Freeman, but the unit's cookie man was always called Keebler. There was a long pause before the radio crackled. “Don't think I got that many cookies, sir. Got some zucchini bread and a couple slices of sweet potato pie. Oh, and some of Talley's chocolate brownies."

"The zucchini bread and sweet potato pie'll do."

"What about Talley's brownies, sir?"

"No brownies. I'll meet you down at the roadblock."

"Yes, sir!"

Mungus dropped into his seat and put the radio down. “'What about Talley's brownies?’ Jesus, we don't want to kill them. Not unless we have to."

Sanders rolled his tongue through his stubbled cheek. “Those things are dry enough to choke an armadillo."

"Well, if it comes to a fight, we can always use them for missiles.” He checked his guns to make sure they were loaded. “What do you mean you don't like it? What don't you like?"

Sanders waved a hand at the convoy. “This, the fuel truck, all of it. It's too good to be true."

"Maybe we're lucky for once."

"When was the last time we got lucky in anything?” He meant the last raid north into the Colorado free state, where rebel hostiles had an ambush waiting for them. Although their bad luck had been running a bit longer than that.

Mungus didn't have an answer for him, not a real one. He pounded the dashboard and pointed toward the spot where Keebler would set up his table. “Just means we're due."

"I'm handsome and a genius, but I'm still not rich,” Sanders said. The gears ground as he shifted and the humvee jerked forward. “Saying ‘we're due’ doesn't mean shit."

"Is that what it says there in one of your books?"

"Nah, that's just medieval history, knights and stuff,” Sanders said.

"Good,” Mungus said. “Then we're due."

The driver of the first truck in the convoy was about as rough and scarred-up as most of the men in Mungus's company, which he found reassuring. If it was another well-fed, clean-shaven Mormon boy from the free states up north, they'd be looking at a fight for sure. The truck's passenger was something else entirely—smirking, pale-skinned, eyes hidden by a sweet pair of sunglasses. Mungus didn't quite know what to make of him.

He hopped up on the sideboard and leaned in the open window. Dangerous to do, if these were bad guys, but things hadn't gone so well on their last raid and his men needed to see him lead by example. “Compran nuestros cookies, o preparanse para el muerto,” he said. “Cinco mil pesos."

The smirker said, “Are you shaking us down?"

"Bake sale,” Mungus explained, happier to be using English. “It's as American as apple pie and as old as the Marines. Helps pay for road maintenance and safety patrols."

The barrel on the lead tank, just beyond the cookie table, cranked up and over, aimed straight through the truck's window. Nice effect, Mungus thought. It'd be a hell of a lot nicer if they had any shells for it.

The smirker ignored the tank. “You know I never understood that. How can you guys still call yourselves Marines when there isn't a drop of water between here and Albuquerque?"

Mungus grinned at him, wide enough to show off his gold tooth. “We're the Marines—wherever we are, that makes it the sea,” he said. “What brings you fellows this way?"

"Business,” the smirker answered.

"What kind of business?"

"Car factory,” he said. “We packed it up in Spring Hill, Tennessee, a couple weeks ago, and we're driving it to California, where we'll put it on a ship to send to China."

"Don't they have their own crappy cars in China already?"

"Not enough, apparently,” the smirker said. “Not every place has it as bad as we do here, and this is the fastest, cheapest way to go. Mike here,” he patted the driver on the shoulder, making him flinch, “worked at the old factory."

"Uh-huh. And what's your job?” Mungus asked.

"I'm a lawyer, kind of a businessman. I put this deal together."

"A lawyer, huh? And since these are lawless times, you had to find other work.” Mungus squinted at the sun, looked down the length of idling trucks, licked dust off his lips. “There's not much out here in the way of refreshment, Mister Lawyer. Your drivers could each use a plate of cookies."

"Why exactly would we want cookies?"

"Oatmeal, it'll keep you regular,” Mungus said. “Also, we've got zucchini bread, nice and moist, and sweet potato pie that's better than your mom ever made. But mainly it helps out a good cause—yoo, ess, that's us. It's five thousand pesos a plate, one plate for every man in the convoy. We don't take dollars."

The lawyer nodded, as if he knew all this was coming. “Look, the same thing happened when we crossed the Mississippi and had to pay a toll. I understand, times are tough, you're all just doing what you need to do to get by. But maybe, and I mean no disrespect when I say this, but maybe you're in a little over your head."

"Am I?” Mungus said.

"So why don't you take me to the guy in charge of this outfit.” He had to shout to be heard above the roar of the wind, which gusted just then, casting a spray of dust through the open window. “Your general, whatever you call him, the guy with the rank insignia. He and I'll have a little talk, and you can keep your cookies."

"You want to talk to the leader of this outfit?"

"I promise, you'll be rewarded if I do."

Mungus jumped back off the sideboard, his boots kicking up a cloud of dust whisked instantly away. He stepped back from the truck, toward the road block. “Fine with me,” he shouted. “This way."

The lawyer pushed his door open and jumped down. He was wearing pink silk slacks and a cream-colored jacket over a white polo shirt. His shoes were some kind of braided leather sandal. He had a duffel bag in one hand, his other raised in a gesture of peace, as he followed Mungus. Snipers held rifles trained on his exposed head, and a corporal fell in behind him when he passed the barricade.

Keebler nervously rearranged his plates, pushing the pie to the front, as he watched them pass.

Mungus walked back to Sanders, on the downwind side of his command vehicle. “This gentleman claims to be a lawyer, traveling west on business. Wants to speak to our leader."

Sanders looked from Mungus to the lawyer and back again, his expression flat. “All right."

The lawyer came forward, hand extended. “I didn't catch your name, but still, I'm pleased to meet you. Is there someplace we can speak privately?"

Sanders slipped his hands into his pockets and stared at the outstretched offer of a shake. He tilted his head toward Mungus. “He's the one to ask."

"Excuse me?” the lawyer said.

"Captain Dave A. Mungus, commanding, Recon Company, remnant, U.S. Marines,” Mungus said. He grabbed the duffel bag from the lawyer and handed it to Sanders, who pulled it open and started going through it. “Let's get a few things straight now. First, you will talk to every man in my company as if they were me, because we are all equal. Anything you do or say to any one of them, I'll consider it done to me. Is that clear?"

"Look,” the lawyer said. “It's obvious there's been some kind of mistake—"

"Second, you will speak when spoken to, and until you are spoken to, you will keep your mouth shut. This is a military operation and you have no authority here. Is that clear?"

"Very,” the lawyer said. His face flushed a color that matched his pants and looked ready to burst.

"Third, whatever your business is, I don't care, it's not my business. You buy some cookies, we let you go on your way. It's that simple. But if you lie to me, or treat me like I'm stupid, then you become a hostile, and if you are hostile, I will take you apart and keep anything I want. Do I make myself clear, Mister Lawyer?"

"You do."

There was nothing subservient in his tone of voice, but Mungus was betting he had nothing to back up his overinflated sense of bravado.

"Good,” Mungus said. “Now so far, even though you've treated us rudely, we'll play fair with you, give you a chance to buy something you need—food—for something we need, which is cash, and we'll let you pass through."

"My bag contains a variety of small valuables,” the lawyer said. “I think we can barter, profitably, in place of money."

"It's Indian beads,” interjected Sanders, who was part Choctaw, and originally from Arklahoma, so he meant it more as a historical reference than a slur. “It's mostly junk, cheap electronics, games for kids. He's trying to buy Manhattan Island from us."

"That's not true—"

"Ah, ah, ah!” Mungus said, raising his hand. “Rule number two, you weren't asked to speak."

The lawyer squeezed his mouth shut. Sanders tossed the bag to the ground. “It's nothing we need. Or want."

Mungus nodded sadly as if this were to be expected. “Okay, Mister Lawyer, I'm going to give you exactly one lesson in how this is going to work. I tell you what to do, you say yes, and we have no problems. Clear?"

"As Waterford crystal."

Sanders snorted. Mungus grinned again at the guy's attitude. “I'll have to take your word on that,” he said. “Here goes the lesson. You look hungry to me. Are you hungry?"

"Yes,” the lawyer said through clenched teeth. “I feel a bit peckish."

Mungus opened his hands, as if to say this was also to be expected. “Since you like the idea of barter so much, you're going to offer to trade me that pair of sunglasses for a slice of Corporal Keebler's famous pie. I will graciously accept, and say thank you."

The lawyer stared straight at Mungus for a long moment, his expression hidden behind his glasses. Finally, he said, “I think I'd prefer the cookies."

"Then cookies you shall have. Keebler!"

The exchange was made, and the lawyer stood there blinking like a possum caught in daylight while Mungus slipped on the sunglasses and smiled at the sudden transformation of the landscape to a cooler blue.

Sanders took a message on the radio. “Wind's picking up, sir. Gusts to forty, fifty miles an hour."

As if to make his point, a tumbleweed bounced out of nowhere and climbed up Mungus's back, and over his head. He looked down the road and saw some of the convoy trucks, back in line, rocking in the wind.

The lawyer saw the same thing. “The factory's useless if we don't get it all there in one piece. You tell me what to do and we'll do it. Let's just hurry this up, so we can get on the road and reach someplace safe from this wind."

Mungus nodded. That was fair enough. “We're going to do an inspection of your trucks, make sure they're carrying what you say they're carrying. You get on your phone, call whoever you need to back there in the convoy, and tell them to come up with the money for passage."

That stopped the lawyer cold yet again. “Can't I go back there, talk to my people personally?"

"Nope, you're my guest right here until this whole process is done. But I give you my word as a Marine, we'll be quick about it, and as long as you're on the up-and-up with us, we won't damage anything or hurt anyone."

The lawyer stared straight into Mungus's shaded eyes. “What if we pay you half again as much in dollars, will that speed us through, at least our first few trucks?"

"Keep your dollars. You can use them when your oatmeal cookies come out the other end. Pesos only."

The lawyer braced himself against the wind, looked away from the dirt thrown constantly into his eyes. “Fine, fine, pesos. Can we just get to work?"

It was almost too easy, but then they were overdue for some luck, no matter what Sanders thought. Mungus leaned into the humvee and picked up the radio. “Lopez, redeploy your men forward for inspection of the trucks. We're looking for factory equipment and we need a headcount."

After he received the confirmation, he turned back to the lawyer.

"See, we're practically done,” he said. “By the way, there's a diesel tax I forgot to mention. We'll need to take a quarter of whatever you have in that tanker."

The rising wind made both communications and inspection difficult, a problem hampered by the fact that no one knew what they were looking at once they cracked open the trucks. An hour later, the lawyer was arguing with Mungus, saying they should let the first trucks pass through the roadblock as soon as they were cleared so they could head down the road to someplace more sheltered from the wind. They were interrupted by Lopez, who had his hair tied back in a faded red bandana because his hat kept blowing off.

"We've inspected four trucks,” Lopez reported as he pulled Mungus aside. He shouted at a level that made his throat raw. “Looks like a bunch of heavy equipment, could be factory parts, I can't tell. When have I ever seen a factory?"

"You sound like you're bothered by something?” Mungus said.

"You mean besides the sight of you in those pansyass sunglasses? Well, yeah, I'm bothered. The first truck looked about what I'd expect, and so did the second. But the third truck just looks like junk's thrown in it, and the fourth one, the stuff inside is arranged weird. We can't get all the way to the back. The driver keeps trying to tell us it's just big pieces of equipment, but....” He shrugged skeptically.

"Go look at the fifth truck and tell me what you find."

"Yes, sir,” he said, and left.

Sanders had listened in on the exchange. “I still don't like it,” he said.

"Maybe the lawyer's telling the truth,” Mungus countered. “It looks like junk ‘cause it is junk, just like their Indian beads. Their haul isn't worth much, there's no reason for anyone to steal it, so they came this way ‘cause it's the cheapest, fastest route. Just like he said."

"Maybe,” Sanders said, meaning no.

Mungus glanced over at the lawyer, who sat in a sheltered spot on the ground with his duffel bag on one side and his plate of untouched cookies in their recycled plastic wrap on the other. Sanders usually knew what he was about. It wouldn't hurt to trust him. “Okay,” he said. “You keep an eye on him. And make it the good one."

"All right,” Sanders said, relieved. “Now, the next thing is, we got a problem."

"What problem?"

"Wind's screwing up communications and everything else. We can't reach Talley at all, and Giuliani says he's got to pull back from the hilltops into shelter or the wind's going to tip his vehicles over."

"Tell Giuliani to redeploy the TOW guns where they can still do some good. He can bring the rest of his men in, have them report to Lopez, speed up the inspections."

"What about Talley?"

"He's a big boy, knows what he's doing.” As he said it, he glanced toward the horizon, but the wind was so strong now, it was impossible to see the dust kicked up by any vehicles.

"You say he knows what he's doing,” Sanders said, “even though you've tasted his chocolate brownies."

"Listen,” Mungus snapped, in no mood for jokes. “Let's be quick about this, do it right, then get back to base and hunker down till the storm blows out."

Sanders nodded and left. Mungus went over to the lawyer, who yanked his hand out of the duffel bag and nodded toward the flag that whipped back and forth atop the lead tank. “Why do you still fly that thing?” he asked. “There's no United States any more, nothing that resembles what that flag used to mean."

Mungus knew that was true, that the climate change, the home wars, the mass starvation followed by big migrations and the collapse of the old political structures, had wiped out not only the United States as a nation but had erased many of its monuments and most of its history. He knew it, but he didn't have to accept it.

"That flag stands for freedom and democracy, a tradition we carry on,” he said. He'd heard the same speech when he joined Recon, and he believed it more than ever. This was the only community he had, and it had to mean something. “The men in Recon are volunteers, free to come and go as long as they meet our standards and follow our rules. And our men elect their own officers so they never have to frag one. As long as there's one Marine alive somewhere, that flag means something."

"Tell that to Jim Elkins and his family,” the lawyer said. “All six of them dead out in the sun after some of your men siphoned all the gas from their truck. Or what about the eleven men you killed during that raid in Boulder and for what? A bunch of canned food and bottled water. Or what your men did to Deacon Scott's wife—"

"That's none of my men, not on my watch,” Mungus growled, even though he knew full well that people got killed sometimes. But there were limits, things they wouldn't do.

The lawyer looked past Mungus, down the road toward the tank and the row of trucks. “That flag hasn't meant anything but fear for most folks for a long time. You guys are nothing but pirates."

Mungus squeezed his jaw shut until the muscles in his neck hurt. Finally, he pointed toward the cookies. “You get something, we get something—that's not piracy. We have a code of honor, whether you believe we do or not."

"Cookies, right.” The lawyer slipped his hand under the plate. He smirked again, but it was kind of pathetic, Mungus thought, the best effort of a small-time smirker. “What's your motto, Semper pie?"

Whatever Mungus was going to say next to the lawyer, one of three or four things he was sure to regret later, it was interrupted by Private Chilusky, a new recruit out of Tulsa, from Lopez's platoon, a skin-and-bones teenager who was smarter than he looked. Chilusky ran back, panting, from the convoy and stood between Mungus and the lawyer. “Sir?"

"What is it?” Mungus shouted.

The wind carried away Chilusky's words and Mungus had to shout at him to repeat them.

"It's the tanker, sir."

"What about it?"

"The fuel's contaminated. As soon as we loaded our own fuel truck, I put some in my humvee because it was running on fumes. I went to drive off and it was dead."

Mungus looked down the road. His men were spread out along the whole length of the convoy now, a few near each truck. Over on the hillsides, his TOW missles were caught between one position and the next, useless for the moment. And one of his platoons was missing out in that mess of a wind. Suddenly, he had a very bad feeling about things. “Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir—I took a sample and tasted it.” He scrubbed his sleeve across his mouth. “It's not diesel, not much, maybe ethanol, but sweet as hell."

A gun fired only feet from Mungus's head and Chilusky threw himself to the ground. Mungus, recognizing it was only small caliber and had already missed him, spun around. Sanders had the lawyer in a chokehold, with his arm twisted back, his gun aimed up in the air. The plate that he had used to conceal the gun was spilled in the dirt.

Mungus shook his head. “Bad lawyer, no cookie."

But what did the lawyer hope to accomplish? Killing him wouldn't get his factory to California. Mungus snatched up the duffel bag, rummaged through it. A communicator, mercenary grade, disguised as a game unit, sat on top. He looked down the convoy and the realization hit him. It was a Trojan horse.

Leaping across the seat, he grabbed the radio and yelled into it. “Lopez, fall back, it's a trap! Giuliani, I want Predators aimed at those trucks now!"

On the road, through the swirling cloud of dust, he could see that everything was already chaos. Hidden panels popped off the sides of every truck, vomiting soldiers in full body armor—some commercial outfit, probably hired with rebel money. Ramps dropped off the trucks at the end of the line, spitting out the first of hundreds of soldiers, some with anti-tank guns, others on dee-pee-vees mounted with light machine guns.

Mungus pulled the shotgun from its holster on his back and put it at the back of the lawyer's head, and for the first time, the smirk slipped completely off the lawyer's face. Mungus waited just long enough for Sanders to duck out of the way before he squeezed the trigger.

Sniper fire was falling from the hillsides like the patter of rain as Lopez pulled his men back. The last two trucks in line, only half empty of men, exploded, one whump after another, as grenades hit them.

Slinging the shotgun back over his shoulder, Mungus cried, “Ooh-rah!"

He grinned as the shout came back to him from men running to the fight. Sanders stood beside him, frowning at the lawyer's corpse. “You think he really was a lawyer?"

"He was a liar,” Mungus said. “And I hate liars. That bothers me more than him trying to kill me."

Sanders ducked as bullets whistled overhead. They mixed in with the sound of the wind whistling over their equipment. The truck at the front of the convoy exploded, cab then trailer, whump whump, and Mungus spread his legs to ride the ground as it rocked beneath him. Debris pelted down around them, and out of the dust, a group of hostiles, mounted on small, fast dirtbikes, supported by the two pickups, roared straight toward them.

"If it weren't for bad luck,” Mungus muttered, and then there was no time left to say he'd have no luck at all: he pumped the shotgun and shot at the lead rider, missing, before he had to dive for cover behind their humvee. Fortunately, Sanders was there to lay down suppressing fire and the attack veered off as soon as they saw the lawyer's body—in that outfit, he was unmistakable, even with the mess that had been his head.

"We're in for it now,” Sanders grumbled.

Mungus grabbed the rifle from him and popped up to take a shot at the nearest hostile. “Just let me shoot one son of a bitch in his semper piehole first."

Sanders dragged him toward a culvert beside the road and after that they engaged in a strategic retreat toward Giuliani's forces on the hillside. When they finally found Giuliani, Mungus yelled at him to deploy the LAVs.

"Can't risk it,” Giuliani said. “They've got the guns to take them out and we may need them to withdraw. I had the snipers take down a few trucks with high explosive rounds on the grenade launchers, but we're out of those rounds."

"Shit,” Mungus said. He grabbed Giuliani's radio. “Talley, report in now! Where the fuck are you?"

The answer was slow to come, and when it crackled back, there was gunfire in the background. “We're a little busy."

"We need the fucking cavalry!"

"No, you need us to keep their armored units from pinning you up against their trucks. Out!"

"Shit.” Mungus said again. “Hey, Guns, can I ask you something?"

Giuliani was grabbing men by the collar and throwing them down the hill to cut off a group of hostiles that was trying to flank their position. “What?"

"Do you think we're pirates?"

An enemy shell hit close enough to make them all duck as dirt and rocks rained on them. Giuliani tugged his helmet down on his head and glared at Mungus as if he were crazy. Mungus nodded to Sanders and they circled the hillside firing over the ridge at the enemy below. From here, he could see the enemy's plan: if they'd passed even a few trucks through the roadblock, they would've been able to get Mungus's men in a crossfire. With a little luck, they might have taken a lot of them down in the first volley and then mopped up in the confusion afterward. If they also had light armored units coming cross-country to outflank them and pin them from behind, it could have been very bad. Thank God for Talley.

He moved to a hilltop and pulled out his binoculars for a better view. Lopez's men had fallen back just soon enough to nail some enemy troops against their trucks when they busted out. He was taking heavy fire, but they weren't being pushed back from their position on the far side of the highway. Meanwhile, the enemy that took cover on this side of their trucks were exposed to Giuliani's snipers. A few isolated groups had already thrown down their weapons and surrendered.

Mungus ran, low to the ground, and climbed into one of the LAVs where he ordered the driver to a spot so they could fire on a group of enemy mobile units and drive them toward the riverbed. When the first motorcycle sprinting down the riverbed hit a mine and exploded, Mungus yelled out to anyone who would listen, “Push! Push them into the river!"

But his men already had the right idea, and as the enemy funneled into the twisting riverbed, looking for cover and a quick road out of the firefight so they could regroup, they ran smack into two more mines before they realized it was a trap and bunched up with nowhere to go.

Mungus took Sanders and started circling the field, ordering his men to press hard, before the enemy could reorganize or develop a new strategy. But his men had things under control—in places, they were already stripping the enemy of their weapons and plastic-cuffing them. Shooting anyone who balked at a command made the rest of them compliant.

"You know,” Sanders said, as they headed back toward their own vehicle, “the original pirates were an offshoot of the Knights Templar, after they were disbanded. The jolly roger flag, the pirate code, all that stuff came from the Templars and the shipping industry that they created for the crusades. So the pirates started out as part of a trained military, and then they adapted to circumstances as the existing socio-political structure collapsed."

"I don't really care what that liar called us,” Mungus said.

"No, of course not.” Sanders scratched at his bandaged eye, pressing the loose adhesive tape back onto his sweaty cheek.

They found Lopez bloody and bare-headed, his red bandana tying off a wound to his left forearm. His platoon had taken the worst casualties, with three men killed, including Chilusky, which was a damn shame, and fourteen wounded. Two of those were iffy to make it, medical care being what it was. But he was in a jubilant mood. “You can't believe the ordnance, Captain! We captured thousands of fifty caliber rounds. Thousands."

With Sanders hanging over his shoulder, Mungus couldn't ask Lopez about the piracy thing. No matter how much Mungus hated to lose anyone, equipment and ordnance were much harder to replace than men, so he congratulated Lopez and asked for a full report, then he went and visited the wounded in the first aid unit they set up in the old rest stop, where the tile floors made it feel a little like a hospital.

Talley was the last to report in, hours later, near dark. An old man, past sixty, he never hurried when he didn't have to. “Sorry for the radio silence, sir, but as soon as my scouts stumbled across their off-road units, I knew it was a trap."

"You couldn't send anyone back to tell us?” Mungus asked, more than a little pissed off.

"I knew you'd figure it out.” He twisted open a bottle of water and poured some over his head, sending rivulets of mud across his dusty cheeks. Talley was old school Marines, served before the collapse; he claimed to have been present at the very first Operation Bake Sale, when a military abandoned financially by their country tried to find some nominally honorable way to keep their unit together. On his uniform, he wore the insignia of the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion, a badge more than a hundred years old, dating back to the days of the United States. In the very center of the diamond-shaped badge, surrounded by some words in Latin, there was a skull and crossbones. It was the same design they had on the unit flag, which they flew beside the stars-and-stripes.

Talley saw Mungus staring at his insignia, looked down to see if something was wrong, and said, “What is it?"

Talley was one of the best men Mungus knew. There was no way Mungus was going to ask him about pirates. Instead, he turned his head and spat before he spoke, as if to get the taste of the word pirate out of his mouth.

"We're going to recruit some of the men who attacked us,” Mungus said. “Replenish our ranks so we can keep the unit going. We sent them marching down the highway. I thought a few miles over the desert might improve their decision-making ability. I'm going to send Keebler after them."

"That's a great idea,” Talley said. “I'll go along. Just let me get some of my chocolate brownies."

Jack Cady, F&SF, and Road Dog

By Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Jack Cady never looked like a stereotypical writer. He looked like a Pacific Northwest fisherman. He had an angular, weather-toughened face, which he accented with a beard but no mustache. His deep voice was authoritative, but his eyes were always kind.

And he was patient—oh, so very patient.

He had to be. When he sent me “The Night We Buried Road Dog,” he walked into the middle of a battle zone. I, the thirty-two-year-old new editor of F&SF, and Edward L. Ferman, the magazine's former editor and the publisher who had hired me, were in the midst of a war.

I believe that novellas are the heart and soul of fantasy and science fiction at the short length. Ed didn't like novellas at all—partly (mostly) because they cost so much and took up so much space in the magazine. Jack Cady's “Road Dog,” which was how we referred to it in-house, was 30,000 words long—exactly half the length of an issue of the magazine.

I controlled content, but Ed controlled the purse strings. Every time I sent Ed a novella, I had to justify both the story's length and its quality. Fortunately, I had an excellent track record. I edited a novella line for Pulphouse Publishing, the hardcover press I'd helped found, and most of the novellas in that line had been nominated for the major awards in the field.

I had an eye, and I knew it.

But Ed had different priorities. If we were going to publish novellas (and he wasn't even certain of that), he wanted each novella to be worth the space it took in the magazine. In other words, it had to be better than every other story in the issue. Four to five times better, since it took the space of four to five stories. A novella from an unknown, like Jack Cady was in the sf field in those days, wouldn't sell magazines, and so wasn't worth the money.

Valid arguments all. I've made similar ones when I've worn a publisher's hat. But “Road Dog” was something special—and I knew it.

"Road Dog” was one of the first novellas I received at F&SF. I loved the story. Ed hated it. So he sat on it—for months—while I fired off letters explaining the situation to Jack Cady, who graciously allowed me to champion his story because he wanted it in the pages of F&SF.

Eventually, Ed gave up. He had learned over the course of our working relationship that I could outlast him. (He didn't know how many letters I wrote to brilliant writers, asking to hang onto their novellas for another month.)

"Road Dog” became the cover story for the January 1993 issue.

Then the buzz started.... “Road Dog,” reviewers said, was the story of the year. It won the Nebula and World Fantasy awards, among others (a few of them mainstream).

Fast forward to spring, 2008. Jack Cady—one of the kindest, most gentle souls I've ever met—is no longer with us. I haven't edited a word of someone else's fiction for more than eleven years.

Then Gordon Van Gelder, the publisher and editor of F&SF, sends me an email. Would I pick a story for the sixtieth anniversary that represented my tenure as editor?

Imagine my trepidation as I wrote back: Would “The Night We Buried Road Dog” work? I realize it's very, very long.

If Gordon had said no, I would have picked another story. A shorter story.... But Gordon didn't ask for another story. Instead, he said he had hoped I would pick “Road Dog.” He felt it best represented my years at F&SF.

He wanted “Road Dog” for the very reason I did. Quite frankly, I believe “Road Dog” is one of the best stories I've ever read, let alone had a small hand in.

How small was my hand? If I remember correctly, I never asked Jack for a revision. I'm not even sure the manuscript received much copyediting. All I did was recognize an excellent story and champion it before my publisher, whose considerations (money and space) differed from mine.

All of the credit for “Road Dog,” however, goes to Jack Cady. Not just for his spectacular writing, but also for his patience.

I miss Jack. He will never write another new story—and that's a cause for sadness.

But he wrote some spectacular stories during his all-too-brief career.

Fortunately, we can share my favorite right here. Those of you who are reading “Road Dog” for the first time, enjoy.... Those of you who read it more than fifteen years ago, read it again. It's one of those rare stories that gets better with age.

The Night We Buried Road Dog

by Jack Cady

Brother Jesse buried his ‘47 Hudson back in ‘61, and the roads got just that much more lonesome. Highway 2 across north Montana still wailed with engines as reservation cars blew past; and it lay like a tunnel of darkness before headlights of big rigs. Tandems pounded, and the smart crack of downshifts rapped across grassland as trucks swept past the bars at every crossroad. The state put up metal crosses to mark the sites of fatal accidents. Around the bars, those crosses sprouted like thickets.

That Hudson was named Miss Molly, and it logged 220,000 miles while never burning a clutch. Through the years, it wore into the respectable look that comes to old machinery. It was rough as a cob, cracked glass on one side, and primer over dents. It had the tough-and-ready look of a hunting hound about its business. I was a good deal younger then, but not so young that I was fearless. The burial had something to do with mystery, and Brother Jesse did his burying at midnight.

Through fluke or foresight, Brother Jesse had got hold of eighty acres of rangeland that wasn't worth a shake. There wasn't enough of it to run stock, and you couldn't raise anything on it except a little hell. Jesse stuck an old house trailer out there, stacked hay around it for insulation in Montana winters, and hauled in just enough water to suit him. By the time his Hudson died, he was ready to go into trade.

"Jed,” he told me the night of the burial, “I'm gonna make myself some history, despite this damn Democrat administration.” Over beside the house trailer, the Hudson sat looking like it was about ready to get off the mark in a road race, but the poor thing was a goner. Moonlight sprang from between spring clouds, and to the westward the peaks of mountains glowed from snow and moonlight. Along Highway 2, some hot rock wound second gear on an old flathead Ford. You could hear the valves begin to float.

"Some little darlin’ done stepped on that boy's balls,” Jesse said about the driver. “I reckon that's why he's looking for a ditch.” Jesse sighed and sounded sad. “At least we got a nice night. I couldn't stand a winter funeral."

"Road Dog?” I said about the driver of the Ford, which shows just how young I was at the time.

"It ain't The Dog,” Jesse told me. “The Dog's a damn survivor."

You never knew where Brother Jesse got his stuff, and you never really knew if he was anybody's brother. The only time I asked, he said, “I come from a close-knit family such as your own,” and that made no sense. My own father died when I was twelve, and my mother married again when I turned seventeen. She picked up and moved to Wisconsin.

No one even knew when, or how, Jesse got to Montana territory. We just looked up one day, and there he was, as natural as if he'd always been here, and maybe he always had.

His eighty acres began to fill up. Old printing presses stood gap-mouthed like spinsters holding conversation. A salvaged greenhouse served for storing dog food, engine parts, chromium hair dryers from 1930s beauty shops, dime-store pottery, blades for hay cutters, binder twine, an old gas-powered crosscut saw, seats from a school bus, and a bunch of other stuff not near as useful.

A couple of tabbies lived in that greenhouse, but the Big Cat stood outside. It was an old D6 bulldozer with a shovel, and Jesse stoked it up from time to time. Mostly it just sat there. In summers, it provided shade for Jesse's dogs: Potato was brown and fat and not too bright, while Chip was little and fuzzy. Sometimes they rode with Jesse, and sometimes stayed home. Me or Mike Tarbush fed them. When anything big happened, you could count on those two dogs to get underfoot. Except for me, they were the only ones who attended the funeral.

"If we gotta do it,” Jesse said mournfully, “we gotta.” He wound up the Cat, turned on the headlights, and headed for the grave site, which was an embankment overlooking Highway 2. Back in those days, Jesse's hair still shone black, and it was even blacker in the darkness. It dangled around a face that carried an Indian forehead and a Scotsman's nose. Denim stretched across most of the six feet of him, and he wasn't rangy; he was thin. He had feet to match his height, and his hands seemed bigger than his feet; but the man could skin a Cat.

I stood in moonlight and watched him work. A little puff of flame dwelt in the stack of the bulldozer. It flashed against the darkness of those distant mountains. It burbled hot in the cold spring moonlight. Jesse made rough cuts pretty quick, moved a lot of soil, then started getting delicate. He shaped and reshaped that grave. He carved a little from one side, backed the dozer, found his cut not satisfactory. He took a spoonful of earth to straighten things, then fussed with the grade leading into the grave. You could tell he wanted a slight elevation, so the Hudson's nose would be sniffing toward the road. Old Potato dog had a hound's ears but not a hound's good sense. He started baying at the moon.

It came to me that I was scared. Then it came to me that I was scared most of the time anyway. I was nineteen, and folks talked about having a war across the sea. I didn't want to hear about it. On top of the war talk, women were driving me crazy: the ones who said “no” and the ones who said “yes.” It got downright mystifying just trying to figure out which was worse. At nineteen, it's hard to know how to act. There were whole weeks when I could pass myself off as a hellion, then something would go sour. I'd get hit by a streak of conscience and start acting like a missionary.

"Jed,” Jesse told me from the seat of the dozer, “go rig a tow on Miss Molly.” In the headlights the grave now looked like a garage dug into the side of that little slope. Brother Jesse eased the Cat back in there to fuss with the grade. I stepped slow toward the Hudson, wiggled under, and fetched the towing cable around the frame. Potato howled. Chip danced like a fuzzy fury, and started chewing on my boot like he was trying to drag me from under the Hudson. I was on my back trying to kick Chip away and secure the cable. Then I like to died from fright.

Nothing else in the world sounds anywhere near like a Hudson starter. It's a combination of whine and clatter and growl. If I'd been dead a thousand years, you could stand me right up with a Hudson starter. There's threat in that sound. There's also the promise that things can get pretty rowdy, pretty quick.

The starter went off. The Hudson jiggled. In the one-half second it took to get from under that car, I thought of every bad thing I ever did in my life. I was headed for Hell, certain sure. By the time I was on my feet, there wasn't an ounce of blood showing anywhere on me. When the old folks say “white as a sheet,” they're talking about a guy under a Hudson.

Brother Jesse climbed from the Cat and gave me a couple of shakes.

"She ain't dead,” I stuttered. “The engine turned over. Miss Molly's still thinking speedy.” From Highway 2 came the wail of Mike Tarbush's ‘48 Roadmaster. Mike loved and cussed that car. It always flattened out at around eighty.

"There's still some sap left in the batt'ry,” Jesse said about the Hudson. “You probably caused a short.” He dropped the cable around the hitch on the dozer. “Steer her,” he said.

The steering wheel still felt alive, despite what Jesse said. I crouched behind the wheel as the Hudson got dragged toward the grave. Its brakes locked twice, but the towing cable held. The locked brakes caused the car to sideslip. Each time, Jesse cussed. Cold spring moonlight made the shadowed grave look like a cave of darkness.

The Hudson bided its time. We got it lined up, then pushed it backward into the grave. The hunched front fenders spread beside the snarly grille. The front bumper was the only thing about that car that still showed clean and uncluttered. I could swear Miss Molly moved in the darkness of the grave, about to come charging onto Highway 2. Then she seemed to make some kind of decision, and sort of settled down. Jesse gave the eulogy.

"This here car never did nothing bad,” he said. “I must have seen a million crap crates, but this car wasn't one of them. She had a second gear like Hydra-Matic, and you could wind to seventy before you dropped to third. There wasn't no top end to her—at least I never had the guts to find it. This here was a hundred-mile-an-hour car on a bad night, and God knows what on a good'n.” From Highway 2, you could hear the purr of Matt Simons's ‘56 Dodge, five speeds, what with the overdrive, and Matt was scorching.

Potato howled long and mournful. Chip whined. Jesse scratched his head, trying to figure a way to end the eulogy. It came to him like a blessing. “I can't prove it,” he said, “'cause no one could. But I expect this car has passed The Road Dog maybe a couple of hundred times.” He made like he was going to cross himself, then remembered he was Methodist. “Rest in peace,” he said, and he said it with eyes full of tears. “There ain't that many who can comprehend The Dog.” He climbed back on the Cat and began to fill the grave.

Next day, Jesse mounded the grave with real care, He erected a marker, although the marker was more like a little signboard:

Montana roads are long and lonesome, and Highway 2 is lonesomest. You pick it up over on the Idaho border where the land is mountains. Bear and cougar still live pretty good, and beaver still build dams. The highway runs beside some pretty lakes. Canada is no more than a jump away; it hangs at your left shoulder when you're headed east.

And can you roll those mountains? Yes, yes. It's two-lane all the way across, and twisty in the hills. From Libby, you ride down to Kalispell, then pop back north. The hills last till the Blackfoot reservation. It's rangeland into Cut Bank, then to Havre. That's just about the center of the state.

Just let the engine howl from town to town. The road goes through a dozen, then swings south. And there you are at Glasgow and the river. By Wolf Point, you're in cropland, and it's flat from there until Chicago.

I almost hate to tell about this road, because easterners may want to come and visit. Then they'll do something dumb at a blind entry. The state will erect more metal crosses. Enough folks die up here already. And it's sure no place for rice grinders, or tacky Swedish station wagons, or high-priced German crap crates. This was always a V-8 road, and V-12 if you had ‘em. In the old, old days there were even a few V-16s up here. The top end on those things came when friction stripped the tires from too much speed.

Speed or not, brakes sure sounded as cars passed Miss Molly's grave. Pickup trucks fishtailed as men snapped them to the shoulder. The men would sit in their trucks for a minute, scratching their heads like they couldn't believe what they'd just seen. Then they'd climb from the truck, walk back to the grave, and read the marker. About half of them would start holding their sides. One guy even rolled around on the ground, he was laughing so much.

"These old boys are laughing now,” Brother Jesse told me, “but I predict a change in attitude. I reckon they'll come around before first snowfall."

With his car dead, Jesse had to find a set of wheels. He swapped an old hay rake and a gang of discs for a ‘49 Chevrolet.

"It wouldn't pull the doorknob off a cathouse,” he told me. “It's just to get around in while I shop."

The whole deal was going to take some time. Knowing Jesse, I figured he'd go through half a dozen trades before finding something comfortable. And I was right.

He first showed up in an old Packard hearse that once belonged to a funeral home in Billings. He'd swapped the Chev for the hearse, plus a gilt-covered coffin so gaudy it wouldn't fit anybody but a radio preacher. He swapped the hearse to Sam Winder, who aimed to use it for hunting trips. Sam's dogs wouldn't go anywhere near the thing. Sam opened all the windows and the back door, then took the hearse up to speed trying to blow out all the ghosts. The dogs still wouldn't go near it. Sam said, “To hell with it,” and pushed it into a ravine. Every rabbit and fox and varmint in that ravine came bailing out, and nobody has gone in there ever since.

Jesse traded the coffin to Old Man Jefferson, who parked the thing in his woodshed. Jefferson was supposed to be on his last legs, but figured he wasn't ever, never, going to die if his poor body knew it would be buried in that monstrosity. It worked for several years, too, until a bad winter came along, and he split it up for firewood. But we still remember him.

Jesse came out of those trades with a ‘47 Pontiac and a Model T. He sold the Model T to a collector, then traded the Pontiac and forty bales of hay for a ‘53 Studebaker. He swapped the Studebaker for a ratty pickup and all the equipment in a restaurant that went bust. He peddled the equipment to some other poor fellow who was hell-bent to go bust in the restaurant business. Then he traded the pickup for a motorcycle, plus a ‘51 Plymouth that would just about get out of its own way. By the time he peddled both of them, he had his pockets full of cash and was riding shanks’ mare.

"Jed,” he told me, “let's you and me go to the big city.” He was pretty happy, but I remembered how scared I'd been at the funeral. I admit to being skittish.

From the center of north Montana, there weren't a championship lot of big cities. West was Seattle, which was sort of rainy and mythological. North was Winnipeg, a cow town. South was Salt Lake City. To the east....

"The hell with it,” Brother Jesse said. “We'll go to Minneapolis."

It was about a thousand miles. Maybe fifteen hours, what with the roads. You could sail Montana and North Dakota, but those Minnesota cops were humorless.

I was shoving a sweet old ‘53 DeSoto. It had a good bit under the bonnet, but the suspension would make a grown man cry. It was a beautiful beast, though. Once you got up to speed, that front end would track like a cat. The upholstery was like brand-new. The radio worked. There wasn't a scratch or ding on it. I had myself a banker's car, and there I was, only nineteen.

"We may want to loiter,” Jesse told me. “Plan on a couple of overnights."

I had a job, but told myself that I was due for a vacation; and so screw it. Brother Jesse put down food for the tabbies and whistled up the dogs. Potato hopped into the back seat in his large, dumb way. He looked expectant. Chip sort of hesitated. He made a couple of jumps straight up, then backed down and started barking. Jesse scooped him up and shoved him in with old Potato dog.

"The upholstery,” I hollered. It was the first time I ever stood up to Jesse.

Jesse got an old piece of tarp to put under the dogs. “Pee, and you're a goner,” he told Potato.

We drove steady through the early-summer morning. The DeSoto hung in around eighty, which was no more than you'd want, considering the suspension. Rangeland gave way to cropland. The radio plugged away with western music, beef prices, and an occasional preacher saying, “Grace” and “Gimmie.” Highway 2 rolled straight ahead, sometimes rising gradual, so that cars appeared like rapid-running spooks out of the blind entries. There'd be a little flash of sunlight from a windshield. Then a car would appear over the rise, and usually it was wailing.

We came across a hell of a wreck just beyond Havre. A new Mercury station wagon rolled about fifteen times across the landscape. There were two nice-dressed people and two children. Not one of them ever stood a chance. They rattled like dice in a drum. I didn't want to see what I was looking at.

Bad wrecks always made me sick, but not sick to puking. That would not have been manly. I prayed for those people under my breath and got all shaky. We pulled into a crossroads bar for a sandwich and a beer. The dogs hopped out. Plenty of hubcaps were nailed on the wall of the bar. We took a couple of them down and filled them with water from an outside tap. The dogs drank and peed.

"I've attended a couple myself,” Brother Jesse said about the wreck. “Drove a Terraplane off a bridge back in ‘53. Damn near drownded.” Jesse wasn't about to admit to feeling bad. He just turned thoughtful.

"This here is a big territory,” he said to no one in particular, “But you can get across her if you hustle. I reckon that Merc was loaded wrong, or blew a tire.” Beyond the windows of the bar, eight metal crosses lined the highway. Somebody had tied red plastic roses on one of them. Another one had plastic violets and forget-me-nots.

We lingered a little. Jesse talked to the guy at the bar, and I ran a rack at the pool table. Then Jesse bought a six-pack while I headed for the can. Since it was still early in the day, the can was clean; all the last night's pee and spit mopped from the floor. Somebody had just painted the walls. There wasn't a thing written on them, except that Road Dog had signed in.

His script was spidery and perfect, like an artist who drew a signature. I touched the paint, and it was still tacky. We had missed The Dog by only a few minutes.

Road Dog was like Jesse in a way. Nobody could say exactly when he first showed up, but one day he was there. We started seeing the name “Road Dog” written in what Matt Simons called “a fine Spencerian hand.” There was always a message attached, and Matt called them “cryptic.” The signature and messages flashed from the walls of cans in bars, truck stops, and roadside cafés through four states.

We didn't know Road Dog's route at first. Most guys were tied to work or home or laziness. In a year or two, though, Road Dog's trail got mapped. His fine hand showed up all along Highway 2, trailed east into North Dakota, dropped south through South Dakota, then ran back west across Wyoming. He popped north through Missoula and climbed the state until he connected with Highway 2 again. Road Dog, whoever he was, ran a constant square of road that covered roughly two thousand miles.

Sam Winder claimed Road Dog was a Communist who taught social studies at U. of Montana. “Because,” Sam claimed, “that kind of writing comes from Europe. That writing ain't U.S.A."

Mike Tarbush figured Road Dog was a retired cartoonist from a newspaper. He figured nobody could spot The Dog because The Dog slipped past us in a Nash, or some other old-granny car.

Brother Jesse suggested that Road Dog was a truck driver, or maybe a gypsy, but sounded like he knew better.

Matt Simons supposed Road Dog was a traveling salesman with a flair for advertising. Matt based his notion on one of the cryptic messages:

I didn't figure anything, Road Dog stood in my imagination as the heart and soul of Highway 2. When night was deep and engines blazed, I could hang over the wheel and run down that tunnel of two-lane into the night.

The nighttime road is different than any other thing. Ghosts rise around the metal crosses, and ghosts hitchhike along the wide berm. All the mysteries of the world seem normal after dark. If imagination shows dead thumbs aching for a ride, those dead folk only prove the hot and spermy goodness of life. I'd overtake some taillights, grab the other lane, and blow doors off some party-goer who tried to stay out of the ditches. A man can sing and cuss and pray. The miles fill with dreams of power, and women, and happy, happy times.

Road Dog seemed part of that romance. He was the very soul of mystery, a guy who looked at the dark heart of the road and still flew free enough to make jokes and write that fine hand.

In daytime it was different, though. When I saw Road Dog signed in on the wall of that can, it just seemed like a real bad sign.

The guy who owned the bar had seen no one. He claimed he'd been in the back room putting bottles in his cold case. The Dog had come and gone like a spirit.

Jesse and I stood in the parking lot outside the bar. Sunlight lay earthy and hot across the new crops. A little puff of dust rose from a side road. It advanced real slow, so you could tell it was a farm tractor. All around us meadowlarks and tanagers were whooping it up.

"We'll likely pass him,” Jesse said, “if we crowd a little.” Jesse pretended he didn't care, but anyone would. We loaded the dogs, and even hung the hubcaps back up where we got them, because it was what a gentleman would do. The DeSoto acted as eager as any DeSoto could. We pushed the top end, which was eighty-nine, and maybe ninety-two downhill. At that speed, brakes don't give you much, so you'd better trust your steering and your tires.

If we passed The Dog we didn't know it. He might have parked in one of the towns, and of course we dropped a lot of revs passing through towns, that being neighborly. What with a little loafing, some pee stops, and general fooling around, we did not hit Minneapolis until a little after midnight. When we checked into a motel on the strip, Potato was sleepy and grumpy. Chip looked relieved.

"Don't fall in love with that bed,” Jesse told me. “Some damn salesman is out there waitin’ to do us in. It pays to start early."

Car shopping with Jesse turned out as fascinating as anybody could expect. At 7:00 a.m. we cruised the lots. Cars stood in silent rows like advertising men lined up for group pictures. It being Minneapolis, we saw a lot of high-priced iron. Cadillacs and Packards and Lincolns sat beside Buick convertibles, hemi Chryslers, and Corvettes ("Nice Cars,” Jesse said about the Corvettes, “but no room to ‘em. You couldn't carry more than one sack of feed."). Hudsons and Studebakers hunched along the back rows. On one lot was something called “Classic Lane.” A Model A stood beside a ‘37 International pickup. A ‘29 Cord sat like a tombstone, which it was, because it had no engine. But, glory be, beside the Cord nestled a ‘39 LaSalle coupe just sparkling with threat. That LaSalle might have snookered Jesse, except something highly talented sat buried deep in the lot.

It was the last of the fast and elegant Lincolns, a ‘54 coupe as snarly as any man could want. The ‘53 model had taken the Mexican Road Race. The ‘54 was a refinement. After that the marque went downhill. It started building cars for businessmen and rich grannies.

Jesse walked round and round the Lincoln, which looked like it was used to being cherished. Matchless and scratchless, it was a little less than fire-engine red, with a white roof and a grille that could shrug off a cow. That Linc was a solid set of fixings. Jesse got soft lights in his eyes. This was no Miss Molly, but this was Miss somebody. There were a lot of crap crates running out there, but this Linc wasn't one of them.

"You prob'ly can't even get parts for the damn thing,” Jesse murmured, and you could tell he was already scrapping with a salesman. He turned his back on the Lincoln. “We'll catch a bite to eat,” he said. “This may take a couple days."

I felt sort of bubbly. “The Dog ain't gonna like this,” I told Jesse.

"The Dog is gonna love it,” he said. “Me and The Dog knows that road."

By the time the car lots opened at 9:00 a.m., Jesse had a trader's light in his eyes. About all that needs saying is that never before or since did I ever see a used-car salesman cry.

The poor fellow never had a chance. He stood in his car lot most of the day while me and Jesse went through every car lot on the strip. We waved to him from a sweet little ‘57 Cad, and we cruised past real smooth in a mama-san ‘56 Imperial. We kicked tires on anything sturdy while he was watching, and we never even got to his lot until fifteen minutes before closing. Jesse and I climbed from my DeSoto. Potato and Chip tailed after us.

"I always know when I get to Minneapolis,” Jesse said to me, but loud enough the salesman could just about hear. “My woman wants to lay a farmer, and my dogs start pukin'.” When we got within easy hearing range, Jesse's voice got humble. “I expect this fella can help a cowboy in a fix."

I followed, experiencing considerable admiration. In two sentences, Jesse had his man confused.

Potato was dumb enough that he trotted right up to the Lincoln. Chip sat and panted, pretending indifference. Then he ambled over to a ragged-out Pontiac and peed on the tire. “I must be missing something,” Jesse said to the salesman, “because that dog has himself a dandy nose.” He looked at the Pontiac. “This thing got an engine?"

We all conversed for the best part of an hour. Jesse refused to even look at the Lincoln. He sounded real serious about the LaSalle, to the point of running it around a couple of blocks. It was a darling. It had ceramic-covered manifolds to protect against heat and rust. It packed a long-stroke V-8 with enough torque to bite rubber in second gear. My DeSoto was a pretty thing, but until that LaSalle I never realized that my car was a total pussycat. When we left the lot, the salesman looked sad. He was late for supper.

"Stay with what you've got,” Jesse told me as he climbed in my DeSoto. “The clock has run out on that LaSalle. Let a collector have it. I hate it when something good dies for lack of parts."

I wondered if he was thinking of Miss Molly.

"Because,” Jesse said, and kicked the tire on a silly little Volkswagen, “the great, good cars are dying. I blame it on the Germans."

Next day we bought the Lincoln and made the salesman feel like one proud pup. He figured he foisted something off on Jesse that Jesse didn't want. He was so stuck on himself that be forgot that he had asked a thousand dollars, and come away with $550. He even forgot that his eyes were swollen, and that maybe he crapped his pants.

We went for a test drive, but only after Jesse and I crawled around under the Linc. A little body lead lumped in the left rear fender, but the front end stood sound. Nobody had pumped any sawdust into the differential. We found no water in the oil, or oil in the water. The salesman stood around, admiring his shoeshine. He was one of those easterners who can't help talking down to people, especially when he's trying to be nice. I swear he wore a white tie with little red ducks on it. That Minnesota sunlight made his red hair blond and his face pop with freckles.

Jesse drove real quiet until he found an interesting stretch of road. The salesman sat beside him. Me and Potato and Chip hunkered in the backseat. Chip looked sort of nauseated, but Potato was pretty happy.

"I'm afraid,” Jesse said, regretful, “that this thing is gonna turn out to be a howler. A fella gets a few years on him, and he don't want a screamy car.” Brother Jesse couldn't have been much more than thirty, but he tugged on his nose and ears like he was ancient. “I sure hope,” he said, real mournful, “that nobody stuck a boot in any of these here tires.” Then he poured on some coal.

There was a most satisfying screech. That Linc took out like a roadrunner in heat. The salesman's head snapped backward, and his shoulders dug into the seat. Potato gave a happy, happy woof and stuck his nose out the open window. I felt like yelling, “Hosanna,” but knew enough to keep my big mouth shut. The Linc shrugged off a couple of cars that were conservatively motoring. It wheeled past a hay truck as the tires started humming. The salesman's freckles began to stand up like warts while the airstream howled. Old Potato kept his nose sticking through the open window, and the wind kept drying it. Potato was so damn dumb he tried to lick it wet while his nose stayed in the airstream. His tongue blew sideways.

"It ain't nothing but speed,” Jesse complained. “Look at this here steering.” He joggled the wheel considerable, which at ninety got even more considerable. The salesman's tie blew straight backward. The little red ducks matched his freckles. “Jee-sus-Chee-sus,” he said. “Eight hundred, and slow down.” He braced himself against the dash.

When it hit the century mark, the Linc developed a little float in the front end. I expect all of us were thinking about the tires.

You could tell Jesse was jubilant, The Linc still had some pedal left.

"I'm gettin’ old,” Jesse hollered above the wind. “This ain't no car for an old man."

"Seven hundred,” the salesman said. “And Mother of God, slow it down."

"Five-fifty,” Jesse told him, and dug the pedal down one more notch.

"You got it,” the salesman hollered. His face twisted up real teary. Then Potato got all grateful and started licking the guy on the back of the neck.

So Jesse cut the speed and bought the Linc. He did it diplomatic, pretending he was sorry he'd made the offer. That was kind of him. After all, the guy was nothing but a used-car salesman.

We did a second night in that motel. The Linc and DeSoto sat in an all-night filling station. Lube, oil change, and wash, because we were riding high. Jesse had a heap of money left over. In the morning, we got new jeans and shirts, so as to ride along like gentlemen.

"We'll go back through South Dakota,” Jesse told me. “There's a place I've heard about."

"What are we looking for?"

"We're checking on The Dog,” Jesse told me, and would say no more.

We eased west to Bowman, just under the North Dakota line. Jesse sort of leaned into it, just taking joy from the whole occasion. I followed along as best the DeSoto could. Potato rode with Jesse, and Chip sat on the front seat beside me. Chip seemed rather easier in his mind.

A roadside café hunkered among tall trees. It didn't even have a neon sign. Real old-fashioned.

"I heard of this place all my life,” Jesse said as he climbed from the Linc. “This here is the only outhouse in the world with a guest registry.” He headed toward the rear of the café.

I tailed along, and Jesse, he was right. It was a palatial privy built like a little cottage. The men's side was a three-holer. There was enough room for a stand-up desk. On the desk was one of those old-fashioned business ledgers like you used to see in banks.

"They're supposed to have a slew of these inside,” Jesse said about the register as he flipped pages. “All the way back to the early days."

Some spirit of politeness seemed to take over when you picked up that register. There was hardly any bad talk. I read a few entries:

Brother Jesse flipped through the pages. “I'm even told,” he said, “that Teddy Roosevelt crapped here. This is a fine old place.” He sort of hummed as he flipped. “Uh, huh,” he said, “The Dog done made his pee spot.” He pointed to a page:

Jesse just grinned. “He's sorta upping the ante, ain't he? You reckon this is getting serious?” Jesse acted like he knew what he was talking about, but I sure didn't.

We didn't know, as we headed home, that Jesse's graveyard business was about to take off. That wouldn't change him, though. He'd almost always had a hundred dollars in his jeans anyway, and was usually a happy man. What changed him was Road Dog and Miss Molly.

The trouble started a while after we crossed the Montana line. Jesse ran ahead in the Lincoln, and I tagged behind in my DeSoto. We drove Highway 2 into a western sunset. It was one of those magic summers where rain sweeps in from British Columbia just regular enough to keep things growing. Rabbits get fat and foolish, and foxes put on weight. Rattlesnakes come out of ditches to cross the sun-hot road. It's not sporting to run over their middles. You have to take them in the head. Redwings perch on fence posts, and magpies flash black and white from the berm, where they scavenge road kills.

We saw a hell of a wreck just after Wolf Point. A guy in an old Kaiser came over the back of a rise and ran under a tanker truck that burned. Smoke rose black as a plume of crows, and we saw it five miles away. By the time we got there, the truck driver stood in the middle of the road, all white and shaking. The guy in the Kaiser sat behind the wheel. It was fearful to see how fast fire can work, and just terrifying to see bones hanging over a steering wheel. I remember thinking the guy no doubt died before any fire started, and we were feeling more than he was.

That didn't help. I said a prayer under my breath. The truck driver wasn't to blame, but he took it hard as a Presbyterian. Jesse tried to comfort him, without much luck. The road melted and stank and began to burn. Nobody was drinking, but it was certain sure we were all more sober than we'd ever been in our lives. Two deputies showed up. Cars drifted in easy, because of the smoke. In a couple of hours there were probably twenty cars lined up on either side of the wreck.

"He must of been asleep or drunk,” Jesse said about the driver of the Kaiser. “How in hell can a man run under a tanker truck?"

When the cops reopened the road, night hovered over the plains. Nobody cared to run much over sixty, even beneath a bright moon. It seemed like a night to be superstitious, a night when there was a deer or pronghorn out there just ready to jump into your headlights. It wasn't a good night to drink, or shoot pool, or mess around in strange bars. It was a time for being home with your woman, if you had one.

On most nights, ghosts do not show up beside the metal crosses, and they sure don't show up in owl light. Ghosts stand out on the darkest, moonless nights, and only then when bars are closed and the only thing open is the road.

I never gave it a thought. I chased Jesse's taillights, which on that Lincoln were broad, up-and-down slashes in the dark. Chip sat beside me, sad and solemn. I rubbed his ears to perk him, but he just laid down and snuffled. Chip was sensitive. He knew I felt bad over that wreck.

The first ghost showed up on the left berm and fizzled before the headlights. It was a lady ghost, and a pretty old one, judging from her long white hair and long white dress. She flicked on and off in just a flash, so maybe it was a road dream. Chip was so depressed he didn't even notice, and Jesse didn't, either. His steering and his brakes didn't wave to me.

Everything stayed straight for another ten miles, then a whole peck of ghosts stood on the right berm. A bundle of crosses shone all silvery white in the headlights. The ghosts melted into each other. You couldn't tell how many, but you could tell they were expectant. They looked like people lined up for a picture show. Jesse never gave a sign he saw them. I told myself to get straight. We hadn't had much sleep in the past two nights, and did some drinking the night before. We'd rolled near two thousand miles.

Admonishing seemed to work. Another twenty minutes passed, maybe thirty, and nothing happened. Wind chased through the open windows of the DeSoto, and the radio gave mostly static. I kicked off my boots because that helps you stay awake, the bottoms of the feet being sensitive. Then a single ghost showed up on the right-hand berm, and boy-howdy.

Why anybody would laugh while being dead has got to be a puzzle. This ghost was tall, with Indian hair like Jesse's, and I could swear he looked like Jesse, the spitting image. This ghost was jolly. He clapped his hands and danced. Then he gave me the old road sign for “roll ‘em,” his hand circling in the air as he danced. The headlights penetrated him, showed tall grass solid at the roadside, and instead of legs he stood on a column of mist. Still, he was dancing.

It wasn't road dreams. It was hallucination. The nighttime road just fills with things seen or partly seen. When too much scary stuff happens, it's time to pull her over.

I couldn't do it, though. Suppose I pulled over, and suppose it wasn't hallucination? I recall thinking that a man don't ordinarily care for preachers until he needs one. It seemed like me and Jesse were riding through the Book of Revelations. I dropped my speed, then flicked my lights a couple times. Jesse paid it no attention, and then Chip got peculiar.

He didn't bark; he chirped. He stood up on the front seat, looking out the back window, and his paws trembled. He shivered, chirped, shivered, and went chirp, chirp, chirp. Headlights in back of us were closing fast.

I've been closed on plenty of times by guys looking for a ditch. Headlights have jumped out of night and fog and mist when nobody should be pushing forty. I've been overtaken by drunks and suiciders. No set of headlights ever came as fast as the ones that began to wink in the mirrors. This Highway 2 is a quick, quick road, but it's not the salt flats of Utah. The crazy man behind me was trying to set a new land speed record.

Never confuse an idiot. I stayed off the brakes and coasted, taking off speed and signaling my way onto the berm. The racer could have my share of the road. I didn't want any part of that boy's troubles. Jesse kept pulling away as I slowed. It seemed like he didn't even see the lights. Chip chirped, then sort of rolled down on the floorboards and cried.

For ninety seconds, I feared being dead. For one second, I figured it already happened. Wind banged the DeSoto sideways. Wind whooped, the way it does in winter. The headlights blew past. What showed was the curve of a Hudson fender—the kind of curve you'd recognize if you'd been dead a million years—and what showed was the little, squinchy shapes of a Hudson's taillights; and what showed was the slanty doorpost like a nail running kitty-corner; and what showed was slivers of reflection from cracked glass on the rider's side; and what sounded was the drumbeat of a straight-eight engine whanging like a locomotive gone wild; the thrump, bumpa, thrum of a crankshaft whipping in its bed. The slaunch-forward form of Miss Molly wailed, and showers of sparks blew from the tailpipe as Miss Molly rocketed.

Chip was not the only one howling. My voice rose high as the howl of Miss Molly. We all sang it out together, while Jesse cruised three, maybe four miles ahead. It wasn't two minutes before Miss Molly swept past that Linc like it was foundationed in cement. Sparks showered like the Fourth of July, and Jesse's brake lights looked pale beside the fireworks. The Linc staggered against wind as Jesse headed for the berm. Wind smashed against my DeSoto.

Miss Molly's taillights danced as she did a jig up the road, and then they winked into darkness as Miss Molly topped a rise, or disappeared. The night went darker than dark. A cloud scudded out of nowhere and blocked the moon.

Alongside the road the dancing ghost showed up in my headlights, and I could swear it was Jesse. He laughed like at a good joke, but he gave the old road sign for “slow it down,” his hand palm down like he was patting an invisible pup. It seemed sound advice, and I blamed near liked him. After Miss Molly, a happy ghost seemed downright companionable.

"Shitfire,” said Jesse, and that's all he said for the first five minutes after I pulled in behind him. I climbed from the DeSoto and walked to the Linc. Old Potato dog sprawled on the seat in a dead faint, and Jesse rubbed his ears trying to warm him back to consciousness. Jesse sat over the wheel like a man who had just met Jesus. His hand touched gentle on Potato's ears, and his voice sounded reverent. Brother Jesse's conversion wasn't going to last, but at the time it was just beautiful. He had the lights of salvation in his eyes, and his skinny shoulders weren't shaking too much. “I miss my c'har,” he muttered finally, and blinked. He wasn't going to cry if he could help. “She's trying to tell me something,” he whispered. “Let's find a bar. Miss Molly's in car heaven, certain sure."

We pulled away, found a bar, and parked. We drank some beer and slept across the car seats. Nobody wanted to go back on that road.

When we woke to a morning hot and clear, Potato's fur had turned white. It didn't seem to bother him much, but, for the rest of his life, he was a lot more thoughtful.

"Looks like mashed Potato,” Jesse said, but he wasn't talking a whole lot. We drove home like a couple of old ladies. Guys came scorching past, cussing at our granny speed. We figured they could get mad and stay mad, or get mad and get over it. We made it back to Jesse's place about two in the afternoon.

A couple of things happened quick. Jesse parked beside his house trailer, and the front end fell out of the Lincoln. The right side went down, thump, and the right front tire sagged. Jesse turned even whiter than me, and I was bloodless. We had posted over a hundred miles an hour in that thing. Somehow, when we crawled around underneath inspecting it, we missed something. My shoulders and legs shook so hard I could barely get out of the DeSoto. Chip was polite. He just yelped with happiness about being home, but he didn't trot across my lap as we climbed from the car.

Nobody could trust their legs. Jesse climbed out of the Linc and leaned against it. You could see him chewing over all the possibilities, then arriving at the only one that made sense. Some hammer mechanic bolted that front end together with no locknut, no cotter pin, no lock washer, no lock nothin'. He just wrenched down a plain old nut, and the nut worked loose.

"Miss Molly knew,” Jesse whispered. “That's what she was trying to tell.” He felt a lot better the minute he said it. Color came back to his face. He peered around the corner of the house trailer, looking toward Miss Molly's grave.

Mike Tarbush was over there with his ‘48 Roadmaster. Matt Simons stood beside him, and Matt's ‘56 Dodge sat beside the Roadmaster, looking smug; which that model Dodge always did.

"I figger,” Brother Jesse whispered, “that we should keep shut about last night. Word would just get around that we were alkies.” He pulled himself together, arranged his face like a horse trying to grin, and walked toward the Roadmaster.

Mike Tarbush was a man in mourning. He sat on the fat trunk of that Buick and gazed off toward the mountains. Mike wore extra large of everything, and still looked stout. He sported a thick red mustache to make up for his bald bead. From time to time he bragged about his criminal record, which amounted to three days in jail for assaulting a pool table. He threw it through a bar window.

Now his mustache drooped, and Mike seemed small inside his clothes. The hood of the Roadmaster gaped open. Under that hood things couldn't be worse. The poor thing had thrown a rod into the next county.

Jesse looked under the hood and tsked. “I know what you're going through,” he said to Mike. He kind of petted the Roadmaster. “I always figured Betty Lou would last a century. What happened?"

There's no call to tell about a grown man blubbering, and especially not one who can heave pool tables. Mike finally got straight enough to tell the story.

"We was chasing The Dog,” he said. “At least I think so. Three nights ago over to Kalispell. This Golden Hawk blew past me sittin'.” Mike watched the distant mountains like he'd seen a miracle, or else like he was expecting one to happen. “That sonovabitch shore can drive,” he whispered in disbelief. “Blown out by a damn Studebaker."

"But a very swift Studebaker,” Matt Simons said. Matt is as small as Mike is large, and Matt is educated. Even so, he's set his share of fence posts. He looks like an algebra teacher, but not as delicate.

"Betty Lou went on up past her flat spot,” Mike whispered. “She was tryin'. We had ninety on the clock, and The Dog left us sitting.” He patted the Roadmaster. “I reckon she died of a broken heart."

"We got three kinds of funerals,” Jesse said, and he was sympathetic. “We got the no-frills type, the regular type, and the extra special. The extra special comes with flowers.” He said it with a straight face, and Mike took it that way. He bought the extra special, and that was sixty-five dollars.

Mike put up a nice marker:

Brother Jesse worked on the Lincoln until the front end tracked rock solid. He named it Sue Ellen, but not Miss Sue Ellen, there being no way to know if Miss Molly was jealous. When we examined Miss Molly's grave, the soil seemed rumpled. Wildflowers, which Jesse sowed on the grave, bloomed in midsummer. I couldn't get it out of my head that Miss Molly was still alive, and maybe Jesse couldn't either.

Jesse explained about the Lincoln's name. “Sue Ellen is a lady I knew in Pocatello. I expect she misses me.” He said it hopeful, like he didn't really believe it.

It looked to me like Jesse was brooding. Night usually found him in town, but sometimes he disappeared. When he was around, he drove real calm and always got home before midnight. The wildness hadn't come out of Jesse, but he had it on a tight rein. He claimed he dreamed of Miss Molly. Jesse was working something out.

And so was I, awake or dreaming. Thoughts of The Road Dog filled my nights, and so did thoughts of the dancing ghost. As summer deepened, restlessness took me wailing under moonlight. The road unreeled before my headlights like a magic line that pointed to places under a warm sun where ladies laughed and fell in love. Something went wrong, though. During that summer the ladies stopped being dreams and became only imagination. When I told Jesse, he claimed I was just growing up. I wished for once Jesse was wrong. I wished for a lot of things, and one of the wishes came true. It was Mike Tarbush, not me, who got in the next tangle with Miss Molly.

Mike rode in from Billings, where he'd been car shopping. He showed up at Jesse's place on Sunday afternoon. Montana lay restful. Birds hunkered on wires, or called from high grass. Highway 2 ran watery with sunlight, deserted as a road ever could be. When Mike rolled a ‘56 Merc up beside the Linc, it looked like Old Home Week at a Ford dealership.

"I got to look at something,” Mike said when be climbed from the Mercury. He sort of plodded over to Miss Molly's grave and hovered. Light breezes blew the wildflowers sideways. Mike looked like a bear trying to shake confusion from its head. He walked to the Roadmaster's grave. New grass sprouted reddish green. “I was sober,” Mike said. “Most Saturday nights, maybe I ain't, but I was sober as a deputy."

For a while nobody said anything. Potato sat glowing and white and thoughtful. Chip slept in the sun beside one of the tabbies. Then Chip woke up. He turned around three times and dashed to hide under the bulldozer.

"Now, tell me I ain't crazy,” Mike said. He perched on the front fender of the Merc, which was blue and white and adventuresome. “Name of Judith,” he said about the Merc. “A real lady.” He swabbed sweat from his bald head. “I got blown out by Betty Lou and Miss Molly. That sound reasonable?” He swabbed some more sweat and looked at the graves, which looked like little speed bumps on the prairie. “Nope,” be answered himself, “that don't sound reasonable a-tall."

"Something's wrong with your Mercury,” Jesse said, real quiet. “You got a bad tire, or a hydraulic line about to blow, or something screwy in the steering."

He made Mike swear not to breathe a word. Then he told about Miss Molly and about the front end of the Lincoln. When the story got over, Mike looked like a halfback hit by a twelve-man line.

"Don't drive another inch,” Jesse said. “Not until we find what's wrong."

"That car already cracked a hundred,” Mike whispered. “I bought it special to chase one sumbitch in a Studebaker.” He looked toward Betty Lou's grave. “The Dog did that."

The three of us went through that Merc like men panning gold. The trouble was so obvious we missed it for two hours while the engine cooled. Then Jesse caught it. The fuel filter rubbed its underside against the valve cover. When Jesse touched it, the filter collapsed. Gasoline spilled on the engine and the spark plugs. That Merc was getting set to catch on fire.

"I got to wonder if The Dog did it,” Jesse said about Betty Lou after Mike drove away. “I wonder if The Road Dog is the Studebaker type."

Nights started to get serious, but any lonesomeness on that road was only in a man's head. As summer stretched past its longest days, and sunsets started earlier, ghosts rose beside crosses before daylight hardly left the land. We drove to work and back, drove to town and back. My job was steady at a filling station, but it asked day after day of the same old thing. We never did any serious wrenching; no engine rebuilds or transmissions, just tune-ups and flat tires. I dearly wanted to meet a nice lady, but no woman in her right mind would mess with a pump jockey.

Nights were different, though. I figured I was going crazy, and Jesse and Mike were worse. Jesse finally got his situation worked out. He claimed Miss Molly was protecting him. Jesse and Mike took the Linc and the Merc on long runs, just wringing the howl out of those cars. Some nights, they'd flash past me at speed no sane man would try in darkness. Jesse was never a real big drinker, and Mike stopped altogether. They were too busy playing road games. It got so the state cop never tried to chase them. He just dropped past Jesse's place next day and passed out tickets.

The dancing ghost danced in my dreams, both asleep and driving. When daylight left the land, I passed metal crosses and remembered some of the wrecks.

Three crosses stood on one side of the railroad track, and four crosses on the other side. The three happened when some Canadian cowboys lost a race with a train. It was too awful to remember, but on most nights those guys stood looking down the tracks with startled eyes.

The four crosses happened when one-third of the senior class of ‘59 hit that grade too fast on prom night. They rolled a damned old Chevrolet. More bodies by Fisher. Now the two girls stood in their long dresses, looking wistful. The two boys pretended that none of it meant nothin'.

Farther out the road, things had happened before my time. An Indian ghost most often stood beside the ghost of a deer. In another place a chubby old rancher looked real picky and angry.

The dancing ghost continued unpredictable. All the other ghosts stood beside their crosses, but the dancing ghost showed up anywhere he wanted, anytime he wanted. I'd slow the DeSoto as he came into my lights, and he was the spitting image of Jesse.

"I don't want to hear about it,” Jesse said when I tried to tell him. “I'm on a roll. I'm even gettin’ famous."

He was right about that. People up and down the line joked about Jesse and his graveyard business.

"It's the very best kind of advertising,” he told me. “We'll see more action before snow flies."

"You won't see snow fly,” I told him, standing up to him a second time. “Unless you slow down and pay attention."

"I've looked at heaps more road than you,” he told me, “and seeing things is just part of the night. That nighttime road is different."

"This is starting to happen at last light."

"I don't see no ghosts,” he told me, and he was lying. “Except Miss Molly once or twice.” He wouldn't say anything more.

And Jesse was right. As summer ran on, more graves showed up near Miss Molly. A man named Mcguire turned up with a ‘41 Cad.

And Sam Winder buried his ‘47 Packard.

And Pete Johansen buried his pickup.

Montana roads are long and lonesome, and along the high line is lonesomest of all. From Saskatchewan to Texas, nothing stands tall enough to break the wind that begins to blow cold and clear toward late October. Rains sob away toward the Middle West, and grass turns goldish amber. Rattlesnakes move to high ground, where they will winter. Every creature on God's plains begins to fat up against the winter. Soon it's going to be thirty below and the wind blowing.

Four-wheel-drive weather. Internationals and Fords, with Dodge crummy wagons in the hills; cars and trucks will line up beside houses, garages, sheds, with electric wires leading from plugs to radiators and blocks. They look like packs of nursing pups. Work will slow, then stop, New work turns to accounting for the weather. Fuel, emergency generators, hay-bale insulation. Horses and cattle and deer look fuzzy beneath thick coats. Check your battery. If your rig won't start, and you're two miles from home, she won't die—but you might.

School buses creep from stop to stop, and bundled kids look like colorful little bears trotting through late-afternoon light. Snowy owls come floating in from northward, while folks go to church on Sunday against the time when there's some better amusement. Men hang around town, because home is either empty or crowded, depending on if you're married. Folks sit before television, watching the funny, goofy, unreal world where everybody plays at being sexy and naked, even when they're not.

And, nineteen years old is lonesome, too. And work is lonesome when nobody much cares for you.

Before winter set in, I got it in my head to run The Road Dog's route. It was September. Winter would close us down pretty quick. The trip would be a luxury. What with room rent, and gas, and eating out, it was payday to payday with me. Still, one payday would account for gas and sandwiches. I could sleep across the seat. I hocked a Marlin .30-.30 to Jesse for twenty bucks. He seemed happy with my notion. He even went into the greenhouse and came out with an arctic sleeping bag.

"In case things get vigorous,” he said, and grinned. “Now get on out there and bite The Dog."

It was a happy time. Dreams of ladies sort of set themselves to one side as I cruised across the eternal land. I came to love the land that autumn, in a way that maybe ranchers do. The land stopped being something that a road ran across. Canadian honkers came winging in vees from the north. The great Montana sky stood easy as eagles. When I'd pull over and cut the engine, sounds of grasshoppers mixed with birdcalls. Once, a wild turkey, as smart as any domestic turkey is dumb, talked to himself and paid me not the least mind.

The Dog showed up right away. In a café in Malta:

In a bar in Tampico:

In another bar in Culbertson:

I rolled Williston and dropped south through North Dakota. The Dog's trail disappeared until Watford City, where it showed up in the can of a filling station:

And in a joint in Grassy Butte:

That morning in Grassy Butte, I woke to a sunrise where the land lay bathed in rose and blue. Silhouettes of grazing deer mixed with silhouettes of cattle. They herded together peaceful as a dream of having your own place, your own woman, and you working hard; and her glad to see you coming home.

In Bowman, The Dog showed up in a nice restaurant:

Ghosts did not show up along the road, but the road stayed the same. I tangled with a bathtub Hudson, a ‘53, outside of Spearfish in South Dakota. I chased him into Wyoming like being dragged on a string. The guy played with me for twenty miles, then got bored. He shoved more coal in the stoker and purely flew out of sight.

Sheridan was a nice town back in those days, just nice and friendly; plus, I started to get sick of the way I smelled. In early afternoon, I found a five-dollar motel with a shower. That gave me the afternoon, the evening, and next morning if it seemed right. I spiffed up, put on a good shirt, slicked down my hair, and felt just fine.

The streets lay dusty and lazy. Ranchers’ pickups stood all dented and work-worn before bars, and an old Indian sat on hay bales in the back of one of them. He wore a flop hat, and he seemed like the eyes and heart of the prairie. He looked at me like I was a splendid puppy that might someday amount to something. It seemed okay when he did it.

I hung around a soda fountain at the five-and-dime because a girl smiled. She was just beautiful. A little horsey-faced, but with sun-blond hair, and with hands long-fingered and gentle. There wasn't a chance of talking, because she stood behind the counter for ladies’ underwear. I pretended to myself that she looked sad when I left.

It got on to late afternoon. Sunlight drifted in between buildings, and shadows overreached the streets. Everything was normal, and then everything got scary.

I was just poking along, looking in store windows, checking the show at the movie house, when, ahead of me, Jesse walked toward a Golden Hawk. He was maybe a block and a half away, but it was Jesse, sure as God made sunshine. It was a Golden Hawk. There was no way of mistaking that car. Hawks were high-priced sets of wheels, and Studebaker never sold that many.

I yelled and ran. Jesse waited beside the car, looking sort of puzzled. When I pulled up beside him, he grinned.

"It's happening again,” he said, and his voice sounded amused, but not mean. Sunlight made his face reddish, but shadow put his legs and feet in darkness. “You believe me to be a gentleman named Jesse Still.” Behind him, shadows of buildings told that night was on its way. Sunset happens quick on the prairies.

And I said, “Jesse, what in the hell are you doing in Sheridan?"

And he said, “Young man, you are not looking at Jesse Still.” He said it quiet and polite, and he thought he had a point. His voice was smooth and cultured, so he sure didn't sound like Jesse. His hair hung combed out, and he wore clothes that never came from a dry goods. His jeans were soft looking and expensive. His boots were tooled. They kind of glowed in the dusk. The Golden Hawk didn't have a dust speck on it, and the interior had never carried a tool, or a car part, or a sack of feed. It just sparkled. I almost believed him, and then I didn't.

"You're fooling with me."

"On the contrary,” he said, real soft. “Jesse Still is fooling with me, although he doesn't mean to. We've never met.” He didn't exactly look nervous, but he looked impatient. He climbed in the Stude and started the engine. It purred like racing tune. “This is a large and awfully complex world,” he said, “and Mr. Still will probably tell you the same. I've been told we look like brothers."

I wanted to say more, but he waved real friendly and pulled away. The flat and racy back end of the Hawk reflected one slash of sunlight, then rolled into shadow. If I'd had a hot car, I'd have gone out hunting him. It wouldn't have done a lick of good, but doing something would be better than doing nothing.

I stood sort of shaking and amazed. Life had just changed somehow, and it wasn't going to change back. There wasn't a thing in the world to do, so I went to get some supper.

The Dog had signed in at the café:

And—I sat chewing roast beef and mashed potatoes.

And—I saw how the guy in the Hawk might be lying, and that Jesse was a twin.

And—I finally saw what a chancy, dicey world this was, because without meaning to, exactly, and without even knowing it was happening, I had just run up against The Road Dog.

It was a night of dreams. Dreams wouldn't let me go. The dancing ghost tried to tell me Jesse was triplets. The ghosts among the crosses begged rides into nowhere, rides down the long tunnel of night that ran past lands of dreams, but never turned off to those lands. It all came back: the crazy summer, the running, running, running behind the howl of engines. The Road Dog drawled with Jesse's voice, and then The Dog spoke cultured. The girl at the five-and-dime held out a gentle hand, then pulled it back. I dreamed of a hundred roadside joints, bars, cafés, old-fashioned filling stations with grease pits. I dreamed of winter wind, and the dark, dark days of winter; and of nights when you hunch in your room because it's a chore too big to bundle up and go outside.

I woke to an early dawn and slurped coffee at the bakery, which kept open because they had to make morning doughnuts. The land lay all around me, but it had nothing to say. I counted my money and figured miles.

I climbed in the DeSoto, thinking I had never got around to giving it a name. The road unreeled toward the west. It ended in Seattle, where I sold my car. Everybody said there was going to be a war, and I wasn't doing anything anyway. I joined the Navy.

What with him burying cars and raising hell, Jesse never wrote to me in summer. He was surely faithful in winter, though. He wrote long letters printed in a clumsy hand. He tried to cheer me up, and so did Matt Simons.

The Navy sent me to boot camp and diesel school, then to a motor pool in San Diego. I worked there three and a half years, sometimes even working on ships if the ships weren't going anywhere. A sunny land and smiling ladies lay all about, but the ladies mostly fell in love by ten at night and got over it by dawn. Women in the bars were younger and prettier than back home. There was enough clap to go around.

"The business is growing like jimsonweed,” Jesse wrote toward Christmas of ‘62. “I buried fourteen cars this summer, and one of them was a Kraut.” He wrote a whole page about his morals. It didn't seem right to stick a crap crate in the ground beside real cars. At the same time, it was bad business not to. He opened a special corner of the cemetery, and pretended it was exclusive for foreign iron.

"And Mike Tarbush got to drinking,” he wrote. “I'm sad to say we planted Judith."

Mike never had a minute's trouble with that Merc. Judith behaved like a perfect lady until Mike turned upside down. He backed across a parking lot at night, rather hasty, and drove backward up the guy wire of a power pole. It was the only rollover wreck in history that happened at twenty miles an hour.

"Mike can't stop discussing it,” Jesse wrote. “He's never caught The Dog, neither, but he ain't stopped trying. He wheeled in here in a beefed-up ‘57 Olds called Sally. It goes like stink and looks like a Hereford."

Home seemed far away, though it couldn't have been more than thirty-six hours by road for a man willing to hang over the wheel. I wanted to take a leave and drive home, but knew it better not happen. Once I got there, I'd likely stay.

"George Pierson at the feed store says he's going to file a paternity suit against Potato,” Jesse wrote. “The pups are cute, and there's a family resemblance."

It came to me then why I was homesick. I surely missed the land, but even more I missed the people. Back home, folks were important enough that you knew their names. When somebody got messed up or killed, you felt sorry. In California, nobody knew nobody. They just swept up broken glass and moved right along. I should have meshed right in. I had made my rating and was pushing a rich man's car, a ‘57 hemi Chrysler, but never felt it fit.

"Don't pay it any mind,” Jesse wrote when I told about meeting Road Dog. “I've heard about a guy who looks the same as me. Sometimes stuff like that happens."

And that was all he ever did say.

Nineteen sixty-three ended happy and hopeful. Matt Simons wrote a letter. Sam Winder bought a big Christmas card, and everybody signed it with little messages. Even my old boss at the filling station signed, “Merry Xmas, Jed—Keep It Between The Fence Posts.” My boss didn't hold it against me that I left. In Montana a guy is supposed to be free to find out what he's all about.

Christmas of ‘63 saw Jesse pleased as a bee in clover. A lady named Sarah moved in with him. She waitressed at the café, and Jesse's letter ran pretty short. He'd put twenty-three cars under that year, and bought more acreage. He ordered a genuine marble gravestone for Miss Molly. “Sue Ellen is a real darling,” Jesse wrote about the Linc. “That marker like to weighed a ton. We just about bent a back axle bringing it from the railroad."

From Christmas of ‘63 to January of ‘64 was just a few days, but they marked an awful downturn for Jesse. His letter was more real to me than all the diesels in San Diego.

He drew black borders all around the pages. The letter started out okay, but went downhill. “Sarah moved out and into a rented room,” he wrote. “I reckon I was just too much to handle.” He didn't explain, but I did my own reckoning. I could imagine that it was Jesse, plus two cats and two dogs, trying to get into a ten-wide-fifty trailer, that got to Sarah. “I think she misses me,” he wrote, “but I expect she'll have to bear it."

Then the letter got just awful.

"A pack of wolves came through from Canada,” Jesse wrote. “They picked off old Potato like a berry from a bush. Me and Mike found tracks, and a little blood in the snow."

I sat in the summery dayroom surrounded by sailors shooting pool and playing Ping-Pong. I imagined the snow and ice of home. I imagined old Potato nosing around in his dumb and happy way, looking for rabbits or lifting his leg. Maybe he even wagged his tail when that first wolf came into view. I sat blinking tears, ready to bawl over a dog, and then I did, and to hell with it.

The world was changing, and it wouldn't change back. I put in for sea duty one more time, and the chief warrant who ramrodded that motor pool turned it down again. He claimed we kept the world safe by wrenching engines.

"The ‘62 Dodge is emerging as the car of choice for people in a hurry.” Matt Simons wrote that in February ‘64, knowing I'd understand that nobody could tell which cars would be treasured until they had a year or two on them. “It's an extreme winter,” he wrote, “and it's taking its toll on many of us. Mike has now learned not to punch a policeman. He's doing ten days. Sam Winder managed to roll a Jeep, and neither he nor I can figure out how a man can roll a Jeep. Sam has a broken arm, and lost two toes to frost. He was trapped under the wreck. It took a while to pull him out. Brother Jesse is in the darkest sort of mood. He comes and goes in an irregular manner, but the Linc sits outside the pool hall on most days.

"And for myself,” Matt wrote, “I think, come summer, I'll drop some revs. My flaming youth seems to be giving way to other interests. A young woman named Nancy started teaching at the school. Until now, I thought I was a confirmed bachelor."

A postcard came the end of February. The postmark said “Cheyenne, Wyoming,” way down in the southeast corner of the state. It was written fancy. Nobody could mistake that fine, spidery hand. It read:

The picture on the card had been taken from an airplane. It showed an oval racetrack where cars chased each other round and round. I couldn't figure why Jesse sent it, but it had to be Jesse. Then it came to me that Jesse was The Road Dog. Then it came to me that he wasn't. The Road Dog was too slick. He wrote real delicate, and Jesse only printed real clumsy. On the other hand, The Road Dog didn't know me from Adam's off ox. Somehow it had to be Jesse.

"We got snow nut deep to a tall palm tree,” Jesse wrote at about the same time, “and Chip is failing. He's off his feed. He don't even tease the kitties. Chip just can't seem to stop mourning."

I had bad premonitions. Chip was sensitive. I feared he wouldn't be around by the time I got back home, and my fear proved right. Chip held off until the first warm sun of spring, and then he died while napping in the shade of the bulldozer. When Jesse sent a quick note telling me, I felt pretty bad, but had been expecting it. Chip had a good heart. I figured now he was with Potato, romping in the hills somewhere. I knew that was a bunch of crap, but that's just the way I chose to figure it.

They say a man can get used to anything, but maybe some can't. Day after day, and week after week, California weather nagged. Sometimes a puny little dab of weather dribbled in from the Pacific, and people hollered it was storming. Sometimes temperatures dropped toward the fifties, and people trotted around in thick sweaters and coats. It was almost a relief when that happened, because everybody put on their shirts. In three years, I'd seen more woman skin than a normal man sees in a lifetime, and more tattoos on men. The chief warrant at the motor pool had the only tattoo in the world called “worm's-eye view of a pig's butt in the moonlight."

In autumn ‘64, with one more year to pull, I took a two-week leave and headed north just chasing weather. It showed up first in Oregon with rain, and more in Washington. I got hassled on the Canadian border by a distressful little guy who thought, what with the war, that I wanted political asylum.

I chased on up to Calgary, where matters got chill and wholesome. Wind worked through the mountains like it wanted to drive me south toward home. Elk and moose and porcupines went about their business. Red-tailed hawks circled. I slid on over to Edmonton, chased on east to Saskatoon, then dropped south through the Dakotas. In Williston, I had a terrible want to cut and run for home, but didn't dare.

The Road Dog showed up all over the place, but the messages were getting strange. At a bar in Amidon:

At a hamburger joint in Belle Fourche:

At a restaurant in Redbird:

In a poolroom in Fort Collins:

Road Dog, or Jesse, was too far south. The Dog had never showed up in Colorado before. At least, nobody ever heard of such.

My leave was running out. There was nothing to do except sit over the wheel. I dropped on south to Albuquerque, hung a right, and headed back to the big city. All along the road, I chewed a dreadful fear for Jesse. Something bad was happening, and that didn't seem fair, because something good went on between me and the Chrysler. We reached an understanding. The Chrysler came alive and began to hum. All that poor car had ever needed was to look at road. It had been raised among traffic and poodles, but needed long sight distances and bears.

When I got back, there seemed no way out of writing a letter to Matt Simons, even if it was borrowing trouble. It took evening after evening of gnawing the end of a pencil, I hated to tell about Miss Molly, and about the dancing ghost, and about my fears for Jesse. A man is supposed to keep his problems to himself.

At the same time, Matt was educated. Maybe he could give Jesse a hand if he knew all of it. The letter came out pretty thick. I mailed it thinking Matt wasn't likely to answer real soon. Autumn deepened to winter back home, and everybody would be busy.

So I worked and waited. There was an old White Mustang with a fifth wheel left over from the last war. It was a lean and hungry-looking animal, and slightly marvelous. I overhauled the engine, then dropped the tranny and adapted a ten-speed Roadranger. When I got that truck running smooth as a Baptist's mouth, the Navy surveyed it and sold it for scrap.

"Ghost cars are a tradition,” Matt wrote toward the back of October, “and I'd be hard-pressed to say they are not real. I recall being passed by an Auburn boat tail about 3:00 a.m. on a summer day. That happened ten years ago. I was about your age, which means there was not an Auburn boat tail in all of Montana. That car died in the early thirties.

"And we all hear stories of huge old headlights overtaking in the mist, stories of Mercers and Duesenbergs and Bugattis. I try to believe the stories are true, because, in a way, it would be a shame if they were not.

"The same for road ghosts. I've never seen a ghost who looked like Jesse. The ghosts I've seen might not have been ghosts. To paraphrase an expert, they may have been a trapped beer belch, an undigested hamburger, or blowing mist. On the other hand, maybe not. They certainly seemed real at the time.

"As for Jesse—we have a problem here. In a way, we've had it for a long while, but only since last winter have matters become solemn. Then your letter arrives, and matters become mysterious. Jesse has—or had—a twin brother. One night when we were carousing, he told me that, but he also said his brother was dead. Then he swore me to a silence I must now break."

Matt went on to say that I must never, never say anything. He figured something was going on between brothers. He figured it must run deep.

"There is something uncanny about twins,” Matt wrote. “What great matters are joined in the womb? When twins enter the world, they learn and grow the way all of us do; but some communication (or communion) surely happens before birth. A clash between brothers is a terrible thing. A clash between twins may spell tragedy."

Matt went on to tell how Jesse was going over the edge with road games, only the games stayed close to home. All during the summer, Jesse would head out, roll fifty or a hundred miles, and come home scorching like drawn by a string. Matt guessed the postcard I'd gotten from Jesse in February was part of the game, and it was the last time Jesse had been very far from home. Matt figured Jesse used tracing paper to imitate The Road Dog's writing. He also figured Road Dog had to be Jesse's brother.

"It's obvious,” Matt wrote, “that Jesse's brother is still alive, and is only metaphorically dead to Jesse. There are look-alikes in this world, but you have reported identical twins."

Matt told how Jesse drove so crazy, even Mike would not run with him. That was bad enough, but it seemed the graveyard had sort of moved in on Jesse's mind. That graveyard was no longer just something to do. Jesse swapped around until he came up with a tractor and mower. Three times that summer, he trimmed the graveyard and straightened the markers. He dusted and polished Miss Molly's headstone.

"It's past being a joke,” Matt wrote, “or a sentimental indulgence. Jesse no longer drinks, and no longer hells around in a general way. He either runs or tends the cemetery. I've seen other men search for a ditch, but never in such bizarre fashion."

Jesse had been seen on his knees, praying before Miss Molly's grave.

"Or perhaps he was praying for himself, or for Chip,” Matt wrote. “Chip is buried beside Miss Molly. The graveyard has to be seen to be believed. Who would ever think so many machines would be so dear to so many men?"

Then Matt went on to say he was going to “inquire in various places” that winter. “There are ways to trace Jesse's brother,” Matt wrote, “and I am very good at that sort of research.” He said it was about the only thing be could still do for Jesse.

"Because,” Matt wrote, “I seem to have fallen in love with a romantic. Nancy wants a June wedding. I look forward to another winter alone, but it will be an easy wait. Nancy is rather old-fashioned, and I find that I'm old-fashioned as well. I will never regret my years spent helling around, but am glad they are now in the past."

Back home, winter deepened. At Christmas a long letter came from Jesse, and some of it made sense. “I put eighteen cars under this summer. Business fell off because I lost my hustle. You got to scooch around a good bit, or you don't make contacts. I may start advertising.

"And the tabbies took off. I forgot to slop them regular, so now they're mousing in a barn on Jimmy Come Lately Road. Mike says I ought to get another dog, but my heart isn't in it."

Then the letter went into plans for the cemetery. Jesse talked some grand ideas. He thought a nice wrought-iron gate might be showy, and bring in business. He thought of finding a truck that would haul “deceased” cars. “On the other hand,” he wrote, “if a guy don't care enough to find a tow, maybe I don't want to plant his iron.” He went on for a good while about morals, but a lawyer couldn't understand it. He seemed to be saying something about respect for Miss Molly, and Betty Lou, and Judith. “Sue Ellen is a real hummer,” he wrote about the Linc. “She's got two hundred thousand I know about, plus whatever went on before."

Which meant Jesse was piling up about seventy thousand miles a year, and that didn't seem too bad. Truck drivers put up a hundred thousand. Of course, they make a living at it.

Then the letter got so crazy it was hard to credit.

"I got The Road Dog figured out. There's two little kids. Their mama reads to them, and they play tag. The one that don't get caught gets to be the Gingerbread Man. This all come together because I ran across a bunch of kids down on the Colorado line. I was down that way to call on a lady I once knew, but she moved, and I said what the hell, and hung around a few days, and that's what clued me to The Dog. The kids were at a Sunday-school picnic, and I was napping across the car seat. Then a preacher's wife came over and saw I wasn't drunk, but the preacher was there, too, and they invited me. I eased over to the picnic, and everybody made me welcome. Anyway, those kids were playing, and I heard the gingerbread business, and I figured The Dog is from Colorado."

The last page of the letter was just as scary. Jesse took kids’ crayons and drew the front ends of the Linc and Miss Molly. There was a tail that was probably Potato's sticking out from behind the picture of Miss Molly, and everything was centered around the picture of a marker that said “R.I.P. Road Dog."

But—there weren't any little kids. Jesse had not been to Colorado. Jesse had been tending that graveyard, and staying close to home. Jesse played make-believe, or else Matt Simons lied; and there was no reason for Matt to lie. Something bad, bad wrong was going on with Jesse.

There was no help for it. I did my time and wrote a letter every month or six weeks pretending everything was normal. I wrote about what we'd do when I got home, and about the Chrysler. Maybe that didn't make much sense, but Jesse was important to me. He was a big part of what I remembered about home.

At the end of April, a postcard came, this time from Havre. “The Dog is after me. I feel it.” It was just a plain old postcard. No picture.

Matt wrote in May, mostly his own plans. He busied himself building a couple of rooms onto his place. “Nancy and I do not want a family right away,” he wrote, “but someday we will.” He wrote a bubbly letter with a feel of springtime to it.

"I almost forgot my main reason for writing,” the letter said. “Jesse comes from around Boulder, Colorado. His parents are long dead, ironically in a car wreck. His mother was a schoolteacher, his father a librarian. Those people, who lived such quiet lives, somehow produced a hellion like Jesse, and Jesse's brother. That's the factual side of the matter.

"The human side is so complex it will not commit to paper. In fact, I do not trust what I know. When you get home next fall, we'll discuss it."

The letter made me sad and mad. Sad because I wasn't getting married, and mad because Matt didn't think I'd keep my mouth shut. Then I thought better of it. Matt didn't trust himself. I did what any gentleman would do, and sent him and Nancy a nice gravy boat for the wedding.

In late July, Jesse sent another postcard. “He's after me; I'm after him. If I ain't around when you get back, don't fret. Stuff happens. It's just a matter of chasing road."

Summer rolled on. The Navy released “nonessential personnel” in spite of the war. I put four years in the outfit and got called nonessential. Days choked past like a rig with fouled injectors. One good thing happened. My old boss moved his station to the outskirts of town and started an IH dealership. He straight out wrote how he needed a diesel mechanic. I felt hopeful thoughts, and dark ones.

In September, I became a veteran who qualified for an overseas ribbon, because of work on ships that later on went somewhere. Now I could join the Legion post back home, which was maybe the payoff. They had the best pool table in the county.

"Gents,” I said to the boys at the motor pool, “it's been a distinct by-God pleasure enjoying your company, and don't never come to Montana, ‘cause she's a heartbreaker.” The Chrysler and me lit out like a kyoodle of pups.

It would have been easier to run to Salt Lake, then climb the map to Havre, but notions pushed. I slid east to Las Cruces, then popped north to Boulder with the idea of tracing Jesse. The Chrysler hummed and chewed up road. When I got to Boulder, the notion turned hopeless. There were too many people. I didn't even know where to start asking.

It's no big job to fool yourself. Above Boulder, it came to me how I'd been pointing for Sheridan all along, and not even Sheridan. I pointed toward a girl who smiled at me four years ago.

I found her working at a hardware, and she wasn't wearing any rings. I blushed around a little bit, then got out of there to catch my breath. I thought of how Jesse took whatever time was needed when he bought the Linc. It looked like this would take a while.

My pockets were crowded with mustering-out pay and money for unused leave. I camped in a ten-dollar motel. It took three days to get acquainted, then we went to a show and supper afterward. Her name was Linda. Her father was a Mormon. That meant a year of courting, but it's not all that far from north Montana to Sheridan.

I had to get home and get employed, which would make the Mormon happy. On Saturday afternoon Linda and I went back to the same old movie, but this time we held hands. Before going home, she kissed me once, real gentle. That made up for those hard times in San Diego. It let me know I was back with my own people.

I drove downtown all fired up with visions. It was way too early for bed, and I cared nothing for a beer. A run-down café sat on the outskirts. I figured pie and coffee.

The Dog had signed in. His writing showed faint, like the wall had been scrubbed. Newer stuff scrabbled over it.

The café sort of slumbered. Several old men lined the counter. Four young gearheads sat at a table and talked fuel injection. The old men yawned and put up with it. Faded pictures of old racing cars hung along the walls. The young guys sat beneath a picture of the Bluebird. That car held the land speed record of 301.29 m.p.h. This was a racer's café, and had been for a long, long time.

The waitress was graying and motherly. She tsked and tished over the old men as much as she did the young ones. Her eyes held that long-distance prairie look, a look knowing wind and fire and hard times, stuff that either breaks people or leaves them wise. Matt Simons might get that look in another twenty years. I tried to imagine Linda when she became the waitress's age, and it wasn't bad imagining.

Pictures of quarter-mile cars hung back of the counter, and pictures of street machines hung on each side of the door. Fifties hot rods scorched beside worked-up stockers. Some mighty rowdy iron crowded that wall. One picture showed a Golden Hawk. I walked over, and in one corner was the name “Still"—written in The Road Dog's hand. It shouldn't have been scary.

I went back to the counter shaking. A nice-looking old gent nursed coffee. His hands wore knuckles busted by a thousand slipped wrenches. Grease was worked in deep around his eyes, the way it gets after years and years when no soap made will touch it. You could tell he'd been a steady man. His eyes were clear as a kid.

"Mister,” I said, “and beg pardon for bothering you. Do you know anything about that Studebaker?” I pointed to the wall.

"You ain't bothering me,” he said, “but I'll tell you when you do.” He tapped the side of his head like trying to ease a gear in place, then he started talking engine specs on the Stude.

"I mean the man who owns it."

The old man probably liked my haircut, which was short. He liked it that I was raised right. Young guys don't always pay old men much mind.

"You still ain't bothering me.” He turned to the waitress. “Sue,” he said, “has Johnny Still been in?"

She turned from cleaning the pie case, and she looked toward the young guys like she feared for them. You could tell she was no big fan of engines. “It's been the better part of a year, maybe more.” She looked down the line of old men. “I was fretting about him just the other day....” She let it hang. Nobody said anything. “He comes and goes so quiet, you might miss him."

"I don't miss him a hell of a lot,” one of the young guys said. The guy looked like a duck, and had a voice like a sparrow. His fingernails were too clean. That proved something.

"Because Johnny blew you out,” another young guy said. “Johnny always blew you out."

"Because he's crazy,” the first guy said. “There's noisy crazy and quiet crazy. The guy is a spook."

"He's going through something,” the waitress said, and said it kind. “Johnny's taken a lot of loss. He's the type who grieves.” She looked at me like she expected an explanation.

"I'm friends with his brother,” I told her. “Maybe Johnny and his brother don't get along."

The old man looked at me rather strange. “You go back quite a ways,” he told me. “Jesse's been dead a good long time."

I thought I'd pass out. My hands started shaking, and my legs felt too weak to stand. Beyond the window of the café, red light came from a neon sign, and inside the café everybody sat quiet, waiting to see if I was crazy, too. I sort of picked at my pie. One of the young guys moved real uneasy. He loafed toward the door, maybe figuring he'd need a shotgun. The other three young ones looked confused.

"No offense,” I said to the old man, “but Jesse Still is alive. Up on the high line. We run together."

"Jesse Still drove a damn old Hudson Terraplane into the South Platte River in spring of ‘52, maybe ‘53.” The old man said it real quiet. “He popped a tire when not real sober."

"Which is why Johnny doesn't drink,” the waitress said. “At least, I expect that's the reason."

"And now you are bothering me.” The old man looked to the waitress, and she was as full of questions as he was.

Nobody ever felt more hopeless or scared. These folks had no reason to tell this kind of yarn. “Jesse is sort of roughhouse.” My voice was only whispering. It wouldn't make enough sound. “Jesse made his reputation helling around."

"You've got that part right,” the old man told me, “and, youngster, I don't give a tinker's damn if you believe me or not, but Jesse Still is dead."

I saw what it had to be, but seeing isn't always believing. “Thank you, mister,” I whispered to the old man, “and thank you, ma'am,” to the waitress. Then I hauled out of there leaving them with something to discuss.

A terrible fear rolled with me, because of Jesse's last postcard. He said he might not be home, and now that could mean more than it said. The Chrysler bettered its reputation, and we just flew. From the Montana line to Shelby is eight hours on a clear day. You can wail it in seven, or maybe six and a half if a deer doesn't tangle with your front end. I was afraid, and confused, and getting mad. Me and Linda were just to the point of hoping for an understanding, and now I was going to get killed running over a porcupine or into a heifer. The Chrysler blazed like a hound on a hot scent. At eighty the pedal kept wanting to dig deep and really howl.

The nighttime road yells danger. Shadows crawl over everything. What jumps into your headlights may be real, and may be not. Metal crosses hold little clusters of dark flowers on their arms, and the land rolls out beneath the moon. Buttes stand like great ships anchored in the plains, and riverbeds run like dry ink. Come spring, they'll flow; but in September, all flow is in the road.

The dancing ghost picked me up on Highway 3 outside Comanche, but this time he wasn't dancing. He stood on the berm, and no mist tied him in place. He gave the old road sign for “roll ‘em.” Beyond Columbia, he showed up again. His mouth moved like he was yelling me along, and his face twisted with as much fear as my own.

That gave me reason to hope. I'd never known Jesse to be afraid like that, so maybe there was a mistake. Maybe the dancing ghost wasn't the ghost of Jesse. I hung over the wheel and forced myself to think of Linda. When I thought of her, I couldn't bring myself to get crazy. Highway 3 is not much of a road, but that's no bother. I can drive anything with wheels over any road ever made. The dancing ghost kept showing up and beckoning, telling me to scorch. I told myself the damn ghost had no judgment, or he wouldn't be a ghost in the first place.

That didn't keep me from pushing faster, but it wasn't fast enough to satisfy the roadside. They came out of the mist, or out of the ditches; crowds and clusters of ghosts standing pale beneath a weak moon. Some of them gossiped with each other. Some stood yelling me along. Maybe there was sense to it, but I had my hands full. If they were trying to help, they sure weren't doing it. They just made me get my back up, and think of dropping revs.

Maybe the ghosts held a meeting and studied out the problem. They could see a clear road, but I couldn't. The dancing ghost showed up on Highway 12 and gave me “thumbs up” for a clear road. I didn't believe a word of it, and then I really didn't believe what showed in my mirrors. Headlights closed like I was standing. My feelings said that all of this had happened before; except, last time, there was only one set of headlights.

It was Miss Molly and Betty Lou that brought me home. Miss Molly overtook, sweeping past with a lane change smooth and sober as an Adventist. The high, slaunch-forward form of Miss Molly thrummed with business. She wasn't blowing sparks or showing off. She wasn't playing Gingerbread Man or tag.

Betty Lou came alongside so I could see who she was, then Betty Lou laid back a half mile. If we ran into a claim-jumping deputy, he'd have to chase her first; and more luck to him. Her headlights hovered back there like angels.

Miss Molly settled down a mile ahead of the Chrysler and stayed at that distance, no matter how hard I pressed. Twice before Great Falls, she spotted trouble, and her squinchy little brake lights hauled me down. Once it was an animal, and once it was busted road surface. Miss Molly and Betty Lou dropped me off before Great Falls, and picked me back up the minute I cleared town.

We ran the night like rockets. The roadside lay deserted. The dancing ghost stayed out of it, and so did the others. That let me concentrate, which proved a blessing. At those speeds, a man don't have time to do deep thinking. The road rolls past, the hours roll, but you've got a racer's mind. No matter how tired you should be, you don't get tired until it's over.

I chased a ghost car northward while a fingernail moon moved across the sky. In deepest night the land turned silver. At speed, you don't think, but you do have time to feel. The farther north we pushed, the more my feelings went to despair. Maybe Miss Molly thought the same, but everybody did all they could.

The Chrysler was a howler, and Lord knows where the top end lay. I buried the needle. Even accounting for speedometer error, we burned along in the low half of the second century. We made Highway 2 and Shelby around three in the morning, then hung a left. In just about no time, I rolled home. Betty Lou dropped back and faded. Miss Molly blew sparks and purely flew out of sight. The sparks meant something. Maybe Miss Molly was still hopeful. Or maybe she knew we were too late.

Beneath that thin moon, mounded graves looked like dark surf across the acreage. No lights burned in the trailer, and the Linc showed nowhere. Even under the scant light, you could see snowy tops of mountains, and the perfectly straight markers standing at the head of each grave. A tent, big enough to hold a small revival, stood not far from the trailer. In my headlights a sign on the tent read “Chapel.” I fetched a flashlight from the glove box.

A dozen folding chairs stood in the chapel, and a podium served as an altar. Jesse had rigged up two sets of candles, so I lit some. Matt Simons had written that the graveyard had to be seen to be believed. Hanging on one side of the tent was a sign reading “Shrine,” and all along that side hung road maps, and pictures of cars, and pictures of men standing beside their cars. There was a special display of odometers, with little cards beneath them: “330,938 miles"; “407,000 miles"; “half a million miles, more or less.” These were the championship cars, the all-time best at piling up road, and those odometers would make even a married man feel lonesome. You couldn't look at them without thinking of empty roads and empty nights.

Even with darkness spreading across the cemetery, nothing felt worse than the inside of the tent. I could believe that Jesse took it serious, and had tried to make it nice, but couldn't believe anyone else would buy it.

The night was not too late for owls, and nearly silent wings swept past as I left the tent. I walked to Miss Molly's grave, half-expecting ghostly headlights. Two small markers stood beside a real fine marble headstone.

From a distance, I could see piled dirt where the dozer had dug new graves. I stepped cautious toward the dozer, not knowing why, but knowing it had to happen.

Two graves stood open like little garages, and the front ends of the Linc and the Hawk poked out. The Linc's front bumper shone spotless, but the rest of the Linc looked tough and experienced. Dents and dings crowded the sides, and cracked glass starred the windows.

The Hawk stood sparkly, ready to come roaring from the grave. Its glass shone washed and clean before my flashlight. I thought of what I heard in Sheridan, and thought of the first time I'd seen the Hawk. It hadn't changed. The Hawk looked like it had just been driven off a showroom floor.

Nobody in his right mind would want to look in those two cars, but it wasn't a matter of “want.” Jesse, or Johnny—if that's who it was—had to be here someplace. It was certain sure he needed help. When I looked, the Hawk sat empty. My flashlight poked against the glass of the Linc. Jesse lay there, taking his last nap across a car seat. His long black hair had turned gray. He had always been thin, but now he was skin and bones. Too many miles, and no time to eat. Creases around his eyes came from looking at road, but now the creases were deep like an old man's. His eyes showed that he was dead. They were open only a little bit, but open enough.

I couldn't stand to be alone with such a sight. In less than fifteen minutes, I stood banging on Matt Simons's door. Matt finally answered, and Nancy showed up behind him. She was in her robe. She stood taller than Matt, and sleepier. She looked blond and Swedish. Matt didn't know whether to be mad or glad. Then I got my story pieced together, and he really woke up.

"Dr. Jekyll has finally dealt with Mr. Hyde,” he said in a low voice to Nancy. “Or maybe the other way around.” To me, he said, “That may be a bad joke, but it's not ill meant.” He went to get dressed. “Call Mike,” he said to me. “Drunk or sober, I want him there."

Nancy showed me the phone. Then she went to the bedroom to talk with Matt. I could hear him soothing her fears. When Mike answered, he was sleepy and sober, but he woke up stampeding.

Deep night and a thin moon is a perfect time for ghosts, but none showed up as Matt rode with me back to the graveyard. The Chrysler loafed. There was no need for hurry.

I told Matt what I'd learned in Sheridan.

"That matches what I heard,” he said, “and we have two mysteries. The first mystery is interesting, but it's no longer important. Was John Still pretending to be Jesse Still, or was Jesse pretending to be John?"

"If Jesse drove into a river in ‘53, then it has to be John.” I didn't like what I said, because Jesse was real. The best actor in the world couldn't pretend that well. My sorrow choked me, but I wasn't ashamed.

Matt seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “We don't know how long the game went on,” he said real quiet. “We never will know. John could have been playing at being Jesse way back in ‘53."

That got things tangled, and I felt resentful. Things were complicated enough. Me and Matt had just lost a friend, and now Matt was talking like that was the least interesting part.

"Makes no difference whether he was John or Jesse,” I told Matt. “He was Jesse when he died. He's laying across the seat in Jesse's car. Figure it any way you want, but we're talking about Jesse."

"You're right,” Matt said. “Also, you're wrong. We're talking about someone who was both.” Matt sat quiet for a minute, figuring things out. I told myself it was just as well that he'd married a schoolteacher. “Assume, for the sake of argument,” he said, “that John was playing Jesse in ‘53. John drove into the river, and people believed they were burying Jesse.

"Or, for the sake of argument, assume that it was Jesse in ‘53. In that case the game started with John's grief. Either way the game ran for many years.” Matt was getting at something, but he always has to go roundabout.

"After years, John, or Jesse, disappeared. There was only a man who was both John and Jesse. That's the reason it makes no difference who died in ‘53."

Matt looked through the car window into the darkness like he expected to discover something important. “This is a long and lonesome country,” he said. “The biggest mystery is: why? The answer may lie in the mystery of twins, or it may be as simple as a man reaching into the past for happy memories. At any rate, one brother dies, and the survivor keeps his brother alive by living his brother's life, as well as his own. Think of the planning, the elaborate schemes, the near self-deception. Think of how often the roles shifted. A time must have arrived when that lonely man could not even remember who he was."

The answer was easy, and I saw it. Jesse, or John, chased the road to find something they'd lost on the road. They lost their parents and each other. I didn't say a damn word. Matt was making me mad, but I worked at forgiving him. He was handling his own grief, and maybe he didn't have a better way.

"And so he invented The Road Dog,” Matt said. “That kept the personalities separate. The Road Dog was a metaphor to make him proud. Perhaps it might confuse some of the ladies, but there isn't a man ever born who wouldn't understand it."

I remembered long nights and long roads. I couldn't fault his reasoning.

"At the same time,” Matt said, “the metaphor served the twins. They could play road games with the innocence of children, maybe even replay memories of a time when their parents were alive and the world seemed warm. John played The Road Dog, and Jesse chased; and, by God, so did the rest of us. It was a magnificent metaphor."

"If it was that blamed snappy,” I said, “how come it fell to pieces? For the past year, it seems like Jesse's been running away from The Dog."

"The metaphor began to take over. The twins began to defend against each other,” Matt said. “I've been watching it all along, but couldn't understand what was happening. John Still was trying to take over Jesse, and Jesse was trying to take over John."

"It worked for a long time,” I said, “and then it didn't work. What's the kicker?"

"Our own belief,” Matt said. “We all believed in The Road Dog. When all of us believed, John was forced to become stronger."

"And Jesse fought him off?"

"Successfully,” Matt said. “All this year, when Jesse came firing out of town, rolling fifty miles, and firing back, I thought it was Jesse's problem. Now I see that John was trying to get free, get back on the road, and Jesse was dragging him back. This was a struggle between real men, maybe titans in the oldest sense, but certainly not imitations."

"It was a guy handling his problems."

"That's an easy answer. We can't know what went on with John,” Matt said, “but we know some of what went on with Jesse. He tried to love a woman, Sarah, and failed. He lost his dogs—which doesn't sound like much, unless your dogs are all you have. Jesse fought defeat by building his other metaphor, which was that damned cemetery.” Matt's voice got husky. He'd been holding in his sorrow, but his sorrow started coming through. It made me feel better about him.

"I think the cemetery was Jesse's way of answering John, or denying that he was vulnerable. He needed a symbol. He tried to protect his loves and couldn't. He couldn't even protect his love for his brother. That cemetery is the last bastion of Jesse's love.” Matt looked like he was going to cry, and I felt the same.

"Cars can't hurt you,” Matt said. “Only bad driving hurts you. The cemetery is a symbol for protecting one of the few loves you can protect. That's not saying anything bad about Jesse. That's saying something with sadness for all of us."

I slowed to pull onto Jesse's place. Mike's Olds sat by the trailer. Lights were on in the trailer, but no other lights showed anywhere.

"Men build all kinds of worlds in order to defeat fear and loneliness,” Matt said. “We give and take as we build those worlds. One must wonder how much Jesse, and John, gave in order to take the little that they got."

We climbed from the Chrysler as autumn wind moved across the graveyard and felt its way toward my bones. The moon lighted faces of grave markers, but not enough that you could read them. Mike had the bulldozer warming up. It stood and puttered, and darkness felt best, and Mike knew it. The headlights were off. Far away on Highway 2, an engine wound tight and squalling, and it seemed like echoes of engines whispered among the graves. Mike stood huge as a grizzly.

"I've shot horses that looked healthier than you two guys,” he said, but said it sort of husky.

Matt motioned toward the bulldozer. “This is illegal."

"Nobody ever claimed it wasn't.” Mike was ready to fight if a fight was needed. “Anybody who don't like it can turn around and walk."

"I like it,” Matt said. “It's fitting and proper. But if we're caught, there's hell to pay."

"I like most everything and everybody,” Mike said, “except the government. They paw a man to death while he's alive, then keep pawing his corpse. I'm saving Jesse a little trouble."

"They like to know that he's dead and what killed him."

"Sorrow killed him,” Mike said. “Let it go at that."

Jesse killed himself, timing his tiredness and starvation just right, but I was willing to let it go, and Matt was, too.

"We'll go along with you,” Matt said. “But they'll sell this place for taxes. Somebody will start digging sometime."

"Not for years and years. It's deeded to me, Jesse fixed up papers. They're on the kitchen table.” Mike turned toward the trailer. “We're going to do this right, and there's not much time."

We found a blanket and a quilt in the trailer. Mike opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out snapshots. Some looked pretty new, and some were faded: a man and woman in old-fashioned clothes, a picture of two young boys in Sunday suits, pictures of cars and road signs, and pictures of two women who were maybe Sue Ellen and Sarah. Mike piled them like a deck of cards, snapped a rubber band around them, and checked the trailer. He picked up a pair of pale yellow sunglasses that some racers use for night driving. “You guys see anything else?"

"His dogs,” Matt said. “He had pictures of his dogs."

We found them, under a pillow, and it didn't pay to think why they were there. Then we went to the Linc and wrapped Jesse real careful in the blanket. We spread the quilt over him, and laid his stuff on the floor beside the accelerator. Then Mike remembered something. He half unwrapped Jesse, went through his pockets, then wrapped him back up. He took Jesse's keys and left them hanging in the ignition.

The three of us stood beside the Linc, and Matt cleared his throat.

"It's my place to say it,” Mike told him. “This was my best friend.” Mike took off his cap. Moonlight lay thin on his bald head.

"A lot of preachers will be glad this man is gone, and that's one good thing you can say for him. He drove nice people crazy. This man was a hellion, pure and simple; but what folks don't understand is, hellions have their place. They put everything on the line over nothing very much. Most guys worry so much about dying, they never do any living. Jesse was so alive with living, he never gave dying any thought. This man would roll ninety just to get to a bar before it closed.” Mike kind of choked up and stopped to listen. From the graveyard came the echoes, of engines, and from Highway 2 rose the thrum of a straight-eight crankshaft whipping in its bed. Dim light covered the graveyard, like a hundred sets of parking lights and not the moon.

"This man kept adventure alive, when, everyplace else, it's dying. There was nothing ever smug or safe about this man. If he had fears, he laughed. This man never hit a woman or crossed a friend. He did tie the can on Betty Lou one night, but can't be blamed. It was really The Dog who did that one. Jesse never had a problem until he climbed into that Studebaker.” So Mike had known all along. At least Mike knew something.

"I could always run even with Jesse,” Mike said, “but I never could beat The Dog. The Dog could clear any track. And in a damn Studebaker."

"But a very swift Studebaker,” Matt muttered, like a Holy Roller answering the preacher.

"Bored and stroked and rowdy,” Mike said, “and you can say the same for Jesse. Let that be the final word. Amen."

A little spark of flame dwelt at the stack of the dozer, and distant mountains lay whitecapped and prophesied winter. Mike filled the graves quick. Matt got rakes and a shovel. I helped him mound the graves with only moonlight to go on, while Mike went to the trailer. He made coffee.

"Drink up and git,” Mike told us when he poured the coffee. “Jesse's got some friends who need to visit, and it will be morning pretty quick."

"Let them,” Matt said. “We're no hindrance."

"You're a smart man,” Mike told Matt, “but your smartness makes you dumb. You started to hinder the night you stopped driving beyond your headlights.” Mike didn't know how to say it kind, so he said it rough. His red mustache and bald head made him look like a pirate in a picture.

"You're saying that I'm getting old.” Matt has known Mike long enough not to take offense.

"Me, too,” Mike said, “but not that old. When you get old, you stop seeing them. Then you want to stop seeing them. You get afraid for your hide."

"You stop imagining?"

"Shitfire,” Mike said, “you stop seeing. Imagination is something you use when you don't have eyes.” He pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket and was chewing it before he ever got it lit. “Ghosts have lost it all. Maybe they're the ones the Lord didn't love well enough. If you see them, but ain't one, maybe you're important."

Matt mulled that, and so did I. We've both wailed a lot of road for some sort of reason.

"They're kind of rough,” Matt said about ghosts. “They hitch rides, but don't want ‘em. I've stopped for them and got laughed at. They fool themselves, or maybe they don't."

"It's a young man's game,” Matt said.

"It's a game guys got to play. Jesse played the whole deck. He was who he was, whenever he was it. That's the key. That's the reason you slug cops when you gotta. It looks like Jesse died old, but he lived young longer than most. That's the real mystery. How does a fella keep going?"

"Before we leave,” I said, “how long did you know that Jesse was The Dog?"

"Maybe a year and a half. About the time he started running crazy."

"And never said a word?"

Mike looked at me like something you'd wipe off your boot. “Learn to ride your own fence,” he told me. “It was Jesse's business.” Then he felt sorry for being rough. “Besides,” he said, “we were having fun. I expect that's all over now."

Matt followed me to the Chrysler. We left the cemetery, feeling tired and mournful. I shoved the car onto Highway 2, heading toward Matt's place.

"Wring it out once for old times?"

"Putter along,” Matt said. “I just entered the putter stage of life, and may as well practice doing it."

In my mirrors a stream of headlights showed, then vanished one by one as cars turned into the graveyard. The moon had left the sky. Over toward South Dakota was a suggestion of first faint morning light. Mounded graves lay at my elbow, and so did Canada. On my left the road south ran fine and fast as a man can go. Mist rose from the roadside ditches, and maybe there was movement in the mist, maybe not.

There's little more to tell. Through fall and winter and spring and summer, I drove to Sheridan. The Mormon turned out to be a pretty good man, for a Mormon. I kept at it, and drove through another autumn and another winter. Linda got convinced. We got married in the spring, and I expected trouble. Married people are supposed to fight, but nothing like that ever happened. We just worked hard, got our own place in a few years, and Linda birthed two girls. That disappointed the Mormon, but was a relief to me.

And in those seasons of driving, when the roads were good for twenty miles an hour in the snow, or eighty under sun, the road stood empty except for a couple times. Miss Molly showed up once early on to say a bridge was out. She might have showed up another time. Squinchy little taillights winked one night when it was late and I was highballing. Some guy jackknifed a Freightliner, and his trailer lay across the road.

But I saw no other ghosts. I'd like to say that I saw the twins, John and Jesse, standing by the road, giving the high sign or dancing, but it never happened.

I did think of Jesse, though, and thought of one more thing. If Matt was right, then I saw how Jesse had to die before I got home. He had to, because I believed in Road Dog. My belief would have been just enough to bring John forward, and that would have been fatal, too. If either one of them became too strong, they both of them lost. So Jesse had to do it.

The graveyard sank beneath the weather. Mike tended it for a while, but lost interest. Weather swept the mounds flat. Weed-covered markers tumbled to decay and dust, so that only one marble headstone stands solid beside Highway 2. The marker doesn't bend before the winter winds, nor does the little stone that me and Mike and Matt put there. It lays flat against the ground. You have to know where to look:

And now even the great good cars are dead, or most of them. What with gas prices and wars and rumors of wars, the cars these days are all suspensions. They'll corner like a cat, but don't have the scratch of a cat; and maybe that's a good thing. The state posts fewer crosses.

Still, there are some howlers left out there, and some guys are still howling. I lie in bed of nights and listen to the scorch of engines along Highway 2. I hear them claw the darkness, stretching lonesome at the sky, scatting across the eternal land; younger guys running as young guys must; chasing each other, or chasing the land of dreams, or chasing into ghostland while hoping it ain't true—guys running into darkness chasing each other, or chasing something—chasing road.

We are, many of us, living in a Day-Glo apocalypse, a time during which multinational business interests, in the guise of American culture, are rapidly devouring the world, draining it of its individualistic colors. We can see the effects in Great Britain, for instance, where news analysis is beginning to be replaced by Punch-and-Judy shows such as are put on Fox, CNN, and CNBC—in one corner Mr. Right Wing, Lefty in the other, the bell sounds, and they snarl at each other for a few minutes, spouting party-line clichés until it's time for that all-important kitchen cleanser commercial. In the Arab Emirates, the powers-that-be are transforming Dubai into a characterless glob of neon splendor every bit as boring as Disneyworld or Las Vegas, bigger and brighter than both put together (what an awesome decay awaits that city come the actual apocalypse, with sand sifting through the lobby of the Hotel Burj El Arab and lizards presiding over the ruins of the spaceport now under construction, testimony to the prescience of J. G. Ballard). In the Far East, in the former Soviet Union and its satellites, in every quarter of the globe where the GNP is large enough to support a sturdy consumerism (even in some places where it's not), American styles, music, and advertising have made significant inroads. One can make persuasive arguments that Nigeria produces the best contemporary gangsta rap and that the most authentic-sounding reggae is to be found in Malaysia. Nowhere is this pernicious influence (or blissful contagion, depending on your point of view) more evident than in the world's various cinemas, which are churning out American-type pictures at an alarming rate. Whereas once Hollywood seduced quality foreign directors with bucketfuls of cash to come and direct a studio film, now those directors are queuing up for the opportunity and are making films every bit as boneheaded, as light on story and character, and as explosion-laced as their American counterparts, as if to say, “Hey! You want style over substance? Look what I can do!” For some it's not selling out—they weren't that good to begin with; for others, well, it's sad, really. A case in point is Mathieu Kassovitz.

Kassovitz's breakthrough film, made in 1995 when he was twenty-nine, was La Haine (Hate), a powerful and disturbing story about a day in the life of immigrant youth living in the concrete wasteland of the low-income Parisian suburbs. It was one of the best European films of the nineties, and, with two better than average films behind him (the other being Café au Lait), he seemed on the verge of greatness; but his next movie, Assassins, while technically superb, lacked all but the most rudimentary characterization, dwelled on its grisly materials with sadistic intensity, owed a sizable debt to Oliver Stone's Natural Born Killers (though Stone's movie was by contrast a model of subtlety), and hammered home its point (too much TV and video games are bad for you) over and over and over again in case the audience hadn't gotten it the first ten or twenty times.

Sound familiar?

After Assassins, Kassovitz turned his talents to the policier and gave us The Crimson Rivers, a film that wasted the considerable talents of Jean Reno and Vincent Cassel, a magnificent setting (a university town high in the French Alps), and several potentially wonderful set pieces, including one in which Reno and a murder suspect descend into the depths of a glacier. Chock full of red herrings, extraordinarily gruesome, and accompanied by a soundtrack that amplified every dripping faucet into a concussive experience, it was a quintessential Hollywood picture and would surely have gotten an American remake, except for the fact that it had already been made in America, being a fusion of Seven and The Silence of the Lambs. Yet the movie fulfilled its purpose. For his next film, Kassovitz was brought to L.A. and assigned to direct the supernatural thriller, Gothika, a Halle Berry vehicle set in a creepy asylum for the criminally insane, the Woodward Correctional Center, where the nights are always stormy and the lights always about to go out.

Gothika was the least original Kassovitz movie yet, a Girl, Interrupted meets J horror meets caged women sexploitation flick meets serial killer pic meets etc., a veritable cliché-fest burdened by so many jump-scares, I became distracted trying to anticipate when the next one would occur. Still, it had style (though this, too, was not so striking as Kassovitz's previous efforts) and was a serviceable horror film for much of its length. Berry wasn't awful as a psychiatrist who, in an apparent state of possession, evidently ax-murders her husband, and Robert Downey Jr. brightened the scene as her therapist once she's committed to Woodward (either he's in love with Berry or trying to gaslight her). But along about the sixty-seventy-minute mark, the movie veered into laugh-out-loud implausibility and lost all coherence ... which provides an apt segue into our topic for today, Kassovitz's latest, Babylon A.D.

Though Babylon A.D. is likely to make of Vin Diesel a straight-to-DVD actor, a fate that has overtaken many better actors (Rutger Hauer, for instance) who made bad career choices, I'm not going to blame him for this one. Put Diesel in a decent flick that doesn't demand more than him doing his Vin Diesel thing, and he'll come through for you. With the right choices, he might have become Arnold or Stallone. No, Vin Diesel isn't what's wrong with this movie. He's the same what-you-see-is-what-you-get Pithecanthropus erectus/outcast loner with the gravelly growl that he was in Pitch Black, with pecs bigger than his leading lady's and a smidgen of gold showing on that battered and oft-betrayed cynic's heart. He's seen too much caca to believe in the principles of sanitation. He's been there and done that and it's left him scarred and surly and, yes, just a wee bit vulnerable. He's walking beneath a black star, yet he doesn't bitch about it. The dude takes it like a man and keeps moving and maybe kicks a little ass when he's feeling extra-special lowdown.

Yeah.

One ironclad rule, however, when casting Vin Diesel in a movie is, though you want him to be Vin Diesel, you do not want him talking about it, and you certainly don't want him saying something like: “Life's simple. Kill or be killed. A survivor's code. My code. And it all sounds great (Really?) until the day you find yourself confronted by a choice. A choice to make a difference or to walk away and save yourself. I learned something that day. Too bad it was the day I died."

If I were Vin Diesel and you gave me lines like that to say, I'd have to kick your ass. Of course every line of dialog in Babylon A.D. equally warrants an ass-kicking, so—me being Vin and all—I'd have to be kicking your ass until my leg fell off.

So can we blame the script, written by Joseph Simas and Mathieu Kassovitz? Not according to Kassovitz. In a pre-release whine, he claims, “I never had a chance to do one scene the way it was written or the way I wanted it to be. The script wasn't respected. Bad producers, bad partners. It was a terrible experience."

I have no doubt that Fox screwed with the movie before and after it left Kassovitz's hands, but having watched it I seriously doubt they turned a good picture into a bad one. Then there's this: If Kassovitz's career arc were a tad different, if he hadn't worked under the conditions and pressures of a big budget (Babylon A.D.'s was a reported fifty million, high for a European production) studio film before, he might be credible in claiming that he was a naïf among wolves and didn't understand that bad producers and bad partners and a lack of respect for the script are staples of such movies. As things stand, questions arise. Why didn't Kassovitz make a similar disclaimer about the lamentable Gothika? If he so hated Babylon A.D., why didn't he remove his name from it? Was it because he waited too long? Do not his public denials constitute a belated attempt to cover his behind? No matter. Producers are used to taking heat, so lay the blame on the shoulders of Eric Cadrieu, Avram “Butch” Kaplan, Selwyn Roberts, and ... oops! Mathieu Kassovitz. Okay, we won't go there. This was, after all, Kassovitz's dream project, to adapt a 700-page novel by ex-punk rocker turned right-wing novelist and polemicist, Maurice G. Dantec, a novel that includes a book-long meditation on the dire effects of bioengineering and a virtual treatise on post-Soviet conflict responses (whether fortunately or unfortunately, none of this is in the movie). A director shouldn't be persecuted for pursuing his dream, however ill-considered it may be, should he?

For me, in this instance, it's a tough call.

To the movie....

Toorop (Diesel) is a lone wolf mercenary living in New Croatia or New Serbia or some newish Eastern European dump, a godforsaken mudhole rife with arms dealers and gunfire and walls tagged with skull-faced Statues of Liberty and like that, just the area where your typical war-torn vet would be prone to settle in a pied-à-terre with bullet holes in the walls, a little slice of heaven where he can befriend impoverished children and beat up shady characters with impunity and cook up a fresh-killed dog for his dinner. While Toorop is digging in to said dog (which by the way looks mighty tasty pan-broiled with spices and onions), an armed force blows in the door of his slum dwelling and brings him before Gorsky (Gérard Depardieu with a potbelly and a prodigious prosthetic nose[1] that appears to have been cloned from a parsnip), who's tooling around this pre-apocalyptic theme park in a tank outfitted with all the luxuries and a host of hi-tech gadgets and two strung-out-looking hookers. Gorsky tells Toorop he wants him to deliver a package to America—by the way he says “package,” you know he means a woman (naturally it helps if you saw The Transporter).

[1 We need to find someone (other than Kassovitz, of course) to blame for the makeup in this picture. Depardieu's nose is so pathetically fake, you expect him to sneeze dribbles of spirit gum. Charlotte Rampling wears so much Kabuki-style whiteface, it looks as if someone dumped a sack of flour onto her head. In some scenes Vin Diesel appears almost au naturel and we see that the seams and folds of his face are coming to bear a startling resemblance to the late José Ferrer; in others, he has on so much pancake, his skin has acquired an orange tone and the Diesel visage is smooth and unlined, as if our boy had just emerged from a Botox clinic.]

Following a quick stop at a convent in Mongolia (a CGI cliff dwelling that somehow manages to convey a Little House on the Prairie-like feel) to pick up the woman, Aurora (Mélanie Thierry), a frail, blond gamin, and her kung fu protector, Sister Rebeka (Michelle Yeoh), Toroop drives them to the Khazakhstani border with Russia where, after a humongous explosion designed to kill Aurora that kills hundreds of their fellow refugees instead, they board the bullet train to Vladivostok. There they visit the obligatory techno-industrial club (in the cyber-future, as envisioned by unimaginative filmmakers, it's always raining and there's always a techno-industrial club) complete with a monstrous cage fighter whom you know Toorop is going to have to handle at some point. After a bit of the old ultra-violence (Sister Rebeka doing her kung fu act, Toorop choking out the cage fighter, etc.), the next day they walk out with a crowd of refugees onto the frozen sea and hook up with a Russian sub that bears them to Alaska. Now Alaska being part of the U.S., you'd suppose this would be their journey's end, but maybe in the world of Babylon A.D., Canada has annexed the fiftieth state. Whatever, off they go on snowmobiles across our neighbor to the north, a passage during which a snowmobile stunt ripped off from xXx (another Vin Diesel joint) is thrown in and Toorop, badly injured, is saved by Aurora who performs surgery with her bare hands.

By this time it's evident that Aurora could have delivered herself to the U.S. of A. In addition to her surgical skills, she's capable of controlling a nuclear sub, speaks every language known to man, and can withstand a direct hit from an RPG. See, she's the daughter of a famous scientist who tinkered with her DNA and transformed her into a cross between Mother Mary and Wonder Woman. The word is that she may be carrying a virus that will destroy humanity, though that proves to be a false alarm. What she's actually carrying is a child (seems she's not only pregnant, but a virgin to boot), whom the Neolites—a variety of corporate religion headed up by the High Priestess (Charlotte Rampling)—want to use to produce an artificial messiah or something like that. The script is so badly conceived and Rampling, the putative villain of the piece, plays so small a role that I'm not sure what the point of it all was.

Anyway, they reach New York City, population thirty-two million (with surprisingly light traffic for a city that big), which looks like Blade Runner-Lite, digital ads crawling up the sides of skyscrapers, but no nifty airships or audio FX, and there Toorop dies in a street ambush and is reanimated in the care of one Dr. Newton, who's kept alive by a ridiculous steampunk IV that appears to have been designed by the Jules Verne School of the Unnecessarily Ornamental. He puts Toorop through a mind trip that takes him back through his painful past (imagine Diesel emoting—rule number two when casting Diesel: Never let him emote). The film thereupon winds down to a thoroughly unmemorable, severely truncated conclusion and then, six months later, we see Toorop clad not in army rags but in a nice polo shirt and a pair of Dockers, wearing inch-deep pancake, glowering orangely and sharing a final moment with Aurora before she dies giving birth to (I think) the first of a race of machine-human hybrids. He's broken-hearted, because previously they shared a half-naked minute-long scene in a bathroom, during which she seemed entranced by the size of his pecs.

I'm giving away the ending so you won't be tempted to rent or buy the DVD of this flimsy, nonsensical, cheap-looking, derivative piece of cyber-twaddle, easily the worst movie of the year to date. I've got my own code, you see. Like Vin Diesel's, it's a survivor's code. And it's all great until one day you're confronted by a choice. A choice to make a difference or to walk away and save yourself. I learned a lot that day. Too bad it was the day I saw Babylon A.D.

More than thirteen years have passed since Mr. Milosevic's “Dead Letters” appeared in our pages, so our crack research team went in search of news about Mr. M. It wasn't hard to find—his blog at www.mariowrites.com brims with personal and personable stuff, from his fondness for the works of Jorge Luis Borges to musings on life in the Columbia River Gorge and mentions of his wife, writer Kim Antieau. Oh, and did anyone mention the novel? Terrastina and Mazzoli, a novel told in episodes of 99 words each, first appeared online and is now available in print form.
And now, as the magician said after distracting the audience to look in the other direction, we bring you “Winding Broomcorn."

Had a good crop of broomcorn this year. I harvested great sheaves of it and brought it into my shed. My wife Belle used to love to see it, stiff stalks, all different colors, rust and green and gold. Bundled up like dry rainbows is the way she used to put it.

Would sit with me then, watch me make my brooms. She especially liked the stitching I did at the end, where I bind the stalks together with thread almost as thick as string. She used to say there was nothing more attractive than a man doing something domestic like sewing.

Those days are gone. Now, she'd just as soon I got rid of the winding machine and spend all my time with her, but you know, husbands have to have something to do their wives don't understand.

I saw it a million times when I was marrying couples. The men always wanted hobbies. The women, well, the men were their hobbies. Not saying anything right or wrong about it. Just what it is.

My pastoring days are over now. Used to have a congregation over at Mill Town on the river. Can't say I miss it. For one thing, it takes a lot of your time. Belle used to hate it when I had to go to evening meetings at the church. Always something: AA meeting, bible study, bake sale planning, building up the food bank, getting the next rummage sale going. And on and on.

For another thing, there's a lot of pain involved with pastoring. People in trouble. Their kids sick or dying, or their spouses fooling around or addicted to drugs or the drink or gambling. All kinds of terrible stuff. People miserable for one reason or another and they came to me for help. For divine counsel.

I tried, but I don't know how much I did for them. Sometimes I wonder if I did any good at all. Only God can really help. Either you believe and get comfort or you don't and I never knew how to make people believe. Didn't know if it was right to even try.

Belle never came to my church. Belle isn't a believer. Says she needs evidence, but never seen any. Preferred sitting in the sun. Well, that's okay. Everyone is different. Made it awkward for me, though: a pastor who couldn't convince his own wife about God. What good could he be?

I sometimes wondered that myself.

Now we're a hundred miles away here in Grangeville in Western Oregon. Lots of wheat farming and cows. Quiet. I grow my broomcorn and make brooms by hand, like my grandfather and mother did. A lost art now. Only old coots like me doing it and not too many of us, either.

But everyone needs a broom. I used to sell them, back in the day. Now I don't need the money so I give them away for wedding gifts. Or when people come to visit I give them a broom. People in town are always asking me for brooms to give to their friends.

Today I wanted Belle to come out to the shed. Watch me making brooms like she used to. That would be nice.

I looked around. Well, maybe this old shed wasn't clean enough for her.

I took one of my brooms and began sweeping the dust out from corners. I poked up into the crevices in the ceiling, brought down tangles of cobwebs. Brushed the walls with my broom, pulling away dust and pieces of dirt. I guess I had let it go just a little bit out here in the shed. Kind of grimy. Good to clean it all up. That's what a broom is for, right? I make them, why not use one of them?

I made a big pile of dust in the middle of the shed. I bent down with a dustpan. I was thinking about going and getting Belle to come sit with me when a woman walked into the shed. I stood up. Can't say how old she was. One of those people you think could be thirty or she could be sixty or anything in between. She carried a walking stick bent every which way.

"Hello,” she called as she stepped into the shed. “I hear you wind brooms."

"That's right,” I said. I put out my hand. “The name's Dwayne."

She leaned her stick against the wall, then touched my palm. I hardly felt anything, like she was made of air. “Pleased to meet you. I'm Kate."

"Hi, Kate."

"I was in Mill Town,” she said, “and a woman named Alice said you were out here making brooms."

"I haven't seen Alice in ages. She and Belle were good friends. Where you from?"

"I'm from a lot of places,” said Kate. “Passing through. Wanted to find out about the guy who makes brooms the old way."

"Yeah. I'm famous around here. People call me the broom whisperer.” I laughed at my own dumb joke.

She smiled, went over to the stash of broomcorn and ran her hand over the bristles, like she was fascinated by them. “You been doing this long?” she said.

"My family's been making brooms for close on ninety years. This equipment was my granddad's. You interested in brooms?"

"I had one. A good one. But it broke."

"You mean the handle?” I said.

"Yes,” she said. “The handle. And more than the handle. It wouldn't do what it was supposed to do anymore."

"Oh,” I said. “Do you see any here you like?"

She studied the wall where I had several of my brooms hanging. They made a nice display.

"Those are impressive brooms,” she said, “but I was wondering if you would make one special for me."

"Oh sure,” I said. “If I can."

She handed me her walking stick. “Can you make a broom using this as a handle?"

The stick still had most of its bark on. It was anything but straight. It looked like a lightning bolt, zigging this way and zagging that.

"Sure,” I said. “I can wind some broomcorn on that."

She pulled up a stool from a corner of the shed and sat down. “That's wonderful,” she said. “Can you do it now?"

I've been making brooms a long time. Since I was nine years old, so that's almost seventy years, but no one has ever wanted a broom right now.

I laughed. “You sure need this broom, don't you?"

"I need it for my work."

"What work is that?” I asked.

"It's spiritual. I help people."

"Huh,” I said. Noncommittal like. I wasn't exactly sure I wanted to tell her I used to be in the same business.

I took the stick from her and brushed off some of the looser bits of bark. I tried bending it, testing its strength. No go. It was a good solid piece of wood.

"It'll do, right?” she said.

"Yeah,” I said. “It'll do fine."

I clamped it in the gripping jaw of the broom machine, then hammered a small nail on the end. I pulled out a bit of wire from the winder and twisted it around the nail. When it was good and secure, I went to the stash of broomcorn and pulled up a good big sheaf of it. I shook it to get rid of the seeds. They fell like bits of colored rain: red, green, and yellow drops. Clung to my shoes and pants. I placed some of the broomcorn around the end of the stick and sat down and started unwinding the wire with the foot pedal. I eased the wire around the bristles of broomcorn and added more bristles as the winding progressed. I started getting warm. Sweat popped up on my forehead.

"It's quite a process,” said Kate.

"Uh huh,” I said.

"Belle ever come in here and watch you make brooms?"

That sounded like a strange question.

"Not for a long time,” I said. “She used to like it."

She nodded. “Yes, but how long?"

"Don't know exactly. Couple three years, I guess."

"Not since she died, right?"

The wire had the stalks wrapped pretty tight by this time. The thing already looked something like a real broom. All I had to do now was bend the bristles over the spooled wire and stitch up the broom so the bristles held together. That last part, the stitching, was what Belle really liked.

Kate didn't say anything else. Watched me. I heard her breathing.

"How'd you know about Belle?” I said.

"Call it a sixth sense. Or maybe a seventh or eighth. I lost count some time ago."

"Who are you?"

"Someone who needs a new broom. That's all."

I slipped on the leather mitt I used to help me push the needle through the bristles. The mitt belonged to my mother a long time ago, from when she used to stitch brooms. I did a few stitches in silence, bent over, with the heat starting to get to me.

"You like to go around the countryside harassing widowers?” I said.

"It wasn't anything personal. I just noticed. Had to say something."

"Uh huh."

"It's mostly I couldn't help myself. You seem like you're in pain."

"Okay."

"I really do need the broom."

I kept stitching the bristles, making sure they were gathered up good and tight. Nothing worse than a broom that doesn't hold together to get at the dust hiding in cracks and crevices. You want that good strong sweeping action, or else what's the point? When I finished, I loosened the clamp and took the broom out. Held it out for her inspection. I didn't want to look in her eyes.

She took it and held the bristles up close, examining them.

"I usually trim the ends,” I said. “At an angle for better sweeping, but I'm guessing you want it all raggedy like it is."

"Quite right,” she said. “Good guess.” She stood up and placed the unbristled end on the floor, like it was still a walking stick. She held it just at the base of where the bent bristles make a knob.

"What do I owe you?"

"Nothing. I make them for fun now."

She nodded. “Thank you."

I waved my hand.

"Some of us are gathering for a ceremony,” she said. “Tonight. You're welcome to come if you want."

"Oh, I've had lots of ceremonies in my life."

"One more won't hurt you."

"Probably won't help, either,” I said.

"I'd really like you to come. We'll be up on the hill behind the fire hall at dusk. Thanks again for the broom."

She turned around and walked out of the shed.

Later I thought I should have said more to Kate about Belle. Explained how things were. Some people have that effect. You just want to tell them things and you don't know why. And then later you wonder why you didn't.

People in town knew I was married once, and a lot of people even knew Belle's name, but she died only a few months after we came to Grangeville, so not too many people here really knew her. Except me.

But the worst of it? I don't even go to church anymore. Me, who used to be a pastor, I can't understand God anymore, taking away Belle like that. When I was pastoring and people came to me with their grief, I used to tell them it was God's will. None of us could understand. We just had to have faith.

Well, I was only half right. I don't understand, but I also don't have faith anymore.

So I pretend Belle is still alive. In my mind, that's all. No one else has to know. No one else does know.

Until Kate.

After Kate left I made some more brooms until I got tired of making brooms. Then I went into the house and opened a can of soup and ate it while I watched Belle's favorite show, the one with the detective who sees crimes before they happen. I never much liked it, but it makes me think of Belle and I like anything that reminds me of her. I thought about that hill behind the firehouse. Who would have a ceremony there? In this town? Crazy.

The firehall is only a block from my house. I can see the hill from my front window. I turned off the TV, got up from the couch, opened the front door, and stood at the screen door. The night was still warm, but a cool breeze was beginning to catch on the air. I heard noises coming from over beyond the firehall: howls, hollering.

I saw an orange glow up near the top, too. Looked like a campfire. Some figures dancing around. Four or five. I couldn't tell exactly how many.

There's a thing that happens to people in grief. I saw it when I was at my old church: they dream about the person passed on and they want to go live in that dream because it's the world they remember.

I knew that was what happened to me.

I also knew it wasn't good for me to be in that place for too long. A while, maybe, but if it drags on for months, well, that's a whole different story. And Belle's been passed on for years now.

Standing there at the door, the living room behind my back, I felt her. Belle. I thought if I turned around, then I would see her, sitting on the couch, watching her program.

I wanted to turn around.

Wanted to see her again. But I knew she wouldn't be there. Hadn't been there for a long time.

But the dancers around the fire. I heard their throaty calls to the darkness.

I pushed the screen door open.

It slammed shut behind me.

My shoes crunched on the gravel.

I didn't look back.

Not once.

I wondered what Belle would have thought about me going to an open air ceremony with a bunch of witches.

There I was, holding hands in a circle with four ladies dressed in black robes and hoods. The fire smoldered and crackled in the center of the circle. All their faces in shadow, hidden from me.

Kate's voice sounded like it rose from the Earth itself. She called the directions.

North and south, east and west. She brought all of creation into the circle. I felt dizzy, but alive. This was no place for a former pastor to be, hobnobbing with pagans.

Was it?

The wind came through, billowing up the flames. Heat wrapped around my face.

A crow flew over my head, so close I heard the air rustle over its feathers.

Belle?

She used to go outside, sit on the grass. For hours sometimes, just sitting. I'd ask her what she was doing. She said she was in church. Then she'd laugh.

Crazy Belle.

Where was she?

Kate stepped forward. She picked up her broom. The one I made not six hours before. She lifted it high over her head and waved it back and forth like a giant metronome. I had the idea she was brushing the sky. Sweeping it.

The other three ladies raised arms.

Mine felt heavy. Like they were carrying baskets full of stones. But you know, after a while, they didn't seem that heavy. I needed to lift my arms, too.

So I did. I reached about as high as I could go. I stretched so I stood on my toes.

Kate brought the broom down close to me. She brushed the air all around me, following my shape. She said some words. I couldn't make them out. They were murmurs, maybe no words at all, really, just the sound of the world.

Then things started getting darker. The sun had slipped away. The stars were coming out. Below me the town was turning on its lights, but they seemed so dim, like I was looking through sunglasses.

And Kate kept waving the broom around me.

The other ladies pulled back their hoods, one at a time. Then I saw, they were all Belle. The first one was Belle when we got married. Young. We were kids. Didn't know nothing. The second one was Belle older, like when she used to sit on the grass all the time. The third lady was Belle just before she died. Those deep eyes. Understanding everything.

Kate brought the bristles close to me.

Their tips brushed against my clothes.

I felt the sharpness of the ends on my skin. Not enough to hurt, but enough to dig out—something.

Like she was bristling away cobwebs.

Then things started getting not just dark, but cloudy. The three Belles started wavering, like they were made of watercolors. Stained air. I couldn't see much through the haze that dropped over me.

I thought about Belle.

She used to love my brooms.

Loved to be in the shed with me. Loved the smell of the broomcorn. Liked to hold it in her hands. Laughing at the feel of it. Used to say how much she admired me for making brooms. For making witches feel at home in the world.

I'd never thought about it before. Figured it was one of Belle's jokes.

Where was she? What world?

Just before everything went completely dark, I thought I felt her. All around me.

Then nowhere.

"Hey."

Familiar voice. I knew who that was.

"Hey, Dwayne? What you doing here?"

I looked up at the sky. It was blocked by Harold, the sheriff. Half of Grangeville's law enforcement department. A halo glowed around him. Morning light.

"Uh,” I said.

"You been out here all night, Dwayne?"

I sat up. My head felt thick, like it had been pumped full of dough.

"I guess so."

"You okay?"

I looked around. No sign of Kate or Belle. I stood and examined the ground, walking all over the top of the hill. Harold watched me with narrow eyes. Real suspicious like.

Absolutely no sign of a recent fire. Not one from last night at least.

"Just out for a walk, Dwayne?” said Harold. “Is that it?"

Over there, just past the rise. Was it?

I walked briskly toward the crooked stick.

The broom.

I picked it up and hefted it in my hands.

Harold was right next to me. “That what you were looking for?” he said. “This broom?"

"Yeah,” I said.

"Not one of your better ones,” said Harold.

I looked around the world. Grangeville spread out below me. A new day coming up.

My house was down there a bit. I could see the roof.

And I knew there was no one in it.

Not me or Belle.

"What would you say,” I asked Harold, “if I told you this was the best broom I've ever made in my life?"

Harold took off his hat and scratched his head.

"Well. Dwayne. I'd have to say you were a little nuts in the head. Like maybe you went off your rocker just a little bit."

"Yes,” I said. “I think you're right, Harold. Just a little bit."

Eugene Mirabelli lives with his wife Margaret near Albany, New York, where he taught writing for many years. His six novels include The Burning Air, The World at Noon, and most recently, The Goddess in Love with a Horse (and What Happened Next). His last F&SF story, “Falling Angel” in our Dec. 2008 issue, was an edgy modern fantasy. His new one looks like it will be in that same vein, but stick around and you might be surprised.

One minute he was there, the same as ever, and the next—Wham!—he was in this other place where everything had lost its thickness, was deflated, flat. For a moment he wondered if maybe the world was as solid as ever but his mind had collapsed—a thought that made his head spin, or would have if a young woman hadn't turned up just then, saying, “Here we are."

"Oh! I. Yes! Here we are,” he said, trying to gather his wits.

The young woman had her hand on the door of a life-size photograph of a glossy black sports car, a cut-out photo backed with wood or stiff cardboard so it stood there looking as if it were real.

"As you can see, the Alfa Romeo Spider is a beautiful two-seater convertible,” she told him, smiling. “It replaces an older version, the Spider Nine-sixteen model, which was introduced back in 1995."

His head had cleared and he saw it wasn't a photo but the thing itself, a gleaming black sports car, a two-seater with golden brown leather seats. The woman was in a skimpy white dress, more like a stretched T-shirt than a dress.

"Where am I? What's happening?” he said.

"What's happening nowadays is a Type Nine-thirty-nine with front-wheel drive and six-speed manual transmission.” She had leaned into the cockpit and, still looking at John, placed her hand gently, caressingly, on the knob of the erect shift. “As you can imagine, it has power and lots of it!"

"I'm not interested in cars,” he cried. “I don't know what I'm doing here or how I got—"

Her smile vanished for a moment, but then she brightened. “I know what you're wondering. And the answer is nine point four miles per gallon,” she told him, smiling once more.

"Listen, maybe you can tell me—” he started to say.

But she was walking away, her high heels making a brisk tap-tap-tap on the shiny showroom floor. Her back was bare just to the cleft of her buttocks and her dress appeared not filled by her body but merely held against it by the slender white ribbon tied in a bow knot at the nape of her neck.

"This is impossible,” he muttered, following her toward the big glass door.

"Impossible?” she said, turning to him with a smile. “Almost impossible. But, yes, this is a 1963 Ferrari, a Two-fifty GT Lusso.” She trailed her hand up the rear of a dazzling red car. “One of the most sought after classic Ferrari vehicles. Beautifully restored, the black leather interior is as soft as glove—"

John had shoved open the glass door, stepped outside, and was looking around. He didn't recognize any of the buildings. He discovered he didn't have his cell phone with him; he jammed his hands into his pockets, felt his wallet and his apartment keys—all there. He walked to the end of the block, stopped at the cross street and saw that the sign was missing—no surprise—then he turned around and began walking to the other end. The block was composed of expensive shops selling men's shirts, electronic gear, wine, sunglasses, fancy driving gloves, and sports equipment.

He was standing on the curb, wondering if this was a part of Manhattan he didn't know, when she said, “Here we are again.” Now she was wearing a yellow swim top and a short brown suede skirt.

"You've changed, but you look familiar,” he said, puzzled.

She laughed. “We were in the auto showroom, remember?"

"No, no, no. I mean from before then.” He had closed his eyes and was rubbing his forehead with his fist. “I don't understand—"

"I do photo shoots. Not as many as I'd like, but maybe you saw one of my spreads."

He looked at her. “You know this part of the city?"

"Not really.—Oh, look!” She had abruptly squatted, half kneeling to display a dazzling white inner thigh, and was now scratching the curly head of a friendly terrier. “Oh, you cute, cute doggy!” She rubbed her cheek against the dog's muzzle. The terrier wagged its tail, jumped backward, and dashed off. “Bouncy little dog."

"A Jack Russell terrier,” he said. “Not my favorite breed."

"Can you imagine meeting a fun dog like that? So cute and friendly! That's why I love the city."

"What city?” he asked, intending to find out what city this was. “What city do you love?"

"I love San Francisco for its wonderful views. I love Boston for its historical sites. I love New York for its great museums. And also Washington, D. C., for its historical sites and great museums, I think."

"I'm sure we've met someplace before,” he murmured. “You live around here?” he asked her, still hoping to learn where he was.

"Certainly.” She stepped off the curb into street traffic and hailed an onrushing cab. “Let's go."

In the cab he asked her name. “Veronica London,” she said. “What's your's."

"John Mousse."

"Moose? You mean like the animal? The one like the reindeer?"

He peered out the cab window at the building façade sweeping past, flat as a photo. “Yeah, the one like the reindeer."

"Now it's your turn, John, so what's your favorite city?"

"I don't like cities."

In her apartment Veronica asked, “Can I get you something to drink?"

John looked around. “I don't know what I'm doing here,” he told her.

She smiled as if they were about to have fun. “Oh, I think you do. I think we both know what you're doing here. Or going to be doing."

"I'm just lonely,” he protested. “That's all I am, and confused."

"Forget about that,” she told him. “Let me get you something to drink."

"It's too early in the day for me to start drinking."

"I have an ex-presso machine. I can make you some presso,” she said.

"Presso?"

"It's European coffee."

"It is? Oh, that! Yes. Espresso. I'll have that,” he said.

She smiled. “Make yourself comfortable. I'll get things started."

Veronica returned carrying a small tray with two diminutive cups of coffee. She was in a semi-transparent slip or nightgown or breakfast robe or peignoir or something—John didn't know what it was called—a loose white garment that flowed in a cataract from her shoulders to her breasts, to her hips, knees and ankles, allowing the ivory-rose color of her flesh to show through. She set the tray on a marble-topped café table by the window where a gauze curtain was filled with blurred sunlight. John couldn't take his eyes off her.

"Here's to you,” she said, raising her cup in a toast.

"I'm positive we've met,” he told her. “I just can't place you. I recognize you but I can't quite recall from where."

"A lot of people think they know me,” she said.

The bed upon which she waited was covered with thick rumpled folds of crushed amber velvet and as she unfolded herself in the rosy half-light the silver jewelry in her navel gleamed and winked, catching his eye. “Hey,” he said. “That's a staple! You've got a silver staple in your navel. And—Yes!—Now I remember. You're Miss November! In the magazine! Yes, yes, yes!"

"That was two years and seven months ago,” she said, her voice husky with desire. “And you've kept it all that time. Come.” She stretched, opening her arms to him.

"A magazine! Oh, God, what's happening,” he cried.

The usual was happening.

Afterward he told her, “I don't know why I did that. I don't even know what I'm doing here. We have nothing in common, absolutely nothing, you and me."

"Don't worry,” she said languidly, but with an edge to her voice. “That wasn't a marriage ceremony we performed."

"I'm sure you're a very nice person,” he hastened to add. “But you're not my type."

She didn't say anything for a moment. “You kept my magazine so long it must be a collector's item. I'm flattered."

"I was using it to hide a different magazine,” he explained.

They were lying side-by-side on the big disheveled velvet bed and now she turned her head to look at him. “Just who is your type?” she asked.

"You'd laugh if I told you."

"Try me."

He hesitated. “You know the L. L. Bean catalog?” he asked tentatively.

"Nope."

"They sell regular clothes, mostly, but also canoes and tents—camping equipment."

"So?” She sat up, pulling her knees to her chin.

"So there's a woman in the Christmas issue two years ago and she's my type."

She glanced at him. “A woman in some outdoor clothing and camping catalog?"

"Yes."

"You want her for this?” she said, incredulous. “She's your type?"

He felt his face getting hot, flushing. “Yes,” he confessed.

Veronica looked at him a moment, then let herself flop backward onto the velvet bed cover. “You see, I didn't laugh."

When he awoke at noon she was gone and a note lay on his clothes which he'd tossed onto a bed chair last night. Good Morning John—Don't forget to leave the door so it locks when you exit. Make sure you try it after you've shut it. And I've set the Ex-Presso machine so it will make regular American coffee.

Bye-bye,

Veronica (a very nice person)!!!

If there had been a park across the street yesterday, John hadn't seen it, but that morning he went into it because the greenery—the long view of the grassy field, the pond and grove of trees, the promise of rural life—was so inviting. Inside the park, nature looked too simplified. A bright yellow sun was shining, the sky was blue, the grass smoothly green on both sides of the nicely curved path. The man seated on the bench up ahead had folded his newspaper, had put it beside his briefcase and was smoking a pipe. A little dog dashed up from nowhere, paused to look at John, then scooted back across the grass. A moment later the mutt dashed across the gravel path, barking happily, a little girl in a yellow dress chasing it. The man with the pipe stood up. “See Spot run. Run, Spot, run!” he cried. A little boy in a crisp white jersey and neat blue shorts had come running. “See Jane run. Run, Jane, run!” he shouted. When he saw John, the boy shouted, “Jane runs fast. Can Jane catch Spot?” John walked as briskly as he could and watched the kid out of the corner of his eye. The boy trotted beside him, saying in bold face type, “Jane plays catch. I play catch. Do you play catch? Jane plays catch.” John thrust his foot out, sent the kid sprawling onto the grass. The walkway branched ahead and John took the path that he saw led out of the park, letting the brat's wild “Run, Jane, run!” diminish far behind him.

Shutting up the kid made John feel better but the world still felt weird. Veronica's apartment house was nowhere in sight. In fact, the street he crossed on his way out of the park didn't look to him to be any part of the street he would have crossed on his way in, and now he noticed the city skyline had shrunk, as if from the cold. The automobile traffic and the people along the sidewalk looked all right. A rust-rotted minivan pulled away from the curb, its dented rear hatch springing open just enough for a thick snake of electric cord to slide out, dragging a guitar which John grabbed just before it hit the pavement. The van drove off, a whirlwind of advertising posters billowing up from the open hatch, then abruptly halted. A thin guy with a bone-white face got out and began to gather up the loose posters, jamming them under his arm while making his way, head down, toward the curb—then he saw John standing there with the guitar cradled in his arms. “It's safe,” John told him.

"Holy crap! Thanks, man. I owe you."

"You're in a band?"

The thin guy took the guitar and handed him a poster.

"Good name, sounds like a good band,” John said, just to be polite. “Maybe the poster needs a little work,” he added.

The guy laughed. “Yeah, the poster's shit. We need a rewrite and a design or something."

Apparently his face was that white by nature. He had deep socketed eyes, hadn't shaved in three days, and his hair stuck out as if electrified. John had the uneasy feeling that he knew this face from someplace.

"You're Rod?” John asked him.

"Right. And if I didn't have my hands full I'd shake your hand. This guitar's worth more than I am."

"How do I get out of here?” John asked in a rush.

"What do you mean?” Rod asked.

"One minute I was in my apartment and—” he broke off, fearing he'd sound crazy. “What I mean is—My name's John Mousse and I'm a graphic artist,” he blurted. “In my other life."

"In your other life,” Rod echoed. “Hey, I like that.” He laughed. They stood there talking a while, then Rod said, “I got to get going. Hop in if you want. Got to drive around putting up these lousy posters. You can help."

So John climbed into the van and they drove around putting up the lousy posters, wrapping them around lamp posts, tacking them to newspaper kiosks, pasting them to the front of brownstone townhouses. “Keep an eye out for the cops. They're fussy-fussy about where we put these things,” Rod had told him. So John patrolled as lookout while Rod pasted another to the back panel of a pickup truck, a station wagon, a bus, and two posters side-by-side on the front door of the library.

Some hours later they were at a community bulletin board in a parking lot when Rod asked him, “You don't like being a graphic artist?"

"I like it most of the time. I can do it alone. A couple of months ago I quit the group I worked for. I work from my apartment now."

"Could you design us a poster? Special lettering or a logo or something?” he asked, all the while searching for an open space on the crowded bulletin board. The cork was covered with loose sheets of paper—bus schedules, café menus, local events, part-time jobs, puppies, and second-hand cars—each note tacked over the other, like roof shingles.

"Sure. I can do that,” John said.

Rod had a cigarette lighter in his hand. “Anybody around?” he asked, flicking the lighter with his thumb.

"Two old ladies. A mother pushing a stroller with a kid in it,” John told him. “No cops."

Rod had already run the small flame along the bottom edge of the bottom row, setting the papers ablaze. “All those missing kitty-cats,” he muttered, patting out the last scraps of fire. “They just want to be free.” He tacked his poster in the scorched center of the bulletin board. “I'll take you to the house,” he said, turning to John. “You can meet my sister and Annabel. And if we're lucky, one of them will feed us."

The house was a three-story yellowish stucco building with patches of moss growing on it. The façade looked oddly flat, as if it were a giant sheet of paper upon which somebody had meticulously painted windows and a door and greenish splotches of moss. And the sky in back, a shade of greenish gray, looked painted too. A young woman in black jeans and a black jersey was sitting on the front steps, peeling a peach. “Welcome to the low-rent area,” Rod told him. A long crack had opened down the front of the house and a stretch of stucco had fallen off. “It still needs a lot of fixing up, but it's all ours. We own it.—Watch out for the ditch!"

John stood looking at the house. “I feel weird. I have the feeling I've been here before,” he said. “I mean, I've seen this before. Even all these dead leaves."

"That's called déjà vu,” the young woman said.

"This is my sister Madeline,” Rod told him.

"I've seen this in a book,” John said. “It's an illustration for a story."

"I'd shake your hand except it's sticky,” Madeline said. “My hand I mean, sticky.” Like her brother, she had dazzlingly white skin, and hers was emphasized by black eye-shadow, black lipstick and black nail polish. Her black hair was pulled not to the back but to one side of her head and held there with a silver clasp.

"John's a graphic artist, in another life,” Rod told her. And turning to John, he said, “Madeline's a part-time waitress, but in real life she's a songwriter, and a good one."

"Come on in,” Madeline said. She swallowed the last chunk of peach, licked her fingers and looked around for a place to throw the pit, but kept it in her hand. “I'll give you the tour."

In the kitchen she tossed the peach pit into a crock labeled compost, washed her hands, and showed John room after room, up and down the house, then arrived back in the kitchen where Rod was looking into the refrigerator.

"It's the middle of the afternoon,” she told Rod, “so I guess you're ready for breakfast, right?"

"We're artists, Madeline, we get up late."

"I can make you a good salad. If you want the cold cuts you'll have to fix them yourselves."

"Maddy's a vegetarian,” Rod told John. “She won't touch meat, won't handle it."

"I don't eat flesh,” Madeline said.

"Salad is fine,” John said, hoping to sound agreeable.

Sometime after lunch the second guitarist drove up with the drummer, and a while later Annabel Lee showed up (short platinum blond hair floating over her head like a halo), then everyone climbed the stairs to the third floor where they rehearsed. The band had echoes of 1970s rock, which surprised John, who had expected something bizarre, and Annabel Lee had a good voice. Madeline was on the keyboard for one piece but, as she told him, she preferred writing music to playing it. There wasn't anything for John to do, so when Madeline went downstairs he went with her.

Madeline made a pot of coffee and John steered conversation away from himself as much as possible. Madeline said she and her brother came from a place in Philadelphia. “But it's no longer extant,” she said, meaning, as far as John could tell, that it had been paved over. At first he had been distracted by the black eye shadow and black lipstick, but he found he was getting used to it. “Are you religious?” he asked her.

"Spiritual maybe, but not religious. Why do you ask?” she said.

He said he couldn't help but notice she was wearing earrings with big dangling crosses. “Oh, these.” She smiled. “It's just a style,” she said. Sometime later they heard the clatter on the stairway which meant the rehearsal had broken up and a minute later everyone was in the kitchen talking at once.

The second guitarist and the drummer drove off, but Annabel stayed and Rod volunteered to drive out to get pizza. “Let me come along, I want to pay,” John told him. So Madeline phoned the order in to Mama Mia's Pizza while Rod and John drove out to get it. “Annabel comes from Boston,” Rod told him. “That's why she says cah for car, and pahk for park, unless it's in a lyric."

"She seems nice."

"Yeah. She is,” Rod said, thinking about it. “We used to be married. Actually, we still are, except we don't live together much. We separated to get a divorce, but it turned out we got along much better that way, so that's the way it is. The sex is hotter, too."

John slumped down a bit. “Everybody I know is married. Some of them twice."

"Ever been married?"

"No,” John murmured. He remained silent for a while. “That reminds me,” he began, then broke off. “I know this sounds strange, but I haven't got a place—"

"You can stay at the house. We got room."

"Thanks."

They stopped at an ATM machine. John put in his card, tapped in his number and waited. Nothing happened. Rod kicked the machine; it buzzed to life and slid out the money. “I know this lousy machine,” Rod told him. “It cheats. Count the cash."

"It's real bills!” John said, delighted.

"What were you expecting, Monopoly money?"

John laughed. “Yes, but it doesn't matter.” He paid for the pizzas, two six-packs of beer, a bottle of bourbon, a cheap razor, and a toothbrush.

They sat around the kitchen table, devoured the pizza and washed it down with beer, then scrubbed the dishes and stacked them on the shelf. Everyone was tired. Rod and Annabel Lee shared a joint, and John leaned back against the wall, contented. The world didn't seem quite so weird or, to be precise, the weirdness didn't matter so much. When Madeline turned to him and said, “Name your opiate,” he said, “I'll have what you're having."

She smiled, showing her teeth, and poured a big glass of bourbon for him. “It's refreshing to have someone sane in this house."

"You flatter me,” he told her.

"Sanity is way overrated,” Rod said, sweet smoke drifting from his mouth with each word.

John knew he was drinking too much, but it didn't seem to matter to anyone else, so he decided it didn't matter to him either. It was becoming clear where he was and why everyone was so familiar here. It was coming back to him, or maybe coming forward; anyway, it was on the tip of his tongue to tell everybody that he knew. And he would have, but the weirdness, or whatever it was, didn't bother him any longer. Rod's deep socketed eyes and electrified hair and Annabel's platinum blond halo didn't seem so odd. Furthermore, he could see that Madeline's work on herself—painting her eyelids and her lips black, the way she had swept her hair sideways across her head and down one side, even the silver crosses swinging from her ears—was a kind of art, a visual presentation, something like his own graphic work. Maybe that's why he turned to Rod and said, “I like your sister. I'm glad she doesn't eat flesh."

"I guess she's likable in her own weird way,” Rod conceded. “Listen to this—” He turned to the CD player that somebody had brought to the table. “This is a recording we made last year. Didn't do much, but it's good, really good."

"For Christ's sake, Rod, he was at the rehearsal, isn't that enough?” Madeline said.

"Rod has found a new audience,” Annabel said.

Then there was a gap and Rod told him how when he was a kid there was this nice bit from “Hotel California” that fascinated him and he still thought it was one of the best guitar performances ever. In fact, they were playing the “Hotel California” now and the music was in the air all around them, and the lyrics were resonating in John's head or, yes, in his heart, and the last thing he remembered he was running for the door, thinking he had to find the passage back to the place he was before, but the chorus said, Chill out, we are destined to receive, you can check out any time you want,

But you can never leave!

At which point John put his cheek to the kitchen table and wept while the guitars played on and on.

When John awoke the next morning his head throbbed and he felt dizzy or nauseated, he couldn't tell which. He climbed out of bed—the bed being a folded army blanket thrown over a mattress on the floor—and went down the hall to the bathroom. He was standing at the toilet in his undershorts and T-shirt when the memory came back to him of Rod holding his head while John knelt, vomiting into the bowl. He took a shower, went downstairs, and found Rod at the kitchen table, buttering toast. “How you feeling?” Rod asked him, his electrified hair glowing in the midday sunlight.

"Not good,” he croaked.

"Want coffee, toast?"

"I don't think so.—I'm sorry about last night."

"Shit happens,” Rod said, dismissing it.

"Where's Madeline?"

"She waitresses mornings."

"What's good for a hangover?” John asked, seating himself cautiously at the table. “My head feels like a big, big bell."

"Try the toast and coffee."

John cleared his throat and announced, “Your full name is Roderick Usher. And your sister's name is Madeline. And.” His speech was rather slow this morning.

"Right,” Roderick said. He paused, his toast halfway to his mouth, waiting for John to conclude the sentence.

"And you two are characters in a short story by Edgar Allan Poe."

"Not really,” Rod said. He bit into his toast which gave a satisfying crunching sound. “We're real and the story is make-believe."

"In the story you accidentally put your sister into a tomb alive because you think she's dead."

"That's what I mean. I've done a lot of crazy things but I've never buried Maddy alive. Or dead, for that matter."

Half an hour later Madeline arrived back from her job at the café and Rod told her, “John thinks we're escapees from a short story by Edgar Allan Poe."

"I can't blame him,” Madeline said. “Hi, John."

John was washing out his cup at the sink and he said hi.

"He says I buried you alive,” Rod reported.

"I only look that way sometimes when I'm tired,” she told John.

"No, no! All I meant was that I recognized this house,” John explained hurriedly, turning to her. “It's the house in ‘The Fall of the House of Usher,’ I remember the illustration."

"I read the story where somebody gets walled up in a wine cellar,” Rod said. “He gets buried alive that way, behind a wall. That was in Poe."

"There's something weird going on,” John said, shutting his eyes, rubbing his temples.

"When you have déjà vu you feel weird,” Madeline said. “You feel like, oh, I've seen this before, like, oh, everything is happening like it happened before. It feels eerie. It happens to everybody at one time or another."

"It feels like I come from—I don't know—another space or time."

"You come from California?” Rod asked.

"I live in New York."

"Well, you're in Connecticut now,” he said. “A wholly different state."

"I've got to get back. I can't live off you guys."

Rod laughed. “Hey, man, you're not living off us. You've been here one night and you paid for our dinner and drinks. We owe you. So relax,” Rod told him. “Relax."

That evening Rod and Annabel Lee shared some low-grade smokes—"True ditch weed,” Rod called it—and Madeline had half a glass of Jack Daniels and John drank coffee. Rod had told Annabel about John's weird feelings and she had looked concerned. Later, when Rod and Annabel were getting ready to go out to a club, she turned to John and said, “Maybe you came in from a parallel universe, an alternate world."

"Oh, sure,” Rod muttered. “Make it complicated."

"It's a respectable theory among physicists,” Annabel said defensively.

"Leave the poor man alone. He's had a hard day,” Rod said.

"The idea is that when you look at a quantum wave it turns into only one of its possible states,” she told John. “But the others continue to exist, and those are the alternate worlds."

"Do you want to see that singer or not?” Rod asked her.

"What singer?” Madeline asked.

"Some twenty-year-old who puts on a black leather corset and fishnet stockings and thinks that makes her a singer. She's at the DownTown."

Rod and Annabel Lee left. John reheated the coffee and poured himself another cup. “Well, that clears that up. This is an alternate world.” He gave a brief laugh. “What I don't understand is why you don't think I'm crazy."

But they didn't think he was crazy. It was clear to them that he came from an alternative world and was quite sane. The next day at breakfast when he told Rod about walking through a park that looked like an old-fashioned first-grade reader, all Rod said was, “You did right to trip the little bastard.” And that night at dinner when he told everyone about his meeting the centerfold girl, they all accepted that, too. “Centerfold women do exist,” Madeline said. “They're models or actresses."

"But I didn't meet a model or actress, I met the sex pot she was pretending to be in the photo. She even had a staple in her navel where it holds the magazine pages together."

Rod refilled John's wineglass, saying, “What was she like, you know, in bed? What happened next?"

"Hey!” Annabel cut in. “Maybe he likes his privacy."

"The only reason I had the magazine was to hide my L. L. Bean catalog inside it,” John said. “In the catalog there were photos of people skiing or buying Christmas wreaths and things like that, and one of the women was, well, I was attracted to her. It's that simple. Crazy about her, actually. Obsessed, you might say. For the past two years.” He felt out of breath.

"What did she look like?” Madeline asked him.

"She was just nice, that's all. She looked—I could tell she—she was authentic, real. She was beautiful, but that's not important. She was—she was what you want when you want to marry someone. I want to marry her."

There was silence around the table. John felt his face getting hot, his hand darted out for his wineglass but knocked it over—"Sorry!"—and he jumped up and got a paper towel to mop up the spilled wine.

The next day Annabel Lee drove over to Providence to visit a widowed aunt whose husband used to buy sporting gear from L. L. Bean; the uncle had died over a year ago and, sure enough, Annabel found the Christmas catalog from two years past and brought it back with her. That night she slid it across the kitchen table and asked him, “Which one is she?"

John opened the catalog, flipped a couple of pages, then turned the magazine around so the others could see it. “Look, the man with the string of Christmas tree lights in his hand is married to the woman who is about to hand him the cup of eggnog, and the woman off by the fireplace—that's the one I told you about."

"Nice sweater,” Rod said. “Looks warm."

"How do you know who's married to who?” Annabel asked.

"He's decorating the family Christmas tree, right? Then the person bringing eggnog from the kitchen would be his wife. And there's other scenes, too.” He swept three pages back. “Look. They're outside in the snow and, see, the father is pulling the sled with the little girl on it and the woman next to the sled, looking down at her daughter, is the same one who made the eggnog. And this other woman—I wish I had her name—is looking at them and smiling. And there's the farmhouse in the background."

"Oh, yes,” Madeline said.

"There's other indoor photos,” John said, sweeping several pages aside. “Look. Here she is alone. This is a bedroom, an old-fashioned bedroom. See the edge of the bed quilt? And the braided rug? She has no wedding ring."

"Nice bathrobe,” Rod said.

"And this is one of my favorite photos,” John said, turning to the front of the catalog. “See. It's the farm house, the wreath on the big front door, and the light from the window shining on the snow outside, and through the window you can see the people inside, standing by the fire, talking.—What do you think?"

"I think you should look for her,” Annabel told him. “Don't go back to your other life in that parallel universe.” Rod and Madeline agreed with Annabel. “Stay in this one,” they said.

And that's what John did. He stayed and got an outdoor job with a landscape company in Stamford, Connecticut. He insisted on paying Rod and Madeline for his room, despite their objections, and he contributed his share for food and other household expenses and, of course, he designed a new poster for the band, as well as helping to set up the lights and amplifiers when they played. He bought blue jeans, chinos, and a few shirts from—you guessed it—L. L. Bean. He had always had friends or, to be exact, friendly acquaintances at work, one or two anyway, one for sure, but he had never felt so at home in his life as he did now.

From time to time he thought about phoning his number in Brooklyn Heights, but a certain uneasiness or superstitious dread had always made him hesitate and he'd forget about it. Early in December he bought himself a cheap pay-as-you-go cell phone and on a whim he did phone his old apartment. It rang and rang and just as he was about to hang up there was a click and a woman's voice said Hello. John fumbled for words, told her his name and asked about his furniture. “What furniture do you mean?” the woman asked, clearly baffled by the question. He asked was there furniture in the apartment. “No, it's quite empty and ready to rent. If you'd like to see it, we can set up an appointment and....” He told her he had his graphics studio there and the woman said, “Yes, it would make an excellent graphics studio.” She was still talking when John hung up, finished with his old life. Anyway, by then he'd bought a green twelve-year-old third-hand Chevy pickup truck and was ready to go looking for the young woman in the catalog.

"Where you going to look?” Rod asked him.

"From the appearance of the white clapboard farm house and the depth of the snow, I figure Maine,” John said.

"Good, that narrows it down."

On December Tenth, John Mousse said good-bye to Roderick Usher and his sister Madeline Usher and to Annabel Lee. He knew they were an odd looking bunch but, frankly, he liked them and they made him feel good. He had never asked Annabel Lee about her name, which was the same as the title of a poem by Edgar Allan Poe, but he guessed she would have a good explanation for it. Pale Madeline had previously kept her hair dyed black to match her punk-Goth style, but last night she'd changed it to an electric blue. When he said good-bye he stroked her hair, saying, “It's beautiful, Madeline, really beautiful.” Rod, his eyes looking even more deeply socketed than ever, gave him an envelope with all the money John had paid to rent the bedroom. Then John hopped into his rattle-trap pickup truck and drove off, hammering his horn and waving to them. Way down the road he turned on the windshield wipers because it had begun to snow in very fine little flakes.

Ordinarily it isn't a hard drive from western Connecticut to Maine. You take 91 north to Hartford, then branch northeast on 84 into Massachusetts and onto the Mass Pike going northeast until you cross 495. Then you make a big curve north and east around Boston and when you reach 95, the coastal highway, you go across a bit of New Hampshire and north, northeast into Maine. But John was driving straight into a northeaster, a New England blizzard. More and more of the world was being erased, and by the time he reached Maine everything outside the pickup was blank. He drove into the night, his headlights filled with a dense whirling white confetti, as if a deranged artist had torn the world to a zillion bits and was hurling them at the pickup truck. John must have turned off the highway, because when the storm passed and the sky cleared he was on a narrow freshly plowed road, driving between high banks of snow.

At the crest of a hill he pulled to a stop. In the moonlight he could see for miles over gentle white hills and dark pine woods. He got out, astonished at the quiet and the pure deep, deep space. He climbed the snow bank and saw lighted windows at the other end of a nearby snowfield, and lights down in the valley. He parked the pickup as far to the side as he could, then he climbed the snow bank and plodded through the dreamy deep snow to the house. Lamplight from big front windows spilled onto the snow, and he could see a man and two women decorating a Christmas tree. He knocked at the door and the man opened it. “Hi,” John said. “My name is John Mousse and I'm lost."

"It's a bad night to get lost in,” the man said, an easy-going guy wearing an L. L. Bean blue canvas shirt. “But it looks like it's over. Come in, give us your coat, tell us where you want to get to."

John stepped inside and, dizzy with anxiety, held the edge of the door frame while he took off his coat and knocked the snow from his boots. A woman in a new forest-green wool jacket handed him a mug of steaming cocoa, and the young woman coming across the room asked him, “Did you say you were John Mousse?"

"Yes,” John said.

"You're not lost. My name is Kate Greenway. I'm the woman you spoke to a couple of days ago about renting a place. You asked if it was furnished.” She was in the China blue heather ribbed merino wool sweater from two years ago. “The phone got cut off and I was so afraid you hadn't heard the directions on how to get here."

"I recognize you,” John said, his heart banging so hard he was afraid she'd hear it. “Recognize your voice, I mean. For the apartment. Yes."

"It's just up the road about a mile, a refinished barn next to my house. Completely modern appliances inside. It's small, but I think you'll like it."

The easy-going guy and the woman in the dark jacket had turned away to help a little girl hang an ornament on the tree.

"I'm sure I'll like it,” John said. “I've wanted to live in a place like this for years. Away from the city, out in the country."

"And here you are at last,” Kate said. “Because I've been waiting—I mean, the apartment's been waiting—I mean, the apartment, it's really nice."

"So this is Maine, the real Maine,” John said, happy to be here. And Kate smiled, and it was a warm smile, and “Yes,” she said. “Yes."

BOOKS-MAGAZINES

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Read the Sci-fi novel everyone is talking about! Robert P. Francis & Joleen Bartles present Eclipsia. In the blink of an eye, their world was taken from them. Four thousand years later, two manage to escape to all that remains of their world. Visit Eclipisia.net. Lulu.com enter: Eclipsia.

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MISCELLANEOUS

If stress can change the brain, all experience can change the brain. www.undoingstress.com

L. L. Bean: www.llbean.com. We sell regular clothes, mostly, and also canoes and tents—camping equipment. No inquiries about our models, please.

Support the Octavia E. Butler Memorial Scholarship Fund. Visit www.carlbrandon.org for more information on how to contribute.

The Jamie Bishop Scholarship in Graphic Arts was established to honor the memory of this artist. Help support it. Send donations to: Advancement Services, LaGrange College, 601 Broad Street, LaGrange, GA 30240

Space Studies Masters degree. Accredited University program. Campus and distance classes. For details visit www.space.edu.

F&SF classifieds work because the cost is low: only $2.00 per word (minimum of 10 words). 10% discount for 6 consecutive insertions, 15% for 12. You'll reach 100,000 high-income, highly educated readers each of whom spends hundreds of dollars a year on books, magazines, games, collectibles, audio and video tapes. Send copy and remittance to: F&SF Market Place, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030.

"This is an ironic, comic, macabre, basically savage attack on modern man,” proclaims the front of the dust jacket for Smallcreep's Day, and for once, they're not lying. It's a bitter, didactic, bracing novel.

The titular and symbolically named Pinquean Smallcreep is a factory worker who, after sixteen years in the same slotting section of a nameless factory, decides to venture deep into its Gormenghastian confines to find out what it produces. On his journey he meets no end of strange characters blithely going about their business despite the ominous, surreal landscapes around them, from men being “drowned” in an unchecked flow of money to a poleman boating on a vast underground lake of sewage.

Near the end of his journey, Smallcreep runs into a managing director who offers a wholesale indictment of mankind. “We should eventually become necrophiles together, and walk hand in hand through charnel houses and execution chambers, or write marriage vows on parchment made of human skins, or copulate in burial pits by the light of pyres."

Smallcreep eventually sees the machine the factory produces in action. It does not make him any happier.

Musician Mike Rutherford (of Genesis fame) released a concept album based on the novel. The music is good but he gave the story a happy ending, rendering it a rather aggressive exercise in point-missing.

Though evidently still alive, Brown does not seem to have published any subsequent fiction. Smallcreep's Day said all he had to say.

—Lawrence Person

The economy might be in upheaval, but interesting times make for interesting reading, and there's no shortage of good stories in our inventory.

On the fantasy side, we have Marc Laidlaw's “Quickstone” scheduled for next month. This novelette continues the story of bard Gorlen Vizenfirthe on his quest to restore his gargoyle hand to normal.

We also have a tale of elves and men in the works, compliments of Sean McMullen, and Yoon Ha Lee regales us with a story of wizards and war in “The Bones of Giants.”

Meanwhile, on the science fiction side, we'll have a new space adventure novella by Albert Cowdrey for you in a few months, while Wayne Wightman will bring us a chilling look at evolution in action in “Adaptogenia” and Rand B. Lee ventures into near-future India with “Three Leaves of Aloe.”

With all these stories and lots more in the works, it makes sense to subscribe now. And with the economy putting pressure on us, we're going to raise our subscription rates soon, so now is a particularly good time to extend your subscription. Use the renewal card in this issue or surf over to www.fandsf.com and sign up now so you won't miss an issue!