Page 38

He stepped out of the truck. The wind was bitter, but the sudden burst of cold helped to clear his head.

If he stayed with the truck, it would only be a matter of time before he was spotted, and then there would be trouble.

He thought about abandoning it and setting out on foot to find safe harbor for the night, but he was lost, and the temperature was falling fast, and so he wavered, rubbing his hands together for warmth as his breath plumed around him.

The dread that had been growing inside him split open, blooming into full-blown fear as the sky grew darker every second.

Henry looked up and down the empty road, and seeing no better options, took his pack from the truck, tucked the book inside, and set out on foot.

The sun had disappeared behind the horizon, and the moon was not yet up, and soon Henry was enveloped in a thick, impenetrable darkness. He had no hat and no gloves, and his cheeks and fingers burned with cold. Inside the pack, the Grimorium Bellum shrieked and jabbered, furious at being ignored.

Henry tried thinking of ways to distract himself.

He sang songs, recited Shakespeare, Walt Whitman, Langston Hughes.

He tried to recall a presentation he had given years ago on Caravaggio, speaking the parts he remembered out loud and making up the rest. He talked to himself until the cold made his tongue thick and he began to slur his words.

He chattered to himself, and listened to his footsteps, and to the wind, until eventually he reached another crossroads and was forced to stop.

Henry shivered in the cold, peering down one path and then the other. There was no spirit to guide him here, no dead boy to tell him which way to go. He looked around for any sign of a house with a blue door and a broken gate, or a fallen tree, but there was nothing but icy fields.

Panic seized inside of him like a bird caught in a chimney. He was lost, exhausted and half-frozen, with no relief in sight. He thought again about turning around, taking shelter inside the truck, and hoping for the best. He turned to go back the way he had come, and stopped.

There was a dog in the road, just a stone’s throw from where he stood. It regarded him silently, alert and watchful.

“ Shit ,” Henry said.

It must have been following him, but for how long, he had no idea. The dog didn’t look dangerous, but Henry had been wrong before. He considered the contents of his pack—only a half-empty canteen, a little bread and cheese, and the book.

“Good boy,” he said. The dog cocked its head in reply. Slowly, Henry reached inside his pack and broke off a bite-sized piece of cheese. He held it up high, and the dog caught the scent, shuffling his feet eagerly.

“Here.” He tossed the cheese, and the dog caught it midair. “ Good . Nice dog.” He held his empty hands in the air and backed away slowly. “All done now. No more.”

The dog finished eating and watched Henry for another moment. Clouds of frozen breath formed around its open mouth. For several long, horrible seconds, Henry wondered what he would do if the dog decided to attack.

Just then, a whistle rang out through the night. The dog perked up, then trotted past Henry without glancing back, disappearing down the road that curved off to the left.

There was someone else out there in the darkness, Henry realized with a chill; the dog had a master.

He considered what to do. Henry wasn’t keen on meeting some small-minded farmer in the middle of the night, but he would freeze to death if he stayed out in the cold much longer.

Wherever the dog and its owner were heading, Henry had to assume there would be shelter there: a barn or a garden shed, someplace where he could sleep a few hours in secret, and be gone by morning.

Steeling his nerves, he followed after the dog at a quick clip, making sure to keep a safe distance.

At first, he saw nothing but the black silhouettes of trees, and the road directly in front of him.

Then, slowly, the moon appeared from behind the clouds, and Henry began to make out the shape of a man, walking with a cane about twenty yards ahead of him, and a dog trotting along at his side.

It was hard to see much in the silvery darkness, but Henry could just make out the man’s wide-brimmed hat, and note his halting gait.

As the old man came into focus, the keening of the book seemed to rise on the night air, and for a moment, he thought he heard it speak a single word.

No.

Henry thought the night must be playing tricks on him, because no matter how fast he walked, the old man never seemed to get any closer. He wondered how it was possible that he couldn’t catch up to an old man with a cane and a limp, and walked faster.

No , said the book. Henry was sure of it now, a maddening chorus of voices all saying, No no no no no no no . Henry picked up his pace.

A gust of wind blew through his clothes, slicing through to the bones, and he cursed under his breath at the cold.

Henry thought there was a melodic quality to the wind’s howling.

It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t the wind he was hearing at all, but the old man, out there ahead of him in the darkness, singing to himself.

It was a jaunty song, upbeat and familiar—the man’s voice was deep, but cheerful.

Henry strained his ears, trying to make out the tune over the wind and the frantic protests of the book.

He thought he could hear the stranger smiling.

He wondered if the old man was mocking him.

He stumbled over a fallen branch, cursing, but quickly regained his balance.

He was sure the old man must have heard him, but he never turned back or called out.

He only sang. Henry listened hard, trying to place the familiar tune.

That was when he heard the words, floating toward him on the biting wind.

“Ti Zwazo kote ou prale,” the man sang, “Mwenn prale kay fiyét Lalo . ” It was a Haitian children’s song, one Henry had heard a thousand times growing up.

Little bird where are you going?

I am going to Lalo’s house

Lalo eats little kids

If you go she’ll eat you too

Impossible , Henry thought. He saw an orange spark bobbing through the night ahead of him—a pipe. The man was smoking a pipe. Henry was running now, running toward the spark, toward the familiar song, the Kreyòl words dancing through the night.

He looked to his right, and there, barely visible in the darkness, he could just make out the root structure of a massive tree, lying like a nest of snakes on the wrong side of the dirt, just like the one René had shown him.

Nonononononononono , the book droned. The words bled together and formed a wail. Henry could feel it like a child having a tantrum, pulling away from him, and from the old man in the dark.

“ Wait! ” Henry wanted to see the man’s face, needed to see it. “Wait, please!”

He was sprinting, the air burning inside his lungs, and at last he saw that he was getting closer.

The old man passed through a pool of silver moonlight, and Henry saw him in full—the dog, the cane, the pipe, the broad-brimmed hat, and yes, his face, just for a second, his skin darker even than Henry’s, kind and mischievous and withered like an apple.

He knew him then, knew him as well as he knew his own mother.

Henry had left him gifts as a child—sweets and toys at the crossroads near his house.

He nearly called the man by his name, but something, doubt or fear, held his tongue.

He ran so hard and fast he was sure his heart would burst. The book was begging now, shrieking for him to turn back, but he wouldn’t.

The song rang out as the stranger passed out of the light, all of him slipping into darkness except for the orange spark of his pipe, and now Henry was right behind him, close enough to reach out and touch, nearly on top of him, and then—

The orange spark blinked out. The song was swallowed up, like a needle lifted from a record.

“Wait.” Henry doubled over, gasping. “Wait. Wait. Wait…” He felt his legs give out under him, and he sank to the frozen ground. He squinted into the darkness, searching, but the man was gone and Henry was alone.

Henry reached inside the pack and touched the book with his fingertips.

He waited for a chorus of voices to rise up and greet him, but it was silent.

He thought he could feel a dull, menacing pulse—the low rumble of an animal, frightened into submission by something larger and more powerful—but nothing more.

Henry dragged himself to his feet. He looked around one last time, as if expecting to see an orange spark, bobbing somewhere in the distance.

But there was no spark—only trees, and fields, and there, far off in the distance, just barely visible against the dark hills and clouds, a squat black shape that might have been a house.