And the Trees Crept In(53)

I hold my breath and listen for my father’s voice. Maybe he will guide me if I listen hard enough. Lead me back to that black pit of nothing. But he is silent once more.

“Useless,” I mutter.

All of a sudden it is too much. I can’t bear any more loss, any more suffering, and the hollow pain in my stomach has become so intense that I cough with the pain of it. I double over, breathing in deeply, but still the pain rises and expands.

Behind me, I hear Gowan’s heavy footfalls.

“Silla!” he calls. “There you are. Don’t do that again—please.”

“I’m… sorry.” I gag again, and feel another of my teeth loose in my mouth.

I begin to laugh. I am falling apart. This is suddenly hilarious and my laughter becomes raucous shrieks until the pain takes hold again and I’m gasping for air.

“You need to eat,” Gowan says. “I’ve got one. One left.”

An apple. In his pocket. Small. Tiny, actually. Perfectly green.

“No!”

“Silla—”

“What I need is to find my sister before this thing does something to her! She’s my responsibility!”

He grabs me roughly, and I am so surprised that I forget my pain. And then he is hugging me, so tight that it almost hurts, and his whole body is vibrating—shaking. He is shaking like a leaf.

“Silla,” he breathes. “Silla…”

I am so stunned that I stand there for a full three seconds before my own arms lift, seemingly of their own accord, and wrap themselves around him. He feels so warm and alive and real in my arms, and he smells like something sweet. Something I want to smell forever.

“You’re going to destroy me,” I whisper.

And then he is shaking even more, and I realize it’s because he is crying. Not just crying, but the kind of bone-deep crying that only comes from grief. From the deepest sorrow. The kind of crying that tears deep down into the soul from some wound that time can never touch.

I let him cry, and we hold each other, and though I am bewildered, I feel his pain. I stroke his hair, and it is the most wonderful thing I have ever done. It feels so right.

“I’m sorry you’re in pain,” I whisper, before I can stop myself.

He pulls away from me, his eyes so dark they look black, rimmed with red that the tears have caused, staring at me with a look of wonder on his face, and I kiss him. I kiss him deeply, and it is so much better than the first, drunken kiss. It is so much more true and vital and worthy.

He kisses me and holds me tightly, pressing me into his body, firm against my own, and I grapple with his shirt as he grapples with mine. The light is fading, it will be dark soon, but I don’t care because all I need, right now, is here.

My bare skin is a relief, even though I am exposed, and I am glad to be rid of the moldy dress, and then his arms are around me, naked and strong, and he is pulling me toward him and I want this.

It is a desperate meeting of mouths and bodies; we move together among the cursed trees—we are the only things moving. It is heat and breath and touch and dance—it is full of life. It gets faster near the end: a wave building inside me until Gowan cries out and holds me tighter, and we fall into each other like I never knew was possible.

I love you.

Treacherous mind. Treacherous heart.

Gowan clings to me, and he is still shaking. There are tears on his cheeks.

“I love you,” he tells me again. “I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t expect anything from me. I know it in the moment he falls asleep before I’ve had a chance to reply.

He loves me, without expecting anything from me in return.

“You’re so stupid,” I tell him, and then I hold his head, because I can’t ignore what has happened, even though I’d like to try.





It’s brighter in the morning, which is weird, because there’s no sun. There is no dawn and no daylight. There is no sky. I gather my green-speckled dress and slip it over my head, wincing with the coldness and the damp smell of the fabric, and then I turn to look at Gowan.

He is frowning in his sleep, and there are dark circles beneath his eyes. When did that happen? I bend down, curling my hand into a fist, and pretend to iron his forehead. Iron away his worries. Still asleep, he half smiles and the knot in his brow loosens. I grin, my lips traveling over his naked body.

Nice.

I reach for his shirt, intending to fold it neatly, when something occurs to me in the second before I touch it.

His shirt.

His trousers.

I lift both from where they have become tangled in roots that grew overnight. Both items are beautiful. Blue jeans and a green shirt. So new. So clean. So dry.

And not a dot of green mold anywhere on them.

I raise his shirt to my nose and inhale. The same sweet scent. No mildew, no rot. No damp—nothing.

I glance down at Gowan and realize that I have never seen mold growing on him the way I found it on Nori and me. I have never seen him looking less than perfect.

What is this? [HE FOOLED YOU SO EASILY.]

It can’t be.… [SILLY SILLA. HE’S BEEN SO CLOSE ALL THIS TIME.]

Gowan can’t be—[THE CREEPER MAN THE CREEPER MAN THE CREEPER MAN!]

I drop the clothes and back away, but the movement wakes him and he smiles up at me.

“G’morning,” he says, sleepy-eyed and dopey-smiled.