The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(81)

Tinkerbell was there, too, but awake and crouched protectively against Laurel’s back. The dog was growling low, a relentless rumble deep in her throat, her white teeth bared. It shocked me, until I realized Tinkerbell wasn’t looking at me.

She was looking at Jim.

Jim was standing over Laurel’s bed. Or, at least, some version of him was. There was no real substance to him, nothing to equate flesh and blood. The form was there, with all the right lines in place, but it was colorless, translucent.

I stepped into the room, and Jim turned toward me. His movements were slow and impassive. His face a blank, an abyss. A beam of light slanted steeply through the bedroom window. Not the moon—there was no moon that night. The light had to be coming from the top of the Mountain. And it glinted off an object in Jim’s hand. Long, flat, tempered steel. Machete.

A cold, contained fury erupted inside me.

Jim turned again, back toward Laurel, and Tinkerbell snarled and half rose to her feet, primed for attack. I moved then, too. It was only a few steps to where he stood, and I was on him in an instant.

I overtook him in midstep . . .

. . . and he dispersed like fog gusting from dry ice, until there was nothing to grapple with but a clammy chill.

Just like that . . . he was gone.





Into a Fogbound Moon





The night before the birthday party for Reuben’s brother came the first snow of the season. We had a dusting just after Thanksgiving, but it didn’t last long. This time the snowfall was four inches at least, and it stuck. It was even deeper on the Mountain, where the Begays lived, so we had to get there on horseback.

That morning, Olin and I saddled the horses while Jessie buttoned and zipped Laurel into warm boots and a parka. Tinkerbell had built up a thick coat for the winter, but I wasn’t sure if her paws could handle the trail higher up, so I slung an army blanket across my saddle in case she needed to hitch a ride.

We packed up the birthday gifts. I wasn’t sure what a sixteen-year-old boy might like, but Liz LaGow had assured me a fleece-lined hackamore was just the thing, because the main present from the boy’s family was to be a saddle horse.

As I mounted up, I tried not to stare at Jessie, who was wearing belted woolen trousers—so different from her usual matronly attire that she seemed almost a different woman. Olin winked at me before he gave Jessie a leg up. Jessie reined the pinto into a fast clip toward the road.

“She’s a firecracker on horseback,” Olin said admiringly. “Even did some barrel racin’ as a girl.”

“What’s barrel racin’, Opa?” Laurel asked as Olin swung her onto Tse’s broad back.

“That’s expert ridin’, Bunny.” He tucked her boot into the stirrup. “I’ll show you come spring.”

He swatted Tse’s flank as Laurel dug in with her heels, and the big horse took off after Yas, who had slowed to an easier pace toward town. I waited for Olin to mount up; then we cantered after the others, Tinkerbell loping behind.

The broad avenue through Morro was strung with pretty plastic snowflakes—huge ones that lit up every night now. Garlands of ivy and red holly berries were wrapped around each lamppost. Doors and lintels were hung with evergreen wreaths and swags decorated with pinecones and fruit, ribbons and bows. Inside the gazebo was a Christmas tree with handmade ornaments.

We headed past homes where kids were scraping together snow to build snowmen. Others were sliding down the foothills on wooden sleds. Past the Wild Rose, the general store, Schiavone’s, the library, the pub. The town hall, according to the sign out front, would be showing It’s a Wonderful Life this weekend. It didn’t strike me as ironic.

Just outside Morro, we bore to the right to climb into the forest on the access road. The snow was still a dry powder, so the horses kept their footing with ease.

I glanced at the spreading snowcap overhead. Ever since that night when I’d found Laurel and Tinkerbell, the Mountain and I seemed to have reached an understanding. Maybe it had lost interest in me and loosened its grip. Or maybe the prospect of getting caught up in its orbit had lost its menace. I’d made my peace with it—like going from a bone-jarring beginning to finding the right rhythm at last.

At Simon’s cabin, Pegasus was corralled out back pacing the fence. He’d filled out into a powerfully built animal—nothing like the emaciated creature I’d seen that first day.

But in front of the cabin was a handsome bay I’d never seen before. Simon was snugging the saddle cinch as we approached.