rocketed behind her blind eyes.
“Anyway,” said Jethro, “the hunters will be glad to see him. They need company.”
“What do you mean? Weren’t they killed?”
“No one is killed by a fall into that cave.”
“Jethro! Then I have to call the police! And the fire department! They’ll bring ladders and ropes! We’ll get the hunters out! We’ll—”
“No, Nicoletta. No one gets out of the cave.”
“You get out!”
“It took me a hundred years to learn how.”
Exaggeration annoyed her. “Don’t be ridiculous. Jethro, where are you? I can’t really see you.”
“I don’t want you to really see me,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to be as scared of me as you would be.”
“I’ve seen you before! I know you in that shape. Jethro, I need you.”
There was no sound in the woods except the sound of her own breathing. Perhaps Jethro did not breathe. Perhaps he was all rock and no lungs. But then, how did he speak? Or did he not? Was she making it up? Was she out here in the woods by herself, talking to trees, losing her mind?
“You need me?” said Jethro. His voice quavered.
Humans have two great requirements of life. To be needed is as important as love. Now she knew that he was human, that he was the boy who sat beside her in art as well as the creature wrapped in stone. “I need you,” she repeated. She slid her scarlet mitten off her hand and extended her bare fingers into the night.
The hand that closed around them rasped with the rough edges of stone. But the sob that came from his chest was a child’s.
Chapter 15
T HEY SAT ON THE boulder, wrapped in snow as if in quilts. It was a high, round throne and the woods were their kingdom. The night was old now. The silver sliver of moon had come to rest directly above them, and its frail light gleamed on the old snow and shimmered on her gold hair.
She kept his hands in her lap like possessions. They were real hands. They had turned real between her own, as if the oven of her caring had burnt away the bad parts. “You are a real boy,” she said to him.
“I was once. It was a long time ago.”
She snuggled against him as if expecting a cozy bedtime story of the sort her parents loved to tell.
“Long ago,” said Jethro. He told his story in short spurts, letting each phrase lie there in the dark, as if each must mellow and grow old like the night before he could go on to the next. “Long before the Pilgrims,” said Jethro, “ancient sailors from an ancient land shipwrecked here.”
The town was only a few miles from the sea, but she never thought of it that way. There was no public beach and Nicoletta rarely even caught a glimpse of the ocean. People with beaches were people with privacy.
“They found the cave,” said Jethro slowly, “and explored it for gold.”
Yes. She could believe that. Those gleaming walls and incredible patterns of royal rock—anybody would expect to find treasure.
“There was none. The men who went first fell to the bottom, and could not be rescued by the others.” His voice waited until she had fully imagined the men in the bottom who could not be rescued. “They had to be abandoned,” he said, his voice a tissue of sorrow.
“Still alive?” asked Nicoletta.
“Still alive.”
Wounded and broken. Screaming from the bottom of a well of blackness. Hearing no words of comfort from above. But instead, words of farewell. We’re sorry, we have to go now. Die bravely.
“In their society,” said Jethro, “the soul could not depart from the body unless the body was burned at sea with its ship. But they, of course, could never return to the ship. And so the men at the bottom of the cave never died. Their souls could not leave. Their bodies … dissolved over the decades.” His voice was soft. With revulsion or pity, she did not know. “Until,” he said, “they became the cave itself. Things with warts of sand and crusts of mineral.”
His hands took her golden hair, and he wove his
“Anyway,” said Jethro, “the hunters will be glad to see him. They need company.”
“What do you mean? Weren’t they killed?”
“No one is killed by a fall into that cave.”
“Jethro! Then I have to call the police! And the fire department! They’ll bring ladders and ropes! We’ll get the hunters out! We’ll—”
“No, Nicoletta. No one gets out of the cave.”
“You get out!”
“It took me a hundred years to learn how.”
Exaggeration annoyed her. “Don’t be ridiculous. Jethro, where are you? I can’t really see you.”
“I don’t want you to really see me,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to be as scared of me as you would be.”
“I’ve seen you before! I know you in that shape. Jethro, I need you.”
There was no sound in the woods except the sound of her own breathing. Perhaps Jethro did not breathe. Perhaps he was all rock and no lungs. But then, how did he speak? Or did he not? Was she making it up? Was she out here in the woods by herself, talking to trees, losing her mind?
“You need me?” said Jethro. His voice quavered.
Humans have two great requirements of life. To be needed is as important as love. Now she knew that he was human, that he was the boy who sat beside her in art as well as the creature wrapped in stone. “I need you,” she repeated. She slid her scarlet mitten off her hand and extended her bare fingers into the night.
The hand that closed around them rasped with the rough edges of stone. But the sob that came from his chest was a child’s.
Chapter 15
T HEY SAT ON THE boulder, wrapped in snow as if in quilts. It was a high, round throne and the woods were their kingdom. The night was old now. The silver sliver of moon had come to rest directly above them, and its frail light gleamed on the old snow and shimmered on her gold hair.
She kept his hands in her lap like possessions. They were real hands. They had turned real between her own, as if the oven of her caring had burnt away the bad parts. “You are a real boy,” she said to him.
“I was once. It was a long time ago.”
She snuggled against him as if expecting a cozy bedtime story of the sort her parents loved to tell.
“Long ago,” said Jethro. He told his story in short spurts, letting each phrase lie there in the dark, as if each must mellow and grow old like the night before he could go on to the next. “Long before the Pilgrims,” said Jethro, “ancient sailors from an ancient land shipwrecked here.”
The town was only a few miles from the sea, but she never thought of it that way. There was no public beach and Nicoletta rarely even caught a glimpse of the ocean. People with beaches were people with privacy.
“They found the cave,” said Jethro slowly, “and explored it for gold.”
Yes. She could believe that. Those gleaming walls and incredible patterns of royal rock—anybody would expect to find treasure.
“There was none. The men who went first fell to the bottom, and could not be rescued by the others.” His voice waited until she had fully imagined the men in the bottom who could not be rescued. “They had to be abandoned,” he said, his voice a tissue of sorrow.
“Still alive?” asked Nicoletta.
“Still alive.”
Wounded and broken. Screaming from the bottom of a well of blackness. Hearing no words of comfort from above. But instead, words of farewell. We’re sorry, we have to go now. Die bravely.
“In their society,” said Jethro, “the soul could not depart from the body unless the body was burned at sea with its ship. But they, of course, could never return to the ship. And so the men at the bottom of the cave never died. Their souls could not leave. Their bodies … dissolved over the decades.” His voice was soft. With revulsion or pity, she did not know. “Until,” he said, “they became the cave itself. Things with warts of sand and crusts of mineral.”
His hands took her golden hair, and he wove his
Similar Books
