Idaho Winter Page 5

  These things just don’t belong in any story I would care to tell.

  I guess that what is is what is now.

  We wander for a long time through a labyrinth of tunnels. Ms. Joost seems to be following orange arrows spray-painted at the pipe junctures. The air feels unhealthy, like I’m breathing a harsh gas deep into my lungs. And I’m exerting myself so mightily that I can’t breathe shallow. I am taking this world deep into my chest even as I crawl further down into its cadaverous organs. Every so often we crawl beneath a bare light bulb giving off a sickly glow and I catch glimpses of Oncet’s face on Joost’s back. His lips are munching the filthy cloth as he mutters. I wonder what he’s saying, what he’s describing. What can you be describing if all you see is a tunnel ceiling and all you feel is a stomach-churning lurch and all you smell is the charnel stench of this damned sopping cavity we’re crawling through? Oncet’s nostrils flare, revealing rancid lichen growing there.

  “Okay. We’re here. Sit down.” Joost pushes against the curved wall of the tunnel with her bare feet. She has tiny sharp snails living between her toes. Some crack as she pushes hard against the wall. The wall gives before I can help her. There is a lighted place outside this tunnel.

  I lower myself to a concrete floor after Joost. The room is cavernous and mad. The surfaces, made of clammy concrete, are tilted in a crazy quilt of walls, slabs leaning and in and out in a dizzying fashion. The ceiling is very high, a vaulted dome that’s been pocked and cracked, and which bears the faint drawing of a face looking down at us. The structures in this cave and the design of this massive hall defy description. It’s impossible that this place was built by human hands.

  Joost hops to a slab just below where we’ve entered. Her landing causes Oncet’s head to bounce once hard against her back.

  I follow as she scrambles to the floor.

  “Hello! Hey, where is everybody?” She scans the irregular shapes and receding spaces for signs of life. “We need a bigger picture.”

  Joost reaches back and slides the gag from Oncet’s mouth. He has a terrified look in his eyes and I can’t help but wonder if he’s fully aware of what’s going on.

  “Joost and stranger stand on block, like two post-apocalyptic cave people, and scour the interior of the massive sewer vault for signs of life. Just beyond their view, crouched beneath a jut of concrete, huddle two kids, a boy and a girl.”

  Joost turns quickly one way then the other, trying to address the head on her back. She looks like a dog chasing her own tail. “Where? Where? There were a lot more people down here. What happened?”

  “Ms. Joost spins in circles,” Oncet continues, “disturbing the stranger who watches this peculiar form of panic with some amusement. Neither can see the Mom-bat circling in the air high above their heads.”

  Joost looks slowly to me, then touches her hands to the ground. She gestures to me to move quietly onto the ground. I begin to crouch and lower myself. We both look up. A hideous Mom-bat is winging itself around in a strange repetitive pattern. Joost goes up on her elbows, looking slightly vexed.

  “That’s not the problem. That Mom-bat’s sick or something. Something else —”

  Oncet, his face squarely facing the ceiling speaks louder: “The Mom-bat they spot is not the reason people have retreated to the safer recessions in the cavern. The real danger swoops in —”

  craaaaagh! A huge beast with wings as wide as a barn swoops up from a ledge. Its long face, like a heavy spear, snaps upward and pops the Mom-bat down its throat.

  “A pterodactyl snaps the Mom-bat in mid-flight and, as it returns to its ledge, its wide wings revolving in the air, a loop of rope flies out across its beak. The mighty beast’s head is yanked down by the fixed tether. The entire animal swings, slamming against the outcropped slabs. Joost shelters her head as debris is knocked loose. Ouch!”

  A stone has hit Oncet on the forehead and his eyes roll back. He is unconscious. I have gotten a little used to him telling me what’s happening. It’s amazing how quickly having someone telling you what you’re seeing replaces you actually seeing what you’re seeing. I look up. A stone hits my arm. This shocks me. The pain is hard and sharp in the bone. I may have just broken my arm. I can’t tell you how alarming this is to me. The narrator had been a kind of cushion, I suppose. I thought there was something between me and this place, a buffer. But no. There’s a long white mark on my arm. Bone is pressing against the surface of my arm. It is terribly painful.

  “Leashed, the pterodactyl has scrambled to the ledge where it broods,” Oncet moans. He has come to. “A sky monster resurrected from another time, when the tyrants of the world were clawed beasts. The stranger is now focused on a serious wound to his forearm and Joost is helping him to his feet.”

  “How serious?” I say. “How serious?” The shooting pains have put me in a bad mood. I’m getting tired of the talking head.

  “The stranger begins to yell at Joost’s deformity as if it were the cause of his problems.”

  “I can make you the cause of your own problems if you want.” I am threatening a helpless head with a head wound.

  “That’s why I have this.” Joost turns to face me. She draws the cloth tight and the voice stops. Or at, least, gets muffled. “He’s useful. In small doses. If you listen to him for too long, you start to go crazy. You start to think things aren’t really happening.”

  I can hear noise now, people moving around up above. A head is looking down at us from above. Then another. People are coming out.

  If I’m not the writer then who are you?

  People climb down and greet Ms. Joost. I recognize most of them. Mr. Finchy and Mr. Cull, characters I once made up, are now introduced to me. They touch my hand lightly and look at me with suspicion. My arm is throbbing. Two children make their way to the front, and people step aside. Clearly these two are powerful. I recognize the girl, Alex, and the boy, too — Eric, I think. This is new. These are characters that were to come much later in the book. Idaho will not have ever met them. How do they reach back this far now? I’m trying to remember what happens. Not that it matters much. I am far from anything I ever wanted to say in a book. My arm is broken.

  Ms. Joost steps forward. “He was wandering around up top. Said he was looking for him.” A gasp goes up and people shrink away from me. “He’s okay. Says he comes from outside. Sounded like he’s one of them walking. The lighted feet Finchy and Cull talk about. Sounded reasonable to me. He’s hurt.”

  Alex and Eric step forward, nodding thanks to Joost, who sidles back into the crowd. Alex smiles as Eric guides me down a path away from the others. Alex speaks and her voice is kind — so intelligent for her age. I admire myself for a moment. For creating these creatures, these singular wonders.

  “We’ll get your arm looked at. I’m going to have to ask you a few questions as we go along.”

  I smile and welcome their support as I walk. I feel weaker than I did when I arrived at this mysterious place.

  “Not everyone knows everything. Some people don’t even know things you’d expect them to. Like their names. Or where they’ve come from. There’s limits to understanding and everyone has theirs. We respect that.”

  I am impressed by how sensible this sounds, even though it is one of the oddest things I’ve ever had to agree with.

  Alex looks at me. “So I’ll ask first: what is your name?”

  I’m going to be as honest as I can now.

  “My name is Sam.” Okay. That’s a lie. Does it matter what my name is?

  Eric stops us and looks to Alex. “Don’t know about that. Doesn’t sound like his name.”

  Alex moves us along again. “He may not know his name. How long were you walking outside?”

  “Actually, I come from just beyond there. Just outside.”

  “Outside of outside? Do you know why those people walk around on the light at the edges?”


  Know why? Their endless march is a punishment for chasing a fictional character through a fictional town. They have been abandoned to meaninglessness because nothing was properly thought up for them.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “They are ghosts. They are people who went above to fight for us and were cast down to die. And they mark the edges of us with their feet so that . . . hmm . . . how can I put this? Alex?”

  “They keep the dead out and the living in. They walk to mark the place between where nothing happens and where everything happens. They are the past. Our memory. Without them, we would not know that we are here.”

  They walk along, thinking to themselves. I am impressed that characters that I made up are way over my head.

  “Anyway. You may have come in from there, but I doubt it. I think you are an unstable.”

  I’m a little offended at this, and draw myself up to respond, but they calm me with light pats on my back.

  “Unstables are good. You can change the rules. There have only been two. They were bad, however.”

  This whole world seems so evolved. Unstables and Edge-light Walkers. These aren’t anything I ever wrote about. This is some form of mythology.

  “Okay. Can I ask some questions?”

  We stop in a cube shaped cave. Alex has gone to a corner of the cave and is rummaging through a heavy sack that sits on the floor. She pulls out a stick and a long shredded cloth.

  “Ask away.”

  “Okay. Why is there a dinosaur bird here?”

  “Pterodactyl. Not sure how it got below. We see those Mom-bats every once in a while, so we know things can get down here.”

  Alex seems much older than her years. She is an athletic-looking girl. She manages to smile at me even though she clearly feels the weight of many problems rest on her. She is tightening a splint on my arm. Eric has a hand on her shoulder. A support. This type of person never appears in my books. I very much like them.

  “What is above?” My arm is less painful now that it is bound.

  “You name it. Lots of dinosaurs.”

  Dinosaurs? It’s a boy’s imagination run amok. Things Idaho believes in, things that loom in his mind now rule a world that he ceased to trust. What else, I wonder, what else is in that disturbed mind?

  “Somebody said they saw Green Day up there yesterday.”

  “Green Day? You mean the punk band?”

  “Pop punk. Yeah, not a pretty sight. They had been driving this beat-up convertible around the outskirts of town, and apparently a T. Rex got them all. Except for Billie Joe. He took off. Why they’re here is anyone’s guess.”

  Green Day? Music videos. There is a music video coming to life up there. I figure it could be “The Boulevard of Broken Dreams.” So, Idaho watches a video channel.

  Eric shrugs and shivers as we step out onto the pale slab that serves as a balcony.

  “We don’t know why, but there’s a lot of musicians up there. There must have either been a big concert or they got lost on the way to one, but we’ve had people say they’ve seen Rancid, that guy, who is he?”

  Alex is watching the stone sky above us.

  “Tim Armstrong. Those guys from the Transplants. Good Charlotte.”

  Punk bands. He must have conjured some punk show he was watching.

  “We don’t think they’re doing very well. The dinos are living off them.”

  These two seem sane, seem normal. I wish I remembered more about how I wrote them. I have a sneaking suspicion that they were just names on a class list or something.

  “There’s other things. Some of it too weird to even describe. At least, that’s how we see it.”

  Eric and Alex share a look.

  “Why are you two so different than the others?”

  “We’re not sure. We seem to be the only people who really understand that something terrible has happened to the world. No one else, especially the adults, seems to have any memory of when things were normal. We do. We know that this, the way things are right now, is abnormal.”

  How strange. This world, this book that got beyond me, has evolved. It has rules. I look at the pattern of mud on my legs. A random pattern, shapes that happen spontaneously, that do not depend on being described in order to exist. One smear is shaped like a crescent moon. Another shape looks like a witch on a broom. Does it even matter what I see in things anymore?

  “Madison.” I suddenly remember Madison. Poor Madison. Her feet. Alex and Eric pull me back into the cave.

  “What do you know about Madison? How do you know about her?”

  “I just know. I just . . . I remember her.”

  “Not many people know about Madison.”

  “Her feet. Oh. Her feet.” I lower my head. I took her feet as surely as if I bit them myself. I am responsible for her suffering.

  “Who are you?” Eric is becoming agitated. Maybe I’m saying too much. He pushes me, but Alex holds him back. I cannot tell them who I am.

  “I don’t think it’d be a good idea if I told you who I am.”

  Eric doesn’t like this. He leans in again. He is a strong boy. He is threatening me. Alex lays a hand on his chest. She is staring into my eyes. She is examining them. She is trying to read me. I see a half smile. She nods to me. An understanding. But what could she possibly understand about me?

  “We don’t ask, Eric.”

  “What do you mean we don’t ask?”

  “This one is an unstable. A very powerful one. We want to keep things contained for a while. C’mon, let’s go see Madison.”

  Eric turns abruptly to Alex. He wants to argue. He thinks she’s wrong.

  “I’m sorry, Eric,” she says.

  Eric relaxes somewhat. He trusts Alex. An extraordinary trust, I think. Faith. Alex has not often been wrong. As we make our way up a high walkway to a landing I study her, wanting to make eye contact, wanting to know who or what she is. A mystery.

  Try to be funny. Try to learn.

  We reach a long white room at the end of which is a small makeshift bed of cloth and straw. A tiny figure lies still under a blanket. Madison.

  I take a quick step ahead of Alex and Eric, but they grab my arm to stop me. I turn to Alex and see that she is crying. Big tears are rolling down her cheeks. Eric, too, is sobbing into his hands.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “She affects how you feel. At about fifty feet you feel a little sad. At thirty feet you will suddenly burst out crying. That’s about where we are now. From here every step gets more painful. At some point, I’d say, about five feet from the edge of her bed, you can’t come back. You give up. You have no reason to leave. Look.”

  There are two people on their knees on the far side of the bed. I can’t make them out, their faces are hung.

  “Who are they?”

  “Two boys. Young boys. They came up here and ran in when they saw her. Eric thinks they were taunting her, but I’m not sure. We’ll never know. They are too heavy with despair to ever move.”

  Alex and Eric are both sobbing heavily now. It’s a strange sound: people crying for no reason. An emotion controlled by the space in a room. Eric is overcome; his cries are emotional barks, a sound of such acute unhappiness that you may make once, if ever, in your lifetime. He steps back, clearly uncomfortable, and Alex joins him. They whimper softly, consoling each other. Alex places a hand on Eric’s head and looks at me.

  I feel a pulling at my chest, as if hands are holding my lungs. I’m aware that my cheeks are shaking. It feels so strange, so violent, to be affected this way. It’s not like real sadness, more like a kind of electrical current causing these minor tremors throughout my body. I wink at Alex, to assure her that I’m fine. I step forward into the dark cave. Oh. Oh. Oh, no. Uh-oh. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. My mind is getting dim. I am so sad. My heart is br
eaking. I can hear my hoarse voice sobbing. I can’t let this stop me. When I was young these farm boys ran over my dog. In front of me and my whole family. My little longhair dachshund, its back broken, bleeding from its side. I had a friend in school who got very sick, went into the hospital and never came back. I never saw him again. I think the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz is the more evil one. She smiles neatly and chirps happily when a house crushes the Wicked Witch of the West’s sister. It makes me feel lonely that no one sees the meanness in happy fairies. I fell once, tripped off a low bridge across a shallow ditch. It would have been easy to just get up. I wasn’t hurt. But I lay there. I lay there for a long time. The entire afternoon. Because I wished it had been a much further fall. Because I have a deep well of misery in me that I can never show. The ditches are all shallow and the falls are all too short. My grandmother died in my bed. She was brought to our house from the hospital. She had no hair and they put her in my bed and I had to go sleep with my brother. My dog died slowly over the course of an entire year. She went blind, then her eyes fell out. I still have those eyes. Little sad, dried-up eyes. Hang on a second — that’s not true. Why did I say that? I said it because I’m a liar. I’m an awful, brutal liar who can’t seem to cry hard enough anymore. Each heave in my chest pushes my memory, my story, my hope, down, further and further away from me. Oh, please leave me now. Close this book and burn it. Forget you ever heard of me. I am dead to you. I lie in my own book like a beast in a terrible trap, bleeding and keening under a leafless tree beside a burning house. The sky is black and confusing. I want to lift my hands to my throat, but they have abandoned me to their own unhappiness. Fingers shunning fingers, thumbs sick in palms. Even my arms cry into my shoulders. I have wasted your time. You must leave me now. I have nothing for you. There is no book here. Only birds dying in mid-flight and the death sport of puppies and truck tires. No. You must go.