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    River Tales
    River Tales
    River Tales
    Ebook470 pages6 hours

    River Tales

    By Zimbell House Publishing, Elaine Barnard, C. W. Bigelow and

    ()

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    About this ebook

    River Tales presents thirty-two short stories from new writers around the globe. Several fishing tales, along with a few coming of age stories, even one from a fish's point of view, are sure to entertain.

    River monsters, murder, and redemption can all be found in these watery tales. From poignant to humorous, there is something for everyone to enjoy.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZimbell House Publishing
    Release dateMay 16, 2017
    ISBN9781945967702
    River Tales
    Author

    Zimbell House Publishing

    Zimbell House Publishing is dedicated to promoting new writers. To enable us to do this, we create themed anthologies and send out a call for submissions. These calls are updated monthly, typically we have at least four months worth on our website at any given time. To see what we are working on next, please paste this link into your browser and save it to your bookmarks: http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/contest-submissions/ All submissions are vetted by our acquisitions team. By developing these anthologies, we can promote new writers to readers across the globe. We hope we've helped you find a new favorite to follow! Are you interested in helping a particular writer's career? Write a review and mention them by name. You can post reviews on our website, or through any retailer you purchased from.  Interested in becoming a published author? Check out our website for a look behind the scenes of what it takes to bring a manuscript to a published book. http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/publishing-services/process-behind-scenes/ We hope to hear from you soon.

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      River Tales - Zimbell House Publishing

      Beyond the River Crossing

      Lyra Sparrow

      If you were to open your shutters at twilight and gaze out the window into the gathering dark, you might notice three or four children creeping along the side streets and into the open meadow beyond the hustle and bustle of the town, with shopkeepers closing up their caravans and trundling home for the night. The rushing of the river bars their passage; there is no safer crossing for miles around but The Olden Bridge that they nervously cross, one grubby hand after another clutching the railing that could crumble at any moment. The moon is high, and the stars help to illuminate their way, but all they can see is the flaming head of red curly locks bobbing along ahead of them.

      It came for them when the sun was high; a copper-headed moppet, with teardrops painted on rosy cheeks, dancing for coins in the town square. A bouncing puppy wags its tail nearby and accepts scratches behind the ears and coins dropped into a dusty, molding hat upside down on the cobbles. The child is draped in colorful scarves, twisting and turning to the music from the flute of a nearby player, a lanky man wearing a half mask, towering over his companions, silent but for the haunting music issuing from his lips and traveling through the silver instrument, which seems to glow in the sunlight. The red-haired child draws the village children in with the dance; they want to join and share in the dog’s mirth. Soon there is a crowd gathered. Among them are beggar’s children, and the offspring of lesser merchants and travelers. They will all soon fall under the spell.

      Charlie hangs back, watching his friends run forward and join the music. He tugs at his father’s cotton tunic, hanging more loosely now that the fever was coming more often in the night. The town healer had proclaimed that Alistair should stay abed, but on days like this, despite his illness, he could not bring himself to stay inside when he could be moving about in the sunlight with his son by his side. His wife had made up a bed for him on the main level of the small house, but it was lumpy and drafty, and it didn’t have his warm, sweet-smelling wife snoring softly. But his coughing kept her awake night after night.

      Father, I don’t want to dance, Charlie says shyly, and his father’s reassuring grip on his shoulder comforts him. The red-haired child unnerves him; he cannot think why. It may be because of the piercing green eyes, just slightly luminescent but it was difficult to tell for sure in the glare of the midday sun. Perhaps it is the unearthly way the child’s limbs bend and move, or the empty eye sockets of the flutist’s haunting mask, white and gleaming in the sun. Charlie watches the other children joining in the dance, and it is as if he can see through the fog in which the others are lost.

      As the crowd dissipates, the flutist bows at each bystander who comes forward with a copper or two for their performance. The red-haired child sits cross-legged, head bowed, hair hanging down and obscuring the face. They are silent. When the villagers have all moved on, the two companions gather their coins and begin their journey to the river crossing. They will return at dusk and by the shadow of moonlight for the children who will follow them.

      ADAM IS PLAYING OUTSIDE when the sky turns red. He knows he has very little time left before the nanny will come and tell him to come in and get ready for bed. He hates her grating voice and her many rules. This one is older than the last, an old school marm who cares more about her household running smoothly than about how much fun he is having. Should childhood not be fun, he wonders? He is nine, and growing quickly; he is already taller than all the other children in his class. Taller, and stronger. Adam would not call himself a bully, but he does know how to get what he wants from children who are smaller and weaker. Sometimes it is the only way to feel like he has some control over his life.

      Adam could not remember the last time his father was home. Left alone with no one to watch over him when the last nanny had decided she’d had enough, Miss Tilda from next door had come in and told him she’d received a message from his father and would stay until the next nanny arrived. He never knew where his father was. Off working somewhere, but he was never there to tuck Adam in, or read to him, or play catch outside with him. Little bits of anger bubbled up inside him and made him catch his breath. He still had a few minutes before the nanny poked her ugly face out the door and called him inside.

      What he really wanted, more than anything, was a train. He heard them sometimes, chugging through the mountains far away, their whistles blowing and echoing back into his imagination. To be able to get on a train and travel far away from his empty home, seemed like the most exciting freedom he could dream of. Maybe someday when he was a bit older and could punch a little harder, he would pack a rucksack and leave the home his father had abandoned and go catch a train into a brighter future. There is a whisper through the trees, and he is distracted from the toy train in his hand. He drops it to the ground and stands, straining to hear the whispers. The river rushing nearby seems to hush itself, and he thinks he can hear his name being whispered, summoned.

      IN HER BED, WATCHING the sun slowly sink below the horizon, Susan remembers the stories her grandmother used to tell her, of the forest beyond the town limits. Pixies, will-o’-the-wisps, and wood nymphs all lurked beneath the canopy, magic seeping through the underbrush like a deep mist, vapor fairies ready to curse or grant a wish. There is magic beyond the river crossing, but it always comes with a price.

      Susan is only eight years old, burning with a desire that lifts her heart away from her life as her mother’s assistant. They live in one of the only larger houses in town, though instead of the feather beds upstairs, Susan and her mother, Anne, sleep in the kitchens on moldy mats with threadbare blankets near the dying embers of the fire. They are scullery maids.

      Susan is old enough now to realize that perhaps there might be a different life out there for her, but she is still too young to seek it. The desire in her heart is for a grand house of her own, gowns swishing across the floor, satin gloves that reach to her elbows, strings of pearls and diamonds that she can pass down to her granddaughters.

      She is supposed to be sleeping now, but there is a rustling outside the kitchen door that breaks her out of her reverie. The night wind blows softly through the trees that are gradually changing from green to deep purple to black as the sun disappears. Susan throws her blanket aside, pulls on her leather slippers and shawl, and slips out the door into the night.

      GRACE IS SLEEPING UPSTAIRS when Susan leaves the house. Her feather pillow is soft against her warm cheek, and the night reaches in the open window to move her hair gently off her face like a mother’s loving caress. Grace is dreaming about a time when she was younger, before her mother got sick. She is dreaming about goodnight kisses and story-time, when her mother would gather her up into her lap on the rocking chair, and they would just be together.

      Since her mother’s death last year, Grace’s little brother had not spoken a word. At four years old, he is two years younger than Grace. He spends every day out by the stables, where they used to have horses. When their mother died, they had to sell them. She had been their primary caretaker and loved them like her own children.

      Thomas sits with his back to the barn, digging in the dirt and pulling at the grass. Grace has tried to talk to him many times, but he never answers. Grace’s heart aches for her brother, and as she dreams of her mother, she also dreams of being able to buy her brother a horse of his own, to care for and remember his mother by. Despite her privilege, Grace cries herself to sleep every night.

      Something pulls her out of sleep, so quickly and violently that she sits up breathless in the darkness. She has the unmistakable feeling that something is wrong. She pulls her riding cloak around her shoulders, and runs barefoot from her bedroom and peeks her head into her brother’s bedroom. His deep, rhythmic breathing soothes her, but something still pulls at her, so she moves slowly down the grand staircase, heart pounding. Outside the heavy, oak front door, the moon is full and casts playful shadows on the ground; like night sprites, they play tricks on Grace’s eyes and flit to and fro in her peripheral vision. The stars twinkle overhead, and she hears a rustling in the bushes. Rather than run back inside to the safety of her bed, as she should, Grace steps into her shoes and leaves her childhood home.

      CHARLIE IS AWAKE, AND he can hear his father is moaning in pain. He hears his mother groan and haul herself out of bed in the next bedroom, but Charlie quickly stops her.

      I’ll go, Mother, he says, putting a loving hand on her arm. Go back to bed.

      The authority with which he speaks surprises her; he is only seven, but she is so happy and grateful that he is so responsible. She kisses his cheek, and he kisses her hand, and he bows his head for her blessing. Then she goes back to bed, and he makes his way downstairs to care for his father.

      He goes to the kitchen. He fetches the kettle and puts another log into the woodstove. With a steaming cup in hand and some deep sleep herbs sprinkled in the boiling water, Charlie approaches his father’s sickbed. His patient is rolling around in pain, and Charlie is sick with sympathy, worry, and as a child caring for a sick parent, fear that he will lose someone he loves so much.

      He takes a deep breath. Father?

      Alistair looks up and sees his son silhouetted in the doorway. Charles, he whispers and begins to cough. His son approaches with the steaming cup of remedy, and the man pushes himself into a sitting position. The handkerchief he holds to his coughing mouth is bloody. He reaches for the cup and drinks deeply. The hot liquid soothes his parched throat, and Charlie sits on the side of the bed, watching. Alistair drains the cup and hands it back to his son, coughing again and laying back against the pillow sighing. You’ll look after your mother, won’t you? he croaks. When I’m gone.

      Hush, Charlie brings a damp cloth and wipes the sweat from his father’s brow. He hates the idea of his father dying. He dreads the moment when he will inevitably come downstairs, and his father will be still, silent, staring. Every time his father moans in pain, even when it wakes him up in the middle of the night, he sighs with relief because he knows he will not have to lead his mother to the decaying body. He will not have to shield his younger siblings from the flies.

      When his father has fallen asleep again, Charlie lingers on the main floor of their small house. He listens to the sounds of the night; owls hooting outside, wind whistling through the trees, deep breathing from the sleeping forms upstairs. Charlie is the oldest of five children, and his mother relies on him heavily. He is young, but with his father ill, there is no one else. Life is difficult with so many mouths to feed, but his mother is still nursing the twins, and their home is full of love, despite their struggles.

      Charlie misses his father, the way they used to play together. He sighs and begins to move toward the staircase and his bed when he hears a strange noise outside. He looks out the window and sees three of his friends moving stealthily through the shadows. What could they be up to? Children are not allowed outside after dark.

      They creep past his open window, and he whispers, Hey! but none of them seem to hear him. He checks his father one more time, makes sure the breathing is deep, slow and calm, and then closes the front door silently behind him.

      THE RIVER IS WIDE AND deep; none of the children would dream of trying to swim across. The bridge they have never crossed is made of crumbling stone; it has been here since long before their grandparents came to this place and built the town.

      Since the beginning though, the rule has been the same: ‘Never set foot on the bridge.’

      The legend changes from grandmother to grandmother, whether it is a troll living beneath the bridge, waiting to snatch unsuspecting travelers and drag them into the swift current; or a fierce siren in the form of a beautiful mermaid that would lure villagers with her haunting song and then rip the flesh from their bodies as soon as they were within her reach. Whatever the story, children were sufficiently deterred.

      This night, Adam, Susan, and Grace are pulled toward the bridge, with increasing anxiety reverberating within each of them. They left their houses with an inkling and now their fully-fledged doubts reign supreme. Each of them is on the verge of turning back, but for some reason, their feet continue moving forward.

      They are vaguely aware that Charlie has joined them, and he keeps asking, What are you guys doing? and Why aren’t you at home in bed? and Don’t you guys know about the curfew? but nothing seems to matter but the pull, and soon they can see who is responsible for it.

      Shining in the moonlight is the red hair of the child, named Skye, who entertained them in the village square earlier that day under the heat of the midday sun. Now, she looks pale and milky white, and they still cannot truly tell if she is a girl or a boy. It does not really matter. But she is there, with a red-eyed rat on her shoulder, and they wonder where the little dog could be.

      Welcome, she says, her red hair bouncing with every move of her head, and she surveys the children with a practiced scrutiny.

      What are we doing here? Adam demands, anger on his face, as the spell seems to wane.

      You are welcome to leave at any time, Skye replies, and her lilting voice is velvety, and it pierces each of them, even Charlie’s skeptical heart.

      Why have you brought us here? Grace asks; she is worried about Thomas. If he wakes in the night and tries to crawl into bed with her and finds her gone, he will be very frightened and alone.

      Have you children heard the legends surrounding this bridge? Skye asks.

      Grace’s grandmother had spoken of a troll. Children get eaten here, she says carefully, and she reaches for Susan’s hand. They had never touched before.

      The other children nod, and Skye chuckles. That is only a story told by those who do not want you to find out the truth.

      Suddenly, the night sky is illuminated with flashes of the aurora, which are not usually visible this far south. The children gasp and gaze upward, distracted by the fluttering colors dancing against the midnight blue sky. As they stare into the lights, visions of each of their desires come to them, and they are rendered breathless.

      What magic is this? Charlie asks, trembling.

      What if I told you all this and more was possible? Skye smiles, knowing, of course, what they have seen. She has seen it all, for many years.

      Grace is crying. Susan pats her shoulder awkwardly, trying to comfort the younger girl, biting her own lip and wondering if what the sprite is saying is true.

      Follow me, the red-haired child says, follow me over the bridge and you will find all that you wish for and more.

      With that, she moves off into the darkness, purposeful footfalls on the aging stone bridge. The children all look at one another.

      We mustn’t, Charlie whispers uncertainly.

      Of course we must! Adam replies impatiently. Didn’t you see? We can have everything we have ever dreamed of! He turns on his heel and follows the creature, an act of faith, a shot in the darkness. The other three children nervously follow, clutching each other. Charlie is the least convinced, but he feels he cannot just leave his friends to their fate. He has heard stories of the horrors that lurk in the forest beyond, and he will not abandon them to face the truth.

      The bridge is ancient, but there is no troll beneath it. No siren song echoes through the night air, and they breathe a little easier once they have crossed and again they stand on solid ground. Trees tower above them, and the darkness envelops them so that they can hardly see one another though they are only inches apart.

      The two girls and Charlie have not let go of each other’s hands since they arrived at the river crossing, and sweat and trembling will not force them to let go. They inch forward, barely able to see the flash of red hair ahead of them. Suddenly, as they stand clutching one another in the dark, a pocket of blue light illuminates and hovers a foot off the ground, about twenty feet away from them in the forest.

      A will-o’-the-wisp! Susan breathes, and they can see more, farther off, lighting the way for them along a pathway through the trees. Encouraged by a little bit of magic, the children forget their fears and move forward with more certainty, now more curious than anxious about where Skye might be leading them. After ten minutes of walking, during which each wisp disappears just before they might reach forward and snuff out its light, they come to a clearing unlike any they had seen before or read about in their schoolbooks.

      The moonlight is so bright here it could almost be morning, though it can’t possibly be midnight yet. The children can see clearly, and they gaze around wonderingly. The trees are different here; around the perimeter of the small clearing are trees with strangely broad trunks. The strangest thing about them is that centered within each trunk is a door. A grown man would have to stoop to fit through, but the doors are just the right size for a child.

      Curiosity now leading the way, the children lose touch with their friends and gravitate toward the tree that seems to be calling their name quietly, with just a whisper of a breeze rustling the leaves. There is a door for each of them. Charlie does not even utter a sound in alarm. He is too busy reaching for the ornate brass doorknob, so out of place in the depths of the forest. He turns the handle.

      Adam is surprised when he opens his door and finds a train station. The floor is polished tile, and the woman behind the glass of the ticket box smiles sweetly at him. Go on, she says in a musical voice, you already have your ticket. He reaches into his pocket and finds a piece of parchment, with his name and the date and the time—he glances up at the clock—and he can hardly believe his good luck. Stepping out onto the platform, he is dazzled by the sun reflecting off an open expanse of water as far as he can see in any direction. The blue of the sky meets the blue of the water, and the sun shines off it in a sparkling cacophony of color. Adam closes his eyes and breathes in the fresh, clean air.

      A train whistle sounds, so like the ones he can hear from his house but coming closer every minute, and his stomach bubbles up with excitement. Suddenly, Skye is beside him, shining green eyes gazing at the koi fish that swim just below the surface of the water below the platform.

      You are welcome to leave at any time, she repeats, still not looking at him. Until you board the train.

      Adam thinks of his father, and how upset and heartbroken he might be if he were to return home and find his son vanished without a trace. Maybe. Maybe he wouldn’t even notice, Adam thinks bitterly.

      I’m ready, he says, and the train pulls up, puffing and belching smoke and the sounds drown out any more thoughts of the father who had chosen another life over his only son. Adam was indeed ready to leave it all behind.

      Skye steps back, extending a hand in invitation, and Adam steps onto the train without an ounce of regret. Whatever is waiting for him at the end of the line has to be better than waiting at home with a nanny he hates for a father who has never been there for him, who sees him maybe once a year, who has never thought twice about abandoning his own flesh and blood.

      With another whistle, the train pulls forward, and no one in the village ever saw or heard from Adam ever again.

      Susan glances nervously over at Grace before she opens her door, but Grace has already passed through into the Other Place, and Susan can no longer see her by the light of the moon. Susan finds herself back in town, on the doorstep of a grand house with Gothic columns and wrought-iron balustrades and climbing vines and pristine white shutters. For a moment, her heart sinks, and she thinks she should report to the kitchens; her mother probably has a mountainous list of chores for her to do.

      Instead, the front door bangs open and a gaggle of maids and housekeepers and one tall, stoic butler come bustling out the door and usher her in, all speaking at once about how she must hurry to get ready and why was she out playing so late when she knew she must get ready for dinner, and won’t you hurry upstairs and slip into your evening gown, m’lady?

      Susan does as they command, her head swimming. She reaches the upstairs rooms, and a kindly middle-aged woman dressed in a maid’s finery sits her down in front of a mirror and begins brushing her hair. Susan closes her eyes and revels in the simple pleasure she has never experienced. Her hair is plated and pinned up, and she changes her clothes to the stunning gown the maid has laid out on the bed for her. When she has it on, and the maid has fastened all the buttons in the back, and she has pulled on her long evening gloves, a string of pearls is draped around her small neck, and she stands back and admires the full effect in the full-length mirror. Susan thinks she is the most beautiful lady she has ever seen.

      On her way down to dinner, feeling like a princess, Susan peeks her head into the kitchens. Amidst the hustle and bustle of the cooks preparing plates of stuffed goose and caramel sweet potatoes, Susan catches a glimpse of her mother.

      With ice in her stomach, the fancy lady steps cautiously over the threshold of the kitchen. Her lady’s maid tuts at her impatiently, but Susan cannot ignore the tousled, mousy brown head of hair and watery blue eyes that she has gazed at for so many years.

      Anne! the chef barks, and Susan jumps to hear her mother’s name. The woman, nervous and hunched, jumps and scurries over. The coals in the wood stove need stoking! I cannot believe I have to tell you again! You are setting us behind! Stupid woman!

      Susan flinches at the unkind words spoken to her mother at such a volume. How humiliated she must be, she thinks, and her mother’s flushed face and teary eyes are a confirmation. Susan shakes with rage, and she is about to scream in the chef’s face, with a fury and newfound confidence given to her by the pearls around her neck, when Skye appears at her elbow.

      Is this all you ever dreamed? the creature asks.

      Why is my mother being treated this way? Susan demands, her expensive gown all but forgotten.

      Because she no longer has a child, Skye replies. She is much more difficult to pity if she does not have an extra mouth to feed. Her shortcomings are less forgivable.

      But that’s not fair! Susan is surprised to feel her age come through in her words. Despite how she may feel, she is still just a little girl. What can I do for her?

      Nothing, the creature seems to mourn, though there is still the glint of mischief in the shining green eye. Unless she has a daughter, she will be treated more harshly. She will eventually throw herself into the river to end her suffering.

      Susan wipes the tears from her eyes. I can’t stay here. I have to go back to my mother. She is all alone, she pleads, beseeching the sprite to have mercy. Please, my mother needs me.

      Susan is thrown into darkness. Huddled on the ground, she realizes she is wearing her old scullery maid rags, and again there is soot on her cheek from the fire in the kitchen. By the light of the moon, she can see beyond the bridge and the town further off in the distance. For just a moment she mourns the beautiful gown she got to wear, and she closes her eyes tight and tries to remember the swishing sound it made as she flounced around that beautiful, grand house. She knows in her heart that there is no happy ending for her if her mother has to suffer alone. So she picks herself up, dusts off her knees and dress as best she can and sets off through the darkness for home, and the kitchen and the woman who gave her life.

      Grace hears the door close behind her, and she is in the middle of a field in daylight, where the grass is so soft it is like the fur of the neighborhood cats that she sometimes feeds when there are leftovers from her family’s dinner. On a small hill is an apple tree, and the apples are so big and juicy looking that her mouth starts to water. She starts forward, eager for a crunchy bite, when something moves beside her.

      She looks and gasps with excitement. All around her are horses! Wild horses by the look of their manes, unkempt and free flowing and glistening coats all with little whinnies and knickers and Grace isn’t frightened at all. She walks slowly to the apple tree and pulls one from a low-hanging branch. A beautiful palomino horse is approaching her, white with cream-colored spots and a golden mane. It is just like her mother’s horse, she notices with a catch in her throat. A velvet nose pushes forward into her hand to seek out the red fruit, and the crunch between large, yellow teeth makes Grace laugh. She pats the soft face, and the deep brown eyes seem to speak to her. I shall bring you home to Thomas, she whispers.

      Skye is there, just behind her, and she turns as the red hair catches her eye, so contrasted against the green of the grass and the brown, gray, and beige of the many horses, all around. Where is your mother? the creature asks.

      Grace shakes her head. Dead, she replies, but Skye is smiling.

      Where is your mother? she repeats.

      Grace is beginning to feel the angry tears coming, and she cannot bring herself to say the word again. May I bring this horse home to my brother? she asks through gritted teeth, and something catches in her belly when she thinks of Thomas.

      Where is your mother? The words reverberate but suddenly Grace is alone again, with grazing horses all around, and the occasional stamping hoof.

      Grace? The sound of her name makes her blood run cold. It is her mother’s voice, to be sure, but she had never thought to hear that voice saying that—or any—name ever again. How could she be here?

      Mother? A whisper.

      And there she is, arm draped around the neck of her favorite horse, the palomino, white flowing cotton dress and hair flying free in the summer breeze: the face that Grace most wished to see, the arms that had held her through every emotion too difficult for a tiny human to bear. Grace’s mother laughs, and holds her arms open to her daughter, and the girl rushes into them and rests her head against the breast that had held her close and nursed her, the heartbeat she knew the sound of from the inside.

      Oh Mother, the little girl sobs, it has been so hard without you.

      My strong girl, her mother soothes, stroking her hair, my beautiful warrior princess.

      Why did you go away? Tear-filled eyes sparkle and seek out her mother’s face, drinking up each moment as though her eyes were dying of thirst and her mother was a fresh spring in the middle of the desert.

      Oh, my darling. We do not always have control over these things.

      But poor Thomas is so ... Grace cannot finish as she thinks of her brother. Somehow, she knows she is going to have to make a terrible choice.

      Won’t you stay with me? her mother asks, and Grace knows something is wrong. Her real mother would never have wanted her to leave her baby brother all alone.

      He hasn’t spoken a word since you left, Grace pulls away, gazing at her mother, trying to find something amiss.

      But I’ve missed you so, her mother says, and the fingers clutch at the girl like claws, and the arms grip a little too tight. Grace pushes her away and turns, running blindly through the field, and the horses move out of her way, looking up lazily and deciding she is of no consequence.

      She continues running until night descends and she finds herself again in the forest, and the bridge is ahead. She is across the bridge and pelting down the dirt road of Main Street in the town, lungs heaving and chest burning and she doesn’t dare to stop until the front door of her house is closed behind her.

      She looks through into the kitchen and sees Susan there, on the floor by the dying fire, curled up against her mother, breathing deep, and Grace hopes she is not dreaming. She hurries upstairs and walks past her room into her brother’s, where he is still as fast asleep as he was when she’d left. She lifts the blankets that cover him and slides into bed next to his tiny, sleeping figure. He sighs and relaxes against her, sucking his thumb and curling his fingers around a lock of her hair. Grace’s breathing slows, and her heart relaxes, knowing this tiny person needed her more than a hope, and a wish, and a might have been.

      CHARLIE WATCHES THE other children open and step through their doors. There seemed to be nothing for it now; they are all at the mercy of whatever they find beyond. He takes a deep breath, opens the door, and finds himself in his own living room. Confused, he looks around and realizes that something is missing. His father’s makeshift sickbed is gone. There is a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach. Did his father pass away while he was crossing the river? He calls out into the darkness, Mother?

      A figure moves in the shadows.

      Charles.

      Charlie jumps at the sound of his name, cutting through the uncharacteristic silence like a hot knife through butter. He takes a moment and listens for sounds of his little siblings running around upstairs, but he hears nothing. It is very strange. Normally, the house is filled with laughter and chatter and arguments. But it is just his father, standing there, alone.

      Father? How are you feeling? Charlie takes a tentative step forward, and Alistair emerges from the shadows.

      Never better, the familiar smile disarms the boy, and he rushes forward into the strong embrace of his father’s arms.

      But you were so sick, he says, looking up into his father’s face, remembering how bad he had looked only a couple of hours before. The dark shadows under the eyes are gone; the bloody spittle is gone from the corner of his mouth. Alistair looks healthy, his flesh filled out, so unlike the sunken, emaciated countenance from earlier.

      When you crossed the river and came here, his father says, everything changed. Now, we can be together forever, and never worry about getting sick or dying or being separated by anything in the world. Wouldn’t you like that?

      Charlie is tired. He is tired of being responsible for all of his siblings while his mother cares for his father’s every need. He is tired of waiting for his father to die. He is tired of being woken up in the middle of the night. He is tired of being so young and having so many responsibilities. He would like to be with his father, well again, and able to have a proper childhood and to have someone take care of him. His chin quivers at the thought. But again the silence of the empty house envelops him, and he remembers his mother and siblings with a nauseous feeling in his stomach, and looks up again at his father. What about mother? And the little ones?

      Skye is there, beside his ear, whispering.

      "Your mother

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