Winter Moon

was listening to the heretofore silent and secret cosmic machinery that

drove the universe through its unending cycles. Shakily, he pushed

back the covers, sat up, stood. Heather didn't wake.

Night still reigned, but a faint gray light in the east hinted at the

pending coronation of a new day. Striving to quell his nausea, Jack

stood in just his underwear until his shivering was a greater concern

than his queasiness. The bedroom was warm. The chill was internal.

Nevertheless, he went to his closet, quietly slid the door open,

slipped a pair of jeans from a hanger, pulled them on, then a shirt.

Awake, he could not sustain the explosive terror that had blown him out

of the dream, but he was still shaky, fearful--and worried about

Toby.

He left the master bedroom, intending to check on his son. Falstaff

was in the shadowy upstairs hall, staring intently through the open

door of the bedroom next to Toby's, where Heather had set up her

computers. An odd, faint light fell through the doorway and glimmered

on the dog's coat. He was statue-still and tense. His blocky head was

held low and thrust forward. His tail wasn't wagging. As Jack

approached, the retriever looked at him and issued a muted, anxious

whine.

The soft clicking of a computer keyboard came from the room. Rapid

typing.

Silence. Then another burst of typing.

In Heather's makeshift office, Toby was sitting in front of one of the

computers. The glow from the monitor, which faced away from Jack, was

the only source of light in the former bedroom, far brighter than the

reflection that reached the hallway, it bathed the boy swiftly changing

shades of blue and green and purple, a sudden splash of red, orange,

then blue and green.

At the window behind Toby, the night remained deep because the gray

insistence of dawn could not yet be seen from that side of the house.

Barrages of fine snow flakes tapped the glass and were briefly

transformed into blue and green sequins by the monitor light.

Stepping across the threshold, Jack said, "Toby?" The boy didn't

glance up from the screen. His small hands flew across the keyboard,

eliciting a furious spate of muffled clicking. No other sound issued

from the machine none of the usual beeps or burbles. Could Toby

type?

No. At least, not like this, not with such ease and speed. The boy's

eyes glimmered with distorted images of the display on the screen

before him: violet, emerald, a flicker of red.

"Hey, kiddo, what're you doing?"

He didn't respond to the question.

Yellow, gold, yellow, orange, gold, yellow--the light .. shimmered not

as if it radiated from a computer screen but as if it was the

glittering reflection of summer sunlight bouncing off the rippled

surface of a pond, spangling his face.

Yellow, orange, umber, amber, yellow . . .

At the window, spinning snowflakes glimmered like gold dust, hot

sparks, fireflies. Jack crossed the room with trepidation, sensing

that normality had not returned when he'd awakened from the

nightmare.

The dog padded behind him.

Together, they rounded one end of the L-shaped work area and stood at

Toby's side. A riot of constantly changing colors surged across the

computer screen from left to right, melting into and through one

another, now fading, now intensifying, now bright, now dark, curling,

pulsing, an electronic kaleidoscope in which none of the ceaselessly

transfigured patterns had straight edges. It was a full-color

monitor.

Nevertheless, Jack had never seen anything like this before.

He put a hand on his son's shoulder.

Toby shuddered.

He didn't look up or speak, but a subtle change in his attitude implied

that he was no longer as spellbound by the display on the monitor as he

had been when Jack first spoke to him from the doorway.

His fingers rattled the keys again.

"What're you doing?" Jack asked.

"Talking."

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Masses of yellow and pink, spiraling threads of rippling ribbons of

purple and blue. The shapes, patterns, and rhythms of change were

mesmerizing when they combined in beautiful and graceful ways--but also

when they were ugly and chaotic.

Jack sensed movement in the room, but he had to make an effort to look

up from the compelling protomic images on the screen. Heather stood in

the doorway, wearing her quilted red robe, hair tousled. She didn't

ask what was happening.

if she already knew. She wasn't looking directly at Jack or Toby but

at the window behind them. Jack turned and saw showers of snowflakes

repeatedly changing color as the display on the monitor continued its

rapid and fluid metamorphosis.

"Talking to whom?" he asked Toby.

After a hesitation, the boy said, "No name."

His voice was not flat and soulless as it had been in the graveyard but

neither was it quite normal.

"Where is he?" Jack asked.

"Not he."

"Where is she?"

"Not she."

Frowning, Jack said, "Then what?"

The boy said nothing, gazed unblinking at the screen.

"It?" Jack wondered.

"All right," Toby said.

Approaching them, Heather looked strangely at Jack.

"It?"

To Toby, Jack said, "What is it?"

"Whatever it wants to be."

"Where is it?"