Winter Moon

possessed. His awareness of Jack's arrival in the graveyard began

when, startled, he'd spun away from the granite marker. Holding his

hands out, arms open, Jack said, "No, I'm not going to do anything like

that. Just come here."

Skeptical and cautious, puzzled face framed by the red hood of the ski

suit, Toby came to him. Jack gripped the boy by the shoulders, looked

into his eyes.

Blue-gray. Clear. No smoky spiral under the color. "What's wrong?"

Toby asked, frowning. "Nothing. It's okay." while first, you and

me?

A Frisbee's more fun with . Frisbee tossing, hot chocolate.

Normality hadn't erely returned to the day, it had crashed down like a

weight. Jack doubted he could have convinced anyone that he and Toby had

so recently been deep in the muddy river of the supernatural.

His own fear and his perception of uncanny forces were fading so

rapidly that already he could not quite recall the power of what he'd

felt.

Hard gray sky, every scrap of blue chased way beyond the eastern

horizon, trees shivering in the frigid breeze, brown grass, velvet

shadows, Frisbee games, hot chocolate: the whole world waited for the

first spiraling flake of winter, and no aspect of the November day

admitted the possibilities of ghosts, disembodied entities, possession,

or any other-worldly Compulsively, he pulled the boy close, hugged

him.

"Dad?" henomena whatsoever.

"You don't remember, do you?"

"Huh?"

"Good."

"Your heart's really wild," Toby said. "That's all right, I'm okay,

everything's okay."

"I'm the one scared poopless. Boy, I sure owe you one!" Jack let go

of his son and struggled to his feet. The sweat on his face felt like

a mask of ice. He combed his hair back with his fingers, wiped his

face with both hands, and blotted his palms on his jeans. "Let's go

back to the house and get some hot chocolate."

Picking up the Frisbee, Toby said, "Can't we play

"Can we, Dad?" Toby

asked, brandishing the Frisbee. "all right, for a little while. But

not here. Not in this . . ." It would sound so stupid to say not in

this graveyard. Might as well segue into one of those grotesque Stepin

Fetchit routines from old movies, do a double take and roll his eyes

and shag his arms at his sides and howl, Feets don't fail me now.

Instead, he said, "... not so near the woods. Maybe ... down there

closer to the stables." Carrying the flying-saucer Frisbee, Toby

sprinted between the gateless posts, out of the cemetery. "Last one

there's a monkey!"

Jack didn't chase after the boy. Hunching his shoulders against the

chill wind, thrusting his hands in his pockets, he stared at the four

graves, again troubled that only Quartermass's plot was flat and

grass-covered. Freakish thoughts flickered in his mind. Scenes from

old Boris Karloff movies. Graverobbers and ghouls. Desecration.

Satanic rituals in cemeteries by moonlight. Even considering the

experience he'd just had with Toby, his darkest thoughts seemed too

fanciful to explain why only one grave of four appeared long

undisturbed, however, he told himself that the explanation, when he

learned it, would be perfectly logical and not in the least creepy.

Fragments of the conversation he'd had with Toby echoed in his memory,

out of order: What are they doing down there? What is dead? What is

life? Nothing lasts forever. Everything lasts. Nothing. Everything

becomes. Becomes what? Me.

Everything becomes me. Jack sensed that he had enough pieces to put

together at least part of the puzzle. He just couldn't see how they

interlocked. Or wouldn't see. Perhaps he refused to put them together

because even the few pieces he possessed would reveal a nightmare face,

something better not encountered. He wanted to know, or thought he

did, but his subconscious overruled him.

As he raised his eyes from the mauled earth to the three stones, his

attention was caught by a fluttering object on Tommy's marker. It was

stuck in a narrow crack between the horizontal base and the vertical

slab of granite: a black feather, three inches long, stirred by the

breeze. Jack tilted his head back and squinted uneasily into the

wintry vault directly overhead.

The heavens hung gray and dead. Like ashes. A crematorium sky.

However, nothing moved above except great masses of clouds. Big storm

coming. He turned toward the sole break in the low stone, walked to

the posts, and looked downhill toward Toby had almost reached that long

rectangular buildg. He skidded to a halt, glanced back at his

laggardly father, and waved. He tossed the Frisbee straight into the

air. On edge, the disc knifed high, then curved toward the zenith and

caught a current of wind. Like a spacecraft from another world, it

whirled across the somber sky. Much higher than the greatest altitude

reached by the frisbee, under the pendulous clouds, a lone bird circled

above the boy, like a hawk maintaining surveillance of potential prey,

though it was likely a crow rather than a hawk. Circling and

circling.

A puzzle piece in the shape Of a black crow. Gliding on rising

thermals. Silent as a talker in a dream, patient and mysterious.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.