Marc Zicree - Angelfire

“What was a thing your father told you about yourself?” I asked her as we distributed the last of her gear across her horse’s pack.

“That I shouldn’t follow his footsteps into the military.” “And why was that?”

She cleared her throat, then said, in a voice of gravel, “ ‘You wouldn’t take orders well, Chief. They’d bust you the first time you were insubordinate.’ ”

“Chief?”

Her lips curved. “A nickname.”

“I take it, then, that your father was never insubordinate. This surprises me, considering what you’ve told me of him.” She grinned, letting the teenager peek out. “Oh, Dad was never insubordinate. Not in any way they could prove. He had a talent for saying things with a smile that… well, that might’ve started a fight or a court-martial if someone else’d said it. I sometimes thought Dad was too laid back, too easy. Now I realize that was a survival tactic. It was his way of staying true to himself in a world that wanted him to conform. Maybe it was his way of daring the world to change him. The immovable object resisting an irresistible force.”

“You are also good at resisting the irresistible,” I noted.

She shook her head. “Too good. There are some changes I want to make. I’m just not sure I can.” Her eyes strayed to where Cal moved among the pack animals, checking cinches and tarps.

In a moment he glided between us, granting each a tired smile. “Ready to go?”

“Ready,” said Colleen and returned the smile.

He gave her a quick, one-armed hug and patted my shoulder before moving to mount his horse. Watching him, Colleen shrugged and shook her head, then swung up into her own saddle, making herself busy with the packhorse’s lead.

The wind was in our faces as we set out. The day was much like the days before, a freezing, gray blur, during which I considered that riding bareback would be warmer for both myself and my poor horse. Her name, I was told, was June, but I called her Koshka-meaning “cat”-for that was what she reminded me of, not in the least because she so disliked being wet.

Theoretically, one could stay dry beneath one’s down or leather jacket and waterproof poncho, but in reality the wind drove icy shrapnel into every slit. Koshka, I had no doubt, was even more miserable than I.

There was no possibility of conversation, no landmarks to entertain the eyes. The world quickly narrowed to the view between my mare’s ears. I could barely make out the glow Magritte spread about herself at the head of the column, so I kept my eyes on Colleen’s back and wondered how it is that flares do not seem to feel the cold.

The weather did us the favor of clearing toward afternoon. There was even a sun in the sky. I had become so used to the Preserve’s golden bonnet and Wisconsin’s gray snood that for a brief moment I did not recognize it. The temperature rose enough that I put back my hood and gazed about.

We traveled off the beaten track but in sight of it as long as the sun shone. But as soon as dusk began to settle, we came down onto the road-County Highway 14, according to the signs. We were now in Illinois, I realized, and probably had been for some time.

Snow had blown across the road, cushioning our horses’ hooves. Above the soft lowing of the wind, we could not hear the sounds of our own passage. We saw no one-no people, no domestic animals. Nor did we see signs of them. The farmhouses that we saw from afar were dark, their access roads covered with pleated coats of snow and ice except for the occasional track of fox or field mouse. Whether there were no people or no people fool enough to brave the storm, we could not tell.

Now we were able to speak, but didn’t care to. The cold, the constant wind, the stinging snow, had drained us. Even Magritte was subdued, having come to rest on the rump of Goldie’s gelding. Her bright aura had dimmed, but not died. Still, she was obliged to wrap herself in one of our sleeping bags for warmth.

At that point when the day teetered between twilight and darkness, we arrived at the crest of a hill. The sun, like a baleful red eye, glared at our backs from the western horizon, while below, the land disappeared into a gloom so deep no feature could be discerned. It was a peculiar, thick, unnatural darkness that made the hair rise up on the back of my neck.

Cal halted atop the hill, perplexed. “We should be able to see something . There are towns down there. We should be able to see fires, smoke…”

“It’s weird. It almost looks like a-a canyon,” said Goldie, making a north to south sweep with one arm. “Or a black hole.”

“It’s supposed to be fringe towns and bedroom communities-incipient suburbia. They wouldn’t have electricity, but…” Cal shook his head.

“Well, whatever it is, we’re sure as hell not going to find out tonight,” said Colleen. She gestured with her head. “Judging by that cloud mass up north, we’re in for some weather.”

Cal forced a long, steaming breath between tight lips and nodded. “You’re right. We should make camp.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the ribbon of snowy road behind. “There was a farm back about half a mile. I’d like to go check it out.”

The house had been gutted by fire, but the barn was intact, a fine, sturdy building with thick double doors and shuttered windows. It was empty of life, except perhaps for some mice. There was also hay, grain, and a number of other things that would be a welcome supplement to our supplies. I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to the animals and the people that had lived here; of them there was no sign.

We scavenged unburnt wood from the house and built a fire in a trash barrel, while Goldie set light-globes blazing. Then we bedded down the horses and ate our supper, none of us, I suspect, tasting much of the dried meat, fruit, and flatbread we consumed.

After our meal, Cal spread his map out on a bale of hay and pored over it, while Colleen hovered at his shoulder. Enid sat next to me on a bale just opposite them, watching silently. On an adjacent bale, Magritte slept at the end of her tether, her aura drained away.

Enid had taken his harmonica from his pack, but not to play. Instead, he turned it ceaselessly in his hands, end over end over end. “This is a weird time for me,” he murmured, slanting a gaze at Magritte. “Here I been jamming twenty-four/seven, trying to keep music happening-now I gotta keep music from happening. It’s unnatural. And I gotta wonder how long it can last.”

“Have you any idea how it is the Source has not heard her?”

A sort of music came to us from Goldie, out of sight among the box stalls. He was humming and singing in turns, tapping out rhythms on whatever surfaces presented themselves.

Enid turned his gaze from Magritte to follow the sound, a faint smile touching his lips. “I got my theories.”

“I don’t get it.” Cal’s voice pulled my attention to where he and Colleen studied the map. He ran his fingertips over it in a gesture that reminded me of a circus Gypsy reading tarot cards. When he was done, he shook his head. “We should be approaching the outskirts of Woodstock by now. But there’s nothing there.”

Enid straightened. “Where’d it go?”

Cal searched the map again, a smear of violet brilliance following the movement of his hands. Tangled networks of light leapt into being, culminating in a knot. To the east and west of this gleaming web was darkness.

“That’s Lake Michigan,” said Cal, pointing to the easternmost point where the light cut off abruptly. “I’d expect it to be dark. In fact, I’d be worried if it wasn’t. But I have no idea what this is.” He tapped a finger in the middle of the lightless area on the map.