Saundra Mitchell: Mistwalker

He got out and walked straight for the house. The blankness on his face matched the eerie certainty of his steps. Possessed by something, he moved slow and deliberate. I was halfway to my feet when he reached the porch, but he didn’t even look at me.

Brushing past, he left the door open when he went inside. Untangling myself, I started after him. Just then, my mother cried out.

“Bill!” she shouted. “Bill, you stop it right now.”

Panic rippled through the air. I burst inside, then plastered myself against the wall. Daddy dropped the stock of his shotgun against his shoulder. Buckshot shells rattled as he dropped them into his pocket.

I wanted to say something, but my throat was stuck. It was too much, everything was too much. Frozen, I ground my shoulders against the wall and watched in horror.

Putting his head down, Daddy moved like my mother wasn’t tearing at his shirt. Like he didn’t hear her, see me. Bailey jumped out of his way, her face drained of all color. Cracking the brittle tension, I forced myself to follow.

Our dooryard wasn’t that big. Bleak, thorned rose vines clung to the gate trellis. Scattered with fallen leaves and long shadows, it looked like a cemetery. Mom dug in her heels, scattering the leaves. She tripped and hauled herself up. Wild and feral, she flung herself at Daddy.

“You can’t do this, Bill,” my mother sobbed.

She struggled against him, pounding his back with her fists. The blows fell away; she may as well have punched a wall. When he turned, I was afraid he would hit her. Instead, he pulled her hands off his flannel and held her at arm’s length.

Behind me, Bailey chanted, “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” less a prayer than an exclamation. Struggling against my reluctant body, I jumped the steps and ran toward the driveway. I reached the truck just as Daddy slammed the door closed.

He reached out the window to shove my mother away. Even in that he was gentle, but he was firm. It was terrible, a slow-motion severing.

For a second, everything seemed to float. A snapshot of a moment: my mother catching herself on the fence, my father hanging out the window. I would have sworn that time stopped—no, skipped. A blank flicker when Daddy met Mom’s eyes and said, “Goodbye, baby.”

Slumping on the fence, Mom started to sob. Daddy threw the truck into reverse and tore out of the driveway. When time started again, I moved with it. I ran after the truck, like I might actually catch it. Arms windmilling when I realized I couldn’t, I twisted around.

Mom couldn’t stop him, and I couldn’t either. He had his gun, and he was heading up the hill to find Terry Coyne. Something monstrous was about to happen; the last shreds of my family had caught fire. Inside I flailed, but not for long. We didn’t have long.

The clean, black-capped shape of the lighthouse loomed in the distance. Automatically, I turned to it. Like it was my new north star—like it was my last chance. I took a few, wobbling steps and called to Bailey.

“Take care of my mom,” I shouted.

I didn’t wait for an answer or let myself see the fear in Bailey’s eyes. There was no time for it, no second guesses, no hesitations. It took me a few loping steps to get up to speed, but when I did, I burned with it. The untied braids in my hair came loose, and the wind whipped it all around my head.

When I’d had to escape, when I’d needed to get home, I’d hit the front door of the lighthouse running and come out on my parents’ porch. Chest burning and throat raw with every hard breath, I hoped it worked the other way. I prayed and wished, and when I hit the shore, I screamed.

“I want to come back, Grey!” Splashing into the surf, my teeth chattered instantly. The cold gripped, razor sharp. But I kept wading out, salt in my mouth, blood in my throat.

“Grey, please!”

The muck pulled my shoes off; I fought to keep moving. I know I screamed for Grey again, that my voice tore through the clear, clear sky. Then the shallows dropped off, and I plunged beneath the waves. Below, it was frigid and peaceful, until I cut the water with frantic arms.

I sank, and I sank, still screaming.

I’m in no state to have callers, but Willa bursts through my door all the same.

She’s soaked and maddened, and so exquisitely in focus. Cruelly, wonderfully, I see her in all her details. The freckle in one eye, the hundredshade of her red hair. What a pretty, pretty girl she is—when she’s not raving.

Skidding to a stop, she holds up her hands. Broken music boxes surround her—there’s a chance I lost my temper and smashed them all. Soul jars, music boxes, windows, too. Even the computer, for that was a rather disappointing window indeed.

Once I would have been embarrassed to receive a lady in my current state of undress. But cotton breeches and little else at least nod to my modesty and allow her to witness the whole of me in all my hideous natural state. I’m whitewash poured into a man-shaped glass. My head is—to be fair—not smooth, but quite round now. Quite evidently round, with all my hair shorn.

Her eyes widen as I approach; I frighten her. I should frighten her.

“Bring in the fog,” she says. Her voice quavers. Her fingers curl into claws when I get closer. She really is horrified; wonderful! “Please, Grey, please. I’ll stay if you want, I’ll . . .”

I press a finger to her lips. “No, thank you.”

“There’s no time, please. Please. Help me, and I will make it up to you.”

Spreading my arms wide, I shrug. I feel mercurial, just like the wind. The water. The sea, the sky. Flowing through the room, my feet cut a swath through shattered glass and twisted metal. I turn to her, and I would apologize, but there are no apologies left in me.

“It can’t be done. I’m surrendering, you see.”

Her eyes aren’t black. They’re brown, streaks of amber, flecks of green—that one dark spot that distracts me. There’s a light on in there, behind those lashes. She’s thinking, working, then suddenly, she throws herself at me. “Make me the Grey Man.”

“Willa.” I laugh. “That’s fundamentally impossible.”

“The Grey Lady,” she shouts. “You know what I mean!”

She puts her hands on me; she shakes me. Oh, how I longed for that before today, though not like this. Not hard and furious. Would a gentle touch from her have been so very hard to offer? Delicate fingers to trace the illusory veins in my wrists, a loving touch to warm the back of my neck?

Yet, there is a spark. Just as the beacon above comes to life when it’s needed, I feel something within me turn. Catching Willa’s elbows, I seize it—before my muddled thoughts distract me entirely. It’s a faery story after all, perhaps ending happily ever after for me. But this one does not begin once upon a time. It begins—

“Will you die for me?”

Willa shakes her head, stubborn to the last. “Not for you. For my family I will. But not for you.”

It’s within my grasp to toy with her. Torment her as she has tormented me. To hold out hope before her, just to snatch it away. I burn to do it; she’d deserve it. Instead, I cradle her face with my hand—I can be tender. I can be gentle.

I’ve been honest all along; my honor is mine and it’s intact. Her suffering will come later. I’ve no need to exact revenge now. Not now.

In the end, I was right. She was thinking of me. She came to me. And now she sets me free.

Her lips are stone, but I press mine to them all the same. It’s the only way I know how to give her this gift. At first, it seems I have only stolen a kiss. Then, a spike of light rips through me. My black-and-white world starts to bleed; my insubstantial body becomes flesh.