In the Forests of the Night

In the Forests of the Night-4

It would be pointless to say that I doubted my own sanity, or at least my convictions, once she was in the water: of course I did. It was hard not to as she just swam safely away—side stroking and floating on her back—like an otter, like a thing born to the water; dipping and resurfacing and shaking the drops from her hair, like a swan. Indeed, it didn’t seem to be as though there was anything to worry about; at least, until the allosaurus emerged with the swamp water up to its nostrils and its dark, little eyes focused on her—at which I called out to her hoarsely, desperately, before dropping to the platform and extending an arm (for it was a good several feet from it to the surface).

“Okay, babe. It’s okay. Just—just stay calm and swim for me—all right? Don’t look at it. Don’t even look back. Just, just head for the dock. You can do it.”

And she did do it, focusing straight ahead, focusing on her strokes; closing the gap swiftly, deftly, until she reached the dock and sought for my hand—and realized she couldn’t make it. Realized the reach was simply too great; and that she’d have to climb for it—have to climb the pilings—which she began to do, grunting and groaning, struggling, coming close enough almost to touch my hand, or for me to take hers—before slipping and falling back down.

“It’s—the ropes are too slick. I—I can’t get a grip.”

I glanced at the allosaurus, or rather the top of its head—like a crocodile, I thought, or an alligator—creeping closer, sealing the gap. “You’ve got to try, hon—just keep trying. Come on ...” I hung over the platform precariously—reaching and groping. “Climb, dammit!”

And our fingertips touched, briefly, fleetingly, even as the thing’s head swooped in and she was jerked beneath the surface—brutally, completely. Even as she looked at me and seemed almost to have an epiphany, a kind of spiritual revelation, before vanishing into the murk and exploding back up again, grunting and hyperventilating, unable to get any air, bleeding from her nose and mouth. At which the animal swung its head away and she bobbed over like a top, like a buoy, her face half-submerged, her visible eye blinking, once, twice, before glazing over and just staring, blankly. Devoid.

And then I stood but did not leave, looking at her head and shoulders—at her hovering, ink-black hair—as the allosaurus consumed something and the strange lights shone down—eerily, subliminally, stoically. As the deinonychuses trilled somewhere in the fog and the muted, blue-gray morning became day.

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* * * *

It would be hard to say for how long I sat on that Harley, just looking at the house. Could have been 30 seconds; could have been 30 minutes. Probably it was 30 minutes. All I know is that it was another one of those moments in which I seriously doubted my ability to go on; to just continue down the road and try to survive—not because I’d loved her but because I feared, on some level, that she’d been right: that the world of the Flashback was, indeed, talking to us, trying to tell us something—although what that might have been was anyone’s guess; and trying to figure it out was a good way to go mad—like, epically mad, cosmically mad. Lovecraftian mad. And so I let it go; just as I’d always let things go, even before the time-shift; even before the Collapse and the Vanishing and this demon-haunted world with its demonic sublime.

And then I started the Harley and kicked it down into gear, hoping to make San Rafael by nightfall—maybe even by late afternoon. Hoping it was there and that I hadn’t just imagined it. Hoping there were people there and that they might find it in themselves to show me a kindness. Even though we were lost—every one of us—in the forests of the night.

end.