Page 76 of A Resistance of Witches
“That’s okay,” he said softly. “I think it’s time for you to go home.”
The boy made a small movement that might have been a nod, or might have been nothing at all. Henry began to back away, unsure if he had helped or only made things worse. Then the boy spoke.
“North.”
Henry stopped. “What?”
The boy’s throat bobbed, like the words were crawling up toward his mouth from someplace deep inside. “The man said go north.”
His voice was strange and thin, like many voices all sighing and murmuring together, coming not from his throat, but from someplace else very far away. It was the voice more than anything that made Henry want to turn and run.
“What man?” Henry whispered.
The boy stared at him, and after a moment, Henry understood that he was not going to receive an answer. Perhaps the boy didn’t know himself.
“North. I will. Thank you. Go on home now, okay?”
He got back into the truck and started the engine. As he drove, he saw the boy in his mirror, still watching the truck as it puttered away. Henry kept looking back, hoping each time that the boy wouldn’t be there, but the fragile figure remained until he was just a speck in the distance, only disappearing when the horizon swallowed him up.
•••
Henry drove north,watching his speed, keeping his eye out for Germans, and for the dead. They were everywhere—old and young, some bloodied and broken, some looking as if they had just come fromthe market, their dazed expressions and unnatural stillness the only hint that there was anything unusual about them.
He could feel the book’s interest like hot breath on his neck. Before, its presence had felt merely unsettling. Now it seemed to howl and cry, shaking the windows, screaming for his attention. Several times he was sure he saw a dark specter looming next to him, but when he turned his head, there was nothing there. Henry held the wheel so tightly his fingers went numb. He kept his eyes on the road, and away from the shade in the passenger seat.
It was nearly dark when the gas ran out and he felt the truck begin to sputter. He pulled to the side of the road, cursing as the engine died. The book seemed to sense his panic. It reached for him, whipping itself into a frenzy, but Henry refused to acknowledge the thing. Outside the sky had gone an ominous slate gray, the half-bare trees twisting in the wind.
He stepped out of the truck. The wind was bitter, but the sudden burst of cold helped to clear his head. If he stayed with the truck, it would only be a matter of time before he was spotted, and then there would be trouble. He thought about abandoning it and setting out on foot to find safe harbor for the night, but he was lost, and the temperature was falling fast, and so he wavered, rubbing his hands together for warmth as his breath plumed around him. The dread that had been growing inside him split open, blooming into full-blown fear as the sky grew darker every second. Henry looked up and down the empty road, and seeing no better options, took his pack from the truck, tucked the book inside, and set out on foot.
The sun had disappeared behind the horizon, and the moon was not yet up, and soon Henry was enveloped in a thick, impenetrable darkness. He had no hat and no gloves, and his cheeks and fingers burned with cold. Inside the pack, theGrimorium Bellumshrieked and jabbered, furious at being ignored.
Henry tried thinking of ways to distract himself. He sang songs, recited Shakespeare, Walt Whitman, Langston Hughes. He tried to recall a presentation he had given years ago on Caravaggio, speaking the parts he remembered out loud and making up the rest. He talked to himself until the cold made his tongue thick and he began to slur his words. He chattered to himself, and listened to his footsteps, and to the wind, until eventually he reached another crossroads and was forced to stop.
Henry shivered in the cold, peering down one path and then the other. There was no spirit to guide him here, no dead boy to tell him which way to go. He looked around for any sign of a house with a blue door and a broken gate, or a fallen tree, but there was nothing but icy fields.
Panic seized inside of him like a bird caught in a chimney. He was lost, exhausted and half-frozen, with no relief in sight. He thought again about turning around, taking shelter inside the truck, and hoping for the best. He turned to go back the way he had come, and stopped.
There was a dog in the road, just a stone’s throw from where he stood. It regarded him silently, alert and watchful.
“Shit,” Henry said.
It must have been following him, but for how long, he had no idea. The dog didn’t look dangerous, but Henry had been wrong before. He considered the contents of his pack—only a half-empty canteen, a little bread and cheese, and the book.
“Good boy,” he said. The dog cocked its head in reply. Slowly, Henry reached inside his pack and broke off a bite-sized piece of cheese. He held it up high, and the dog caught the scent, shuffling his feet eagerly.
“Here.” He tossed the cheese, and the dog caught it midair. “Good. Nice dog.” He held his empty hands in the air and backed away slowly. “All done now. No more.”
The dog finished eating and watched Henry for another moment.Clouds of frozen breath formed around its open mouth. For several long, horrible seconds, Henry wondered what he would do if the dog decided to attack.
Just then, a whistle rang out through the night. The dog perked up, then trotted past Henry without glancing back, disappearing down the road that curved off to the left.
There was someone else out there in the darkness, Henry realized with a chill; the dog had a master.
He considered what to do. Henry wasn’t keen on meeting some small-minded farmer in the middle of the night, but he would freeze to death if he stayed out in the cold much longer. Wherever the dog and its owner were heading, Henry had to assume there would be shelter there: a barn or a garden shed, someplace where he could sleep a few hours in secret, and be gone by morning.
Steeling his nerves, he followed after the dog at a quick clip, making sure to keep a safe distance.
At first, he saw nothing but the black silhouettes of trees, and the road directly in front of him. Then, slowly, the moon appeared from behind the clouds, and Henry began to make out the shape of a man, walking with a cane about twenty yards ahead of him, and a dog trotting along at his side. It was hard to see much in the silvery darkness, but Henry could just make out the man’s wide-brimmed hat, and note his halting gait. As the old man came into focus, the keening of the book seemed to rise on the night air, and for a moment, he thought he heard it speak a single word.
