'Sure. Lunch?'
'Okay.'
'Jeff wants to know if you're going to the game.'
Off, he thought then; get the hell off the phone!
'I don't know. I guess so. It depends on my mother, I think. I have to-'
He saw the light fading, the green disappear. 'Shit, here they come. I gotta go.'
'Lunch,' she said, and he slammed down the receiver before she could say good-bye, and raced into the kitchen.
He wanted to throw open the door, to step out boldly, but he hesitated, hands rubbing his legs, his teeth still at his lip. To go out there, now, would mean he really was crazy; to look into an empty yard would mean ...
His eyes shut. His hands clenched. His breath came in shallow gulps.
And he opened the door.
'Oh Jesus,' he whispered. 'Oh ... Jesus.'
It stood back under the maple tree, mottled by shadow, outlined now and again by the distant flare of lightning. But he couldn't see the whole of it, couldn't see it in detail-it was blacker than the night around it, and only portions of its skin gleamed and rippled when it moved.
He pressed a hand to his head as if checking for a fever, then stepped down off the stoop.
The horse bobbed its head, green eyes watching.
He could barely breathe; the air was too still, and his legs felt ready to collapse as he moved across the grass.
Green eyes. Watching.
He wanted to smile then, or to scream, but he only held out his hand, palm up, as he walked, hoping the stallion wouldn't smell his fear, would know instead his wonder at the size of it, the breadth of it, the way it turned its head and
looked at him with a single flaring eye.
It backed away, snorting, and sending plumes of grey about its head.
'It's me,' he said softly. 'It's me, fella, it's me.'
The horse shifted, and there was greenfire curling around the maple's trunk, greenfire that crackled and scorched a black ribbon in the bark.
Don stopped, swallowed, reached his hand out again and took a single step forward. He was less than five feet from its nose, and he wanted desperately to feel the velvet, feel the flesh and the bone. But when he moved another foot, it tossed its head and in its throat started a low sustained rumbling.
'All right,' he said calmly. 'All right, take it easy.'
Please, God, he thought; please, God, am I crazy?
The horse watched him carefully, greysmoke and greenfire for almost a full minute, then lowered its great head and pushed at Don's arm, pushed him back and followed until Don could reach up and stroke the silk of its mane, the black satin of its neck. Real flesh warm and cold at the same time; muscles jumping, a foreleg shifting, and he wasn't ashamed when he felt the tears building, felt them spilling, heard them splashing though he knew it couldn't be.
He hadn't killed the Howler; this creature had, this beast that was his friend.
'Why?' he whispered then. 'Why are they like that?'
The horse retreated again, and left him standing alone.
He sniffed, and wiped his eyes with a sleeve that felt like coarse burlap on his skin.
'They won't stop, y'know? They keep coming at me, they won't leave me alone. I'm not Sam, I'm not special. I'm just me, and they won't ...' He stopped, bowed his head, wiped his eyes again. 'I just wish I knew what I'm doing wrong, you know? If they'd only tell me what I'm doing wrong, maybe the Rules wouldn't change so much, maybe I'd know then what was going on.'
He felt it then, out there in the cold-the stallion was listening-every word he said, every tear he shed was marked by the emerald eyes and the pricking of its ears.
He wanted to ask why they wouldn't even let him be a hero, just this once; he wanted to ask why he couldn't cry, why he couldn't get mad, why the Rules said he had to be like stone or wood; and he wanted to ask why they couldn't make up their minds to let him be a kid, or a man. But he didn't, because he knew that the horse already understood, and that he was right-it was there, really there, and it was going to protect him.
He grinned through his tears.
The stallion snorted and buried them in grey smoke, snorted again, and blew the smoke away.
'It's true,' he said in the midst of a loud sigh. 'It's true, you're my friend.' He laughed once, softly. 'Oh god, it's really true!'
He stretched out a hand to stroke its muzzle, to seal the bargain, and froze when the animal began its throated rumbling. It backed away. He started to follow, and nearly bolted for the house when it reared under the tree, snapping branches, casting dead leaves, greenfire and greeneyes and slashing hooves at the air.
Headlights flared around the corner of the house.
Oh shit, he thought; damnit, they're home.
The horse lowered its head, eyes dark now, its tail slapping its legs.
'All right,' he said nervously. 'All right, I gotta go now.'
The horse didn't move.
He backed toward the kitchen door, wanting to laugh, wanting to shout, wanting to race around to the driveway and drag his father back, to show him, to show him what his son could do.
With one hand on the doorknob he looked over his shoulder, couldn't find his friend until he found the green eyes. 'Please,' he said. 'Please.'
And ran inside, skidding to a halt in the foyer just as he heard a key rattle in the lock and could hear his parents on the porch, talking loudly, not quite arguing. He turned toward the stairs to make it seem as if he were just going up, when his mother stormed in, slamming the door back against the wall as she charged past him toward the kitchen. His father was right behind her, slower, his jacket over one shoulder and his face pale.
'What are you doing up?' he snapped, and didn't wait for an answer. He jabbed a commanding finger toward the stairwell and followed his wife.
I'm fine, Don thought as he started up the stairs; thanks for asking, I'm fine.
'I will not have it!' Joyce said loudly, and he stopped on the landing.
'Keep your voice down! The boy'll hear.'
A laugh, short and bitter. 'Hear what? I'm not an animal and I'm not stuffed. What makes you think he'll hear me?'
'Jesus, you're crazy, you know that?'
She laughed again, and Don squatted, one hand on the banister in case he had to move fast.
Cupboard doors slammed, cups cracked into saucers, the faucet ran so long she could have filled the bathtub. When the water was shut off, his father was laughing.
'Honest to Christ, you're something else, you know that? You really are something else.'
'Well, really,' Joyce said. 'All they did was ask you to stand up and take a bow, and you were waving your arms like a goddamned politician!
Christ, I thought you were going to kiss babies next.'
'Wouldn't have been a bad idea.'
A chair scraped; another was slammed down on the floor.
'All right,' Norman said wearily. 'All right, I'm sorry.'
'Sorry is too late. You and the boy have been upstaging and hassling me since this thing began, and I've had it! I worked my ass off so you'd look good, and this is the thanks I get.'
'Me?' A muffled sound-Norman either laughing into a hand or trying not to choke. 'God, the next thing is you'll be accusing me of sending Don out there myself to kill that crazy bastard.'
'I wouldn't put it past you.'
The silence was cold, and Don wrapped his free arm over his chest.
'That was a shitty thing to say, Joyce.'
The silence again.
