Dark Rivers of the Heart

conception. I pray to God that destiny isn’t a thing of iron, that it can be flexed and reshaped, that it bends to the power of mercy, honesty, kindness, and virtue — because otherwise, I can’t tolerate the person I will become, the things I will do, or the end that will be mine.

That hot July night, beaded with sweat but chilled, fourteen in moonlight, I am thinking about none of that: no brooding about hidden secrets or destiny. That night, I’m driven by emotion rather than intellect, by sheer intuition rather than reason, by need rather than curiosity. I’m only fourteen years old, after all. Only fourteen.

The barn waits.

I go to the door, which is ajar.

I listen at the gap between the door and the jamb.

Silence within.

I push the door inward. The hinges are well oiled, my feet are bare, and I enter with a silence as perfect as that of the darkness that welcomes me….

Spencer opened his eyes from the dark interior of the barn in the dream to the dark interior of the rock- pinned Explorer, and he realized that night had come to the desert. He had been unconscious for at least five or six hours.

His head was tipped forward, his chin on his chest. He gazed down into his own upturned palms, chalk white and supplicant.

The rat was on the floor. Couldn’t see it. But it was there. In the darkness. Floating.

Don’t think about that.

The rain had stopped. No drumming on the roof.

He was thirsty. Parched. Raspy tongue. Chapped lips.

The truck rocked slightly. The river was trying to push it over the cliff. The tireless damned river.

No. That couldn’t be the explanation. The roar of the waterfall was gone. The night was silent. No thunder. No lightning. No water sounds out there anymore.

He ached all over. His head and neck were the worst.

He could barely find the strength to look up from his hands.

Rocky was gone.

The passenger door hung open.

The truck rocked again. Rattled and creaked.

The woman appeared at the bottom of the open door. First her head, then her shoulders, as if she were levitating up out of the flood. Except, judging by the comparative quiet, the flood was gone.

Because his eyes were adapted to darkness and cool moonlight shone between ragged clouds, Spencer was able to recognize her.

In a voice as dry as cinders, but without a slur, he said, “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself,” she said.

“Come in.”

“Thank you, I think I will.”

“This is nice,” he said.

“You like it here?”

“Better than the other dream.”

She levered herself into the truck, and it wobbled more than before, grinding against rock at both ends.

The motion disturbed him — not because he was concerned that the truck would shift and break loose and fall, but because it stirred up his vertigo again. He was afraid of spiraling out of this dream, back into the nightmare of July and Colorado.

Sitting where Rocky had once sat, she remained still for a moment, waiting for the truck to stop moving. “This is one tricky damned situation you’ve gotten into.”

“Ball lightning,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Ball lightning.”

“Of course.”

“Knocked the truck into the arroyo.”

“Why not,” she said.

It was so hard to think, to express himself clearly. Thinking hurt. Thinking made him dizzy.

“Thought it was aliens,” he explained.

“Aliens?”

“Little guys. Big eyes. Spielberg.”

“Why would you think it was aliens?”

“Because you’re wonderful,” he said, though the words didn’t convey what he meant. In spite of the poor light, he could see that the look she gave him was peculiar. Straining to find better words, made dizzier by the effort, he said, “Wonderful things must happen around you…happen around you all the time.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m the center of a regular festival.”

“You must know some wonderful thing. That’s why they’re after you. Because you know some wonderful thing.”

“You been taking drugs?”

“I could use a couple aspirin. Anyway…they’re not after you because you’re a bad person.”

“Aren’t they?”

“No. Because you’re not. A bad person, I mean.”

She leaned toward him and put a hand against his forehead. Even her light touch made him wince with pain.

“How do you know I’m not a bad person?” she asked.

“You were nice to me.”

“Maybe it was an act.”

She produced a penlight from her jacket, peeled back his left eyelid, directed the beam at his eye. The light hurt. Everything hurt. The cool air hurt his face. Pain accelerated his vertigo.

“You were nice to Theda.”

“Maybe that was an act too,” she said, now examining his right eye with the penlight.

“Can’t fool Theda.”

“Why not?”

“She’s wise.”

“Well, that’s true.”

“And she makes huge cookies.”

Finished examining his eyes, she tipped his head forward to have a look at the gash in the top of his skull. “Nasty. Coagulated now, but it needs cleaned and stitched.”

“Ouch!”

“How long were you bleeding?”

“Dreams don’t hurt.”

“Do you think you lost a lot of blood?”

“This hurts.”

“’Cause you’re not dreaming.”

He licked his chapped lips. His tongue was dry. “Thirsty.”

“I’ll get you a drink in just a minute,” she said, putting two fingers under his chin and tipping his head up again.

All this head tipping was making him dangerously dizzy, but he managed to say, “Not dreaming? You’re sure?”

“Positive.” She touched his upturned right palm. “Can you squeeze my hand?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead.”

“All right.”