Spence grabbed at a piece of black ash as it wafted to the ground.
No. It wasn't the Word.
He grabbed another, then another.
The Word would endure. Mere fire couldn't destroy it. He coughed. The ashes had stuck to his tears, making his cheeks feel thick and clotted. He coughed again, his stomach quivering.
'Why don't you come away from there? That smoke's no good for you.'
He turned. The Muse?
No. Bridget, Ms. Georgia Peach, the latest corruption.
'You stupid blowhard,' Bridget said. 'Be glad that stuff got burned. Maybe someday you can write a real story, something that's not possum vomit.'
Real? How dare she criticize 'And you can leave me out of it.' She walked away, then turned and stood with her hands on her hips. 'I don't know what I ever saw in you. But I can sure see you now.'
'Don't leave.'
'I believe you said this was always your favorite part. 'The End.' Well, it sounds good to me, too.'
Spence watched her go. She didn't matter. She was just another prop, another character sketch. One of the little people. He stood under the snowfall of gray and black, waiting for the Word to come from on high.
Maybe if he could remember the story, bring it back to life, it would lead him again to the Word.
Something about the night? He touched the crumpled page he'd tacked inside his jacket. Maybe later, after years had passed, he would be able to read it. And maybe it would contain some hint of the night's long spell.
But the night was leaving, retreating over the far steel-blue hills, going on to other writers, other vessels. It would spread its loving cloak on another part of the world, shower its gifts elsewhere, whisper its secret sentences. And Spence was again alone, with nothing but himself and words.
The ashes rained on.
Mason tried to curl the fingers of his scorched right hand. A strip of electric pain jolted up his arm, pausing only briefly at the cut in his shoulder to gather momentum before reaching his brain. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out.
Maybe this was what suffering was all about. The art of sacrifice. It wasn't about enduring starvation, struggling for recognition, fighting the fear of failure. Maybe it was about finishing, letting go. And realizing that the dreams you bring to life sometimes have no place in the world, and are best left as dreams.
The toughest critics weren't in New York or Paris. They weren't in the art schools. They didn't wear berets and sport tiny mustaches and drink espresso. Sometimes they lived in your mirror.
'How are you holding up?' Anna asked, tightening the cinch around the horse's girth. She had strong hands.
'Well, I don't think I'll be doing much sculpting for a while.' Mason thought of his tools, buried somewhere under the heap of ashes and bones in the basement. He had no desire to see them again.
Anna nodded at him and adjusted the saddle, then stroked the horse's ears. The Morgan snorted with pleasure.
He had to ask. 'What was it like… you know?'
'To be dead?' Anna's cyan eyes fixed on a faraway point somewhere beyond the range of sight.
'Uh-huh.'
'Somebody who loves me said it's the same as being alive, only worse.'
Mason looked up at the thin pillar of smoke. The wind was carrying it away, and he caught the odor of apples. Now that the sun was out, the sky was a shade of winter-born blue.
December would come with its soft snows, then the nights would get shorter and spring would arrive. Grass would grow over the ruins, locust and blackberry vines would spring up from the burned-out spot. The granite would sleep under its skin of dirt. The sun would rise and fall, the seasons would turn, the clock's restless hands would spin in only one direction.
Forward.
'What are you going to do later?' Mason asked.
'I don't know. I think I'm cured of metaphysics, though. Let the dead rest. They've earned it.' She put a foot in the stirrup and swung astride the horse. It was a natural fit. 'What about you?'
'Depends. As soon as I get to back to Sawyer Creek, I'm going to tell Mama that dreams aren't the only thing we got in this world.'
'Really. What else have we got?'
'Pain.'
'Dreams and pain. Well, that's a lovely mix. Maybe you can add 'faith' to that list.'
The kind of mix that maybe love was made of. Mason wondered if one day he might find out. He looked down at the ground and saw a bit of color amid a pile of loose hay. He kicked at the hay, and then saw the flowers. A bouquet of bluets, flame azalea, daisies, baby's breath, painted trillium. Spring mountain flowers, fresh-cut and sweet, the stems wrapped in clean lace. He carried them to Anna. 'Somebody must have left these for you.'
She took the bouquet and held it to her nose, eyes moist. 'Dead stay dead,' she whispered. 'And rest in peace.'
Anna tucked the bouquet into the bridle, eased back on the reins, and the Morgan raised its head.
'See you soon, Mason. Take care of yourself.'
She twitched the reins and the horse started down the dirt road.
'Hey, Anna,' he yelled after her. 'Did you mean what you said up on the widow's walk?'
She didn't stop, but turned in the saddle and looked back. She shouted over the steady clop of the horse's hooves, 'About trusting you? Maybe.'
Anna gave him a half smile, then left him to wonder which half of it she meant.
