That was why he went out early, before the sound of shotguns startled them into a frenzy of beating wings. The lake was a flyway for migrating waterfowl. The loons were long gone, but others had taken their place. Goldeneye and teal, pintails and ringnecks; easily spooked wood ducks that whistled plaintively as they fled; hooded mergansers with gaudy crests and wings so vividly striped they looked airbrushed. There were always noisy flotillas of Canada geese, and sometimes a solitary swan that he only glimpsed if he went out while it was still almost dark.
Even as a boy, Philip loved swans. Part of it was their association with ballet; mostly it was just how otherworldly they looked. Some mornings he set his alarm for four a.m., hoping to see the one that now and then emerged from the mist near the far shore like an apparition: silent, moving with uncanny slowness across the dark water. Alone among the other birds, it never took flight at the sound of guns, only continued its languid passage, until it was lost among thick stands of alder and cattails.
He’d been at the camp for two weeks before dawn broke cold and clear, the first cloudless day since he arrived. Vapor streamed across glassy blue water to disappear as the sun rose above the firs. Philip finished his coffee, then walked along the edge of the lake, skirting gulleys where rain had cut deep channels into the bank. A small flock of green-winged teal swam close to shore, the mask above their eyes shining emerald in the sun. It was now early November, and until today the weather had been unseasonably warm. Hundreds, even thousands, of migrating waterfowl had lingered much longer than he’d expected.
Though what did he know about birds? He only recognized those species he’d identified as a boy, or that Emma had pointed out to him over the years. Most stayed on the far side of the lake, though they must have fed elsewhere—at twilight the air rang with their piping cries and the thunderous echo of wings as they flew overhead, heading for the distant line of black firs that shadowed the desolate waters where they slept each night. The sound of their passage, the sight of all those madly beating wings against the evening sky, filled him with the same wild joy he’d felt waiting backstage when the first bars of A Midsummer Night’s Dream or Le Baiser de Fée insinuated themselves in the dim theater. He seldom saw birds in flight during his early morning walks—a group of six or eight, perhaps, but never the endless ranks that rippled across the evening sky like waves buffeting an unseen shore.
Now, he saw only the teal bobbing across the bright water. Above him ravens flew from tree to tree, croaking loudly at his approach. He tipped his head back to watch them, slowing his pace so he wouldn’t trip. Something soft yielded beneath his foot, as though he’d stepped on thick moss. He glanced down, and with a shout stumbled backward.
On the ground a body lay curled upon its side. Naked, thin arms drawn protectively about its head. A man.
No, not a man—a boy. Seventeen or eighteen and emaciated, his skin dead-white save for bruised shadows at his groin, the deep hollow of his throat. One shoulder was spattered with blood and dirt. Lank black hair was plastered across his face. A tiny black beetle crawled into a fringe of black hair.
Philip stared at him, light-headed. He took a deep breath, leaned on his walking stick, and reached to touch the corpse, gingerly, on the chest.
The boy moaned. Philip recoiled, watched as a pink tinge spread across the boy’s broad cheekbones and hairless chest. The bluish skin in the cleft of his throat tightened then relaxed. He was alive.
Philip tore off his orange vest and covered him. He ran his hands across the boy’s neck and wrists and breast, searching for a pulse, broken bones, bleeding. Except for that wounded shoulder, he could see or feel nothing wrong.
He sank back onto his heels, fighting panic. He couldn’t leave him here while he ran back to the lodge—the boy looked near dead already.
And what if he’d been attacked? What if his attackers returned?
Philip ran a hand across his forehead. “Okay. Okay, listen. I’m going to help you. I’m just going to try and lift you up—”
Gently as he could, he grasped the boy’s uninjured shoulder. The boy moaned again, louder this time. His eyes opened, pupils so dilated the irises showed no color. He gazed at Philip, then hissed, struggling to escape.
“Hey.” Philip’s panic grew. What if the boy died, now, at his side? He stared into those huge black eyes, willing him to be calm. “Hold on, let me help you. Here, put your weight on me….”
He took the boy’s hand, felt sticklike fingers vibrating beneath his own. An odd, spasmodic quivering, as though bones, not muscles or skin, responded to his touch. Abruptly the hand grew slack. Philip looked down, terrified that the boy had died.
But the boy only nodded, his strange black eyes unblinking, and let Philip help him to his feet.
They walked to the lodge. The boy moved awkwardly, the vest draped across his shoulders, and flinched at Philip’s touch.
“Does it hurt?” asked Philip anxiously.
The boy said nothing. He was taller than Philip, so thin and frail his bones might have been wrapped in paper, not skin. He stepped tentatively among stones and fallen branches, muddy water puddling up around his bare feet. As they approached the lodge his eyes widened and he hissed again, from pain or alarm.
“Lie here,” Philip commanded once they were inside. He eased the boy onto the couch facing the woodstove, then hurried to get blankets. “You’ll warm up in a minute.”
He returned with the blankets. The boy sat, staring fixedly at the window. He was trembling.
“You must be frozen,” Philip exclaimed. The boy remained silent.
Before, Philip been struck by the leaden pallor of his skin. Now he saw that the hair on his arms and legs was also white—not sun-bleached but silvery, a bizarre contrast to the oil-black hair that fell to his shoulders, the dark hair at his groin. His eyebrows were black as well, arched above those staring eyes.
“What’s your name?” asked Philip.
The boy continued to gaze at the window. After a moment he looked away. “What has happened?”
“You tell me.” Philip crossed the room to pick up the phone. “I’m going to call 911. It might take them a while to get here, so—”
“No!”
“Listen to me. You’re in shock. You need help—”
“I’m not hurt.”
“It doesn’t look that way to me. Did you—has someone been hurting you?”
The boy gave a sharp laugh, displaying small, very white teeth. “I’m not hurt.” He had an oddly inflected voice, a faint childlike sibilance. “I’m cold.”
“Oh.” Philip winced. “Right, I’m sorry. I’ll get you some clothes.”
He put down the phone, went to his room, and rummaged through the bureau, returning a few minutes later with a pair of faded corduroy trousers, a new flannel shirt. “Here.”
The boy took them, and Philip retreated to the kitchen. He picked up the phone again, replaced it, and swore under his breath.
He was stalling, he knew that—he should call 911. He didn’t know anything about this kid. Was he drunk? On drugs? The dilated pupils suggested he was, also the muted hostility in his voice. Not to mention Philip had found him stark naked by the lake in thirty-degree weather.
But who to call? 911? Police? His parents? What if he’d run away for a good reason? Would Philip truly be saving him if he rang for help? Or would this be one of those awful things you read about, where a well-meaning outsider wreaks havoc by getting involved in small-town life?
Maybe he’d just been out all night with his girlfriend, or boyfriend. Or maybe he’d been kidnapped and left for dead….