"This way," someone else said, and we tromped back in the direction of the cemetery, following the noise, Michael offering me a shoulder to lean on as I stumbled along. I couldn't seem to get my breath back.
We emerged from the trees to see the Straw Bear at bay, standing in front of a lumber-pile in the center of the cemetery. The sticks fell in uneven rhythm on his arms and chest, not the random attacks of children but the purposeful, symbolic drumming that others in Low Ferry's past had used to drive off evil –
Thud-ump-ump-thud-ump
Thud-ump-ump-ump-thud-ump
Even as we arrived the Bear roared defiance and the straw suddenly parted, revealing a disheveled and sweating Charles underneath. He shrugged the suit backwards and off, crying out in a very human voice, "Help me! Help me!"
Those who had attended other Halloweens in Low Ferry all knew where to look even before the fire flared to life. Behind the low graveyard wall was a sudden red glow, and a lithe body vaulted over the stone and ran across the graves, carrying a flickering torch made of rags dipped in pitch and wrapped around a long stick. He darted through the crowd, the flame trailing out behind him, and touched the torch to the Straw Bear costume as he ran past. It flared up bright, crackling merrily. The new Fire Man was good. He hadn't even broken stride.
He turned before he reached the bonfire wood and ran back again, leaping straight through the flame of the burning straw. The Fire Man's leggings were thick leather and he didn't wear a shirt which could have caught fire, so it was safe enough. Clearly at some point in our history the village had figured out that it was a good idea to keep the youths from setting themselves aflame, and had arranged a dress-code accordingly.
It was a wonderful sight, as it always is. The Fire Man's mask looked new, made of brilliant strips of red and orange silk stretched across a wire frame. It came to me as he jumped a second time, twirled and danced, and jumped across the flame again that I had seen that kind of mask in the workshop Lucas kept. Hard on the heels of that thought came the realization that Lucas was at the village revels after all.
He was the one leaping over and through the flaming remains of the Straw Bear's costume, the one laughing at the children who clapped and kept time for the dance steps on either side of the leaps. I recognized the cut of his hair and the visible shape of his chin and throat, even if I had never seen him move so quickly or smile so openly. He was different – no tension in his body, no hesitant looks or slouched shoulders.
My chest tightened further, but not with sentiment – it was still hard to breathe, even if I tried to inhale on the rhythm of the clapping hands and stamping feet. Lucas jumped the flame one last time and ran to the wood piled for the bonfire, throwing the torch into the center of it. The whole crowd burst into spontaneous applause as it exploded in light and heat. I was busy trying to get enough air in my lungs to call for help.
The problem was, in the end, that my heart had yet to stop beating triple-time since Charles ambushed me in the forest. I tried to keep up with the clapping, the shouting bounced around and around in my head, but I couldn't. I wanted to see the bonfire and see Lucas pull his mask off and pick a girl for the dancing, but everything was narrowing down to a pinprick of light. Pain was flaring in my chest and my throat felt like it was closing off.
It was in the middle of Low Ferry's oldest ritual, then, that it happened: my heart gave out entirely from the strain and shock and the blow I'd taken when I'd fallen.
To everyone's surprise, mine not least of all, I died.
***
Fortunately for me, it was a short death. Which is not to say that the process of dying was short (though that too) but rather the time I spent dead could be measured in minutes rather than on a scale of "now" to "judgment day".
Everyone nearby knew immediately that something was wrong. People have occasionally passed out at the revels, but I was not known for my impressionable spirit or any kind of religious fervor. I'm told that my eyes rolled up in my head and I simply dropped straight down in a heap with very little fuss, which seems pretty much like me.
Immediately a crowd gathered around and just as quickly they were shoved away by Charles and Jacob, so that Dr. Kirchner had enough room to drop to his knees and revive me. Or perhaps resurrect is the better word, since I had no pulse and wasn't breathing at the time.
Needless to say, I don't remember any of this. A sort of false memory has settled in my mind, though, built up from stories I heard later on. It seemed like nobody's life was complete that winter until they'd come to see me and tell me their version of events. The tales varied wildly, as these things tend to do: in one memorable account of the Temporary Death of Christopher Dusk, my spirit was seen to leave my body as a bright orange glow. I try to ignore that one.
What I recall after the lighting of the bonfire is mainly a sharp, sudden pain, followed by constricting tightness in my chest and then nothing – a void, a gap, until it was replaced with the sensation of bone-deep warmth and the sound of quiet breathing in a different rhythm from my own. And a voice – Dr. Kirchner's deep bass, reassuringly calm.
"Really, Lucas, he's resting quietly. I don't mind you staying here, but you should at least wash your face. You're covered in ash."
"I don't care. He might wake up."
"Sooner or later he will, but it'll be all right if you aren't here. I'll let him know that you were waiting for him."
I tried to move, to let them know I was awake, but when I shifted my weight the muscles in my chest twinged alarmingly. I did get my eyes open, and made a surprised noise when a face loomed close to mine.
"Hello, Christopher," said Dr. Kirchner, smiling reassuringly. "How are you feeling?"
"I...why are you – in my bedroom?" I asked, and he laughed uneasily.
"We're not in your bedroom," he said. "You've had an episode. Are you breathing comfortably?"
"Yes," I answered. "Should I be?"
"It's good that you are. The roads aren't great and I'd hate to have to helicopter you to the hospital."
"I don't need a hospital," I replied. And then, stupidly, "I want to go home."
"I know, but I have to make sure you're all right first."
He helped me to sit up and I saw that we were in the office of the church – I was lying on the pastor's couch, covered in a couple of tattery blankets. Lucas was standing in a corner, near the window, still in the Fire Man's leggings. He was wearing a shirt three sizes too big for him, obviously borrowed from somewhere, and there was grease and ash-dust on his arms and face – a very pale face, under the grime.