Kit turned around and looked out into the dark again. Now it was just an innocent void—no millipedes, and no ghosts of childhood fears, either. / wonder how I got so scared of the dark, anyway? It all seemed such a long time ago, and that phase of his life had come to an end, without warning, when he was eight. He could remember it vividly, those first heady nights when he realized that he wasn't afraid anymore and could lie there in the dark and stare at the ceiling of his room and not be afraid of falling asleep—not have to lie there shaking at the thought of what lay waiting for him on the other side of dream.
Before that, the sight of this would have left me
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scared to death. But now there was something intriguing about this imageless emptiness. Kit stood there for a long while, and then felt something cold and wet touch his hand. He looked down. Ponch was sitting there beside him, gazing up at him.
Bored already?
Bored? Oh, no. But it isn 't good to leave you by yourself a long time. It's rude.
Kit smiled. It's okay... I coped. He looked back toward the trees. There was a gray line beneath the nearest trees: the squirrels, looking for Ponch.
Ponch looked back, too. It happened faster that time, Ponch said, this world. Yeah, Kit said.
I think it was because you'd seen it before.
Kit looked down at his dog, briefly distracted. It wasn't as if Ponch wasn't normally fairly smart. But this kind of thought, or interaction, even when the Speech was involved, wasn't exactly what Kit would have expected. Is he getting smarter? Or am I just getting better at understanding him?
Or is it a little of both?
There was no telling. Now Kit looked back into the darkness again and found not even the shadows of fear in it. The only things that now seemed to lie hidden there were wonder and possibility. What Kit found inexpressibly sad, considered together with this, was the thought of what was happening to Nita's mother, the limits of possibility in his own world all too clearly delineated.
Are we done? Ponch asked after a moment.
Tuesday Evening
Not just yet, Kit said. / think I want to take it a little further. 'What will you make?
Kit thought about that, and then, for no particular reason, about the millipedes.
If I can make fears real...
... could I make hopes real, too?
He looked out into the dark, and found nothing there for the moment but uncertainty. Kit shook his head. / don't want to make anything just yet, he said to Ponch. Let's just walk.
They headed into the darkness. Kit let the light fade slowly behind them, until the two of them went forward together in utter blackness. There was no way to judge how far they went except by counting paces. Kit soon lost count, and stopped caring about it. There was something liberating about not knowing where you were going, just surrendering yourself to the night— and not making anything, either, but just being there, and letting the darkness be there, too, not trying to fill it with form but letting it exist on its own terms.
The blackness pressed in around them until it seemed to Kit to almost have a texture, like water, becoming a medium in its own right—not something unfriendly, just something there. It slowly became enjoyable. /// had any scared-of-the-dark left in me, Kit thought, it's definitely cured now. But after a while he began to lose interest, and once again he prepared to say good-bye to the dark for the time being.
Then Kit paused, for he thought he saw something.
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Often enough, on this trip and the last, he'd had the illusion of seeing something in the blackness when nothing was there. Now Kit tried to see more clearly, and couldn't get that tiny glitter of light—for it was light—to resolve. Not in front of us, though.
Under us?
He couldn't be sure. Ponch, you smell anything? No. What is it?
Look down there.
Kit got down on his hands and knees. This brought him closer to the minuscule glint of light, but not close enough. He passed his hands over the surface he'd been walking on. The light was underneath it... inches down, or miles, he couldn't tell.
/ wonder...
Kit pressed against the surface. Did it give a little? It hadn't ever actually felt springy under his feet, but now Kit found himself wondering if this was because he'd been taking it for granted as a hard surface, and it had accommodated him.
He pressed harder against it. A strange feeling, as if the surface was giving under his hands, or under his will. Let's see...
Slowly, slowly Kit's hands sank into the darkness as he pushed. He slipped one out, rested it where the surface was still hard, and concentrated on the other hand, sliding it further and further down into that cool, resistant darkness. Faintly he could see the glow from that tiny spark or grain of light silhouetted against his fingers. He reached even further down, having to lie
Tuesday Evening
flat on the surface now, pushing his arm in up to the shoulder. Got it—
Kit closed his fist on the light, started to withdraw his arm. It was difficult. The blackness resisted him. As he exerted himself, beginning to breathe hard, he felt a faint stinging sensation between two of his fingers. Looking down, he saw the spark escape between them and slip down into the dark again.
He pushed his hand down into the darkness once more, recovering the spark. It did sting, a sharp little sizzle like licking the end of a battery. Kit closed his hand again, pulled upward. Once more the spark slipped free, drifting lower, out of his reach.
Kit took a deep breath, not sure why he had to have this thing... but I'm going to, and that's all there is to it. He reached down as far as possible, but couldn't quite reach it. Finally he took a breath, held it, and pushed his face and upper body right down into that cool liquid blackness. By stretching his arm down as far as it would go, Kit just managed to get his hand underneath the spark. This time he didn't try to grasp it, just cupped it in his palm, and slowly, slowly brought his hand up through the pliant darkness. After a few seconds Kit dared to lift his face out, gasping, and pushed himself to his knees, while ever so slowly lifting his cupped hand.
The little glint of light almost slipped out of his hand, just under the surface. Kit stopped, let it settle, then slowly pulled his hand up toward him. The liquid
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darkness drained out of his hand, pouring away, and abruptly the spark flowed away with it...
... into Kit's other hand, which he'd put under the one that had the spark in it. As the last ribbons of darkness flowed away, there that tiny glint of light remained.
Kit sat down on the dark surface, getting his breath back. He could feel Ponch's breath on his neck as the dog looked curiously over his shoulder. What is it?
I don't know, Kit said. But I'm going to take it home.
They both gazed at it. It was not bright: an undif-ferentiated point source of light, faint, with a slight cool green cast to its radiance, like that of a firefly. Kit was briefly reminded of an old friend, and smiled at the memory. On a whim, he leaned in close to the little spark, breathed on it. It didn't brighten, as a spark of fire would have, but it stung his hand more emphatically.
Kit reached sideways to his claudication, pulled it open, and with the greatest care slipped the little spark in. When he was sure it was safe, he closed the pocket again and got to his feet, wobbling.