November 14, Overnight

Shadow Slinking

Shadow paid no attention to the sleet. It had been unseasonably warm for the whole shallow depth of his recollection, a circumstance he also failed to note. Now, the cold and wet soaked him to the skin, but he ignored the bitter itch crawling up his biceps and thighs. He walked along a road in a county he couldn’t name, near a town he’d never heard of. The sky overhead was swirling and bright despite the late hour. A word came to mind, a word from the time before memory. Skyglow. Somewhere, somewhen, in a group of people whose faces eluded him a man spoke of the stars and skyglow. Skyglow hid the stars, the man’s voice said from beyond a curtain of mist. Tonight the clouds hid them too, clouds illuminated by skyglow. From behind the curtain the man’s voice spoke as if skyglow was something to dislike, but the sleet fell from a shiny mackerel sky, and Shadow smiled.

Skyglow, skyglow. “S-s-s ...” He could say it, he knew he could say it. But he didn’t need to. “S-s-s ...” Skyglow came from cities, the voice told him suddenly. He could say that too. “City.” A word swallowed by the sounds of sleet. The word surprised him, stumbling from his mouth so readily, but he didn’t know why. Something was different about it. “S-s-s-see ... See city.” He blinked and walked and hummed a sing-song tune. “City see, see city, city city skyglow.”

Something.

He stopped. Stopped on the road and looked all around. The road was empty and long, with wide fields on either side. He remembered fields, fields not so flat as these. Fields of grain on rolling hills huddled below steep rises and mountain crags. Fields growing out the of mist. Far ahead, in the darkness beneath the glowing sky he saw a light. Not skyglow, not starlight. A yellow-gold gleam, a point of glowing silence in the night.

Shadow smiled and continued on his way, slogging through the sleet toward the light. His legs and arms itched. He was a moth in the night, moving toward and away from something. Sometimes the mist gave him a glimpse that meant nothing to him of where and who. A woman with dark hair. He saw her on the bike, spoke, called out of the darkness. But she shouted and snapped. Maybe she couldn’t see his smile. Wasn’t he smiling? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember the woman with dark hair.

Shouting? Snapping?

The images boiled in the darkness and made no sense. But the light drew him forward until he found himself standing in front of a house. Dark house under a bright sky, small round light glowing like the sun, a teeny-tiny sun, next to a door.

He slipped through the darkness, slipped through the door. It opened under his hand as though that was what a hand was for. The room beyond was a cavern of shadow, an extension of himself. He felt his way along, surprised by warmth. Shivering; he’d been shivering but now he felt snug. The room smelled salty. He ran his hands over countertops without knowing what they were, felt metal and plastic. A single spot of orange blinked in the darkness. He put his finger over it, hid the tiny light. It came from a pot on the counter, surface warm. Not on the stove. He knew the word, stove, and this was something else. He felt with his hands, lifted the lid and heard the simmering sound. Salty steam flooded the room and his stomach spoke.

“S-s-starving.” He knew the word. “Starving.” He blinked. He could see, a little, here and there. Shapes formed in the shadows, extensions of himself. Canisters on the counter, a sack of bread. The pot simmering, filled with soup. “Soup.” He didn’t have a thought. He opened the sack and took a slice of bread, dipped it in the soup. Savored the salty broth. His stomach spoke and he smiled, swallowed stew-soaked bread. Saw the spoon, a long wooden spoon. “S-s-spoon.” He stirred the soup and sipped from the spoon, scooped and swallowed. Salt pork and string beans. He ate spoonful after spoonful, swallowed until his stomach stopped speaking, swallowed until he heard the sound.

Then he stopped.

The room was brighter now as his eyes found light he hadn’t noticed before. The sound came from another room, a stirring, a shuffling. He set down the spoon and followed the sound in the shadows. Sound in the mist. “Shhhh ...” Shadow, slinking in the darkness. The mist opened before him and he remembered a face, two faces. Angry, screaming faces. Shooting, shooting. Shotgun shooting. He blinked and the mist closed in again and he found himself in another room. Soft chairs and sofa. A room he remembered from a dark place beyond the mist. This room? Like this room?

The sound, the stirring. A tip-tap in the dark drew his eyes down to the floor. Two gleams gazed back. Eyes, he saw them as eyes. They were eyes, eyes gleaming out of a shadow, extension of himself. He blinked and the shadow coalesced into a shape. A short, shimmying shape. He kneeled down and the shape slipped up to him.

A dog. He didn’t know the word, but he recognized the shape. Small and round with frizzy fur. It shimmied and shook and when he reached out his hand it licked his fingers. He smiled and scratched the dog’s chin, then heard a sound out of the darkness as it wiggled some more. Laughter, laughing. The sound was laughter. Shadow was laughing. The dog sidled up and pressed against his cold wet leg, its body alive and aquiver. He laughed and scratched and the dog’s tail wagged.

“Silly, silly ...”

Smiling Shadow, sated with soup. He didn’t know the sensation, didn’t recognize the simple pleasure of a quiet moment with a creature pleased with his companionship. He only knew the voices and faces that slid out of the mist. But as he scratched the dog, contented, the mist closed in and surrounded him with silence. Sweet silence he hoped would never end.

But end it did, suddenly, with screaming.