The Door

He climbs the wooden stairway, his advancing shadow traced by sparse incandescent bulbs that emit, out of their little prisons of wire mesh, a faint whiff of singed insects. The banister is damp to his touch and he lets go. At each landing a hallway branches off; he pauses for breath but barely raises his eyes. He reaches the top storey. At the end of a long corridor there is a single door with a panel of unlettered frosted glass, diffidently backlit from within. He walks along the worn floorboards until he is within reach of the knob. As he lifts his hand to turn it he feels fingers grasp his shoulder from behind.

The Survivors

The men picked their way gingerly down the side of the ridge, traversing through the snow in broad snowshoes made of hard white ash, steadying themselves when they could against the trunks of the pines. Though the trail that lay beneath was deeply covered and only a few jagged rocks poked through the surface of the snow to interfere with their descent, the men knew that if they trod where it was too steep the slope could easily give way and bury them. It was only their second day out but already it seemed much longer.

A pale and gauzy sun lingered just above the horizon, casting the last feeble illumination of a dismal but snowless afternoon. There would be no moon that evening and so before long, as soon as they made it to level ground, they would have to camp for the night

Before the onset of winter they had smoked and dried as much game and fish as they could, not as much as in the best years perhaps but more than in the worst. Then the storms came, early and constant, the deer starved or headed for lower ground, and the snow was too deep to follow them. Inexorably their stocks had dwindled, until it was clear that there wouldn't be enough to keep them all alive until spring. They left what remained for the women and children and those too ill or old to make the trip; there might be enough to do for them at least. If the men reached the lowlands they would barter for food with the skins they carried in bundles on their backs, and return when the thaws came.

Seven had started out, but only four remained. Up in their hollow, in the shelter of their cabins and their fires, they had been safe, but once on the trail it was a different story. Though the travelers carried nothing but staves and short knives they knew that their pursuers wouldn't challenge them directly. Instead, they kept their distance, shadowing them from behind the trees, until one of the men struggled in the snow and began to fall behind. Then they would seize their moment and circle in, swiftly and quietly. When the first scream came the other men knew better than to turn around. There was nothing they could do and it would all be over quickly anyway. The ravens would take care of the scraps. After that they would be safe for a while, a few hours perhaps, but they knew that they would be accompanied on their journey until the hunger of their hunters was extinguished. They would have to travel for three more days, maybe four; if they were lucky two or three of the men might make it through.

When they completed their descent they turned and walked along the base of the ridge into a little wood of laurel and pine. Before the last twilight flickered out they settled under a ledge, cleared away as much snow as they could, then removed their gloves and set a small fire, just enough to dry their hands and bring back some feeling to their frostbitten fingers. They melted snow in a small wooden bowl and slaked their thirst, each in his turn. As the fire died away the men huddled together and fell into fitful and frigid sleep; beyond, somewhere in the darkness, the others bided their time.

Devil

Into my room a devil came.
He appeared outside on the fire-escape;
no ordinary burglar, as if through air
he lifted a leg through the window-glass
and pulled his black-winged body after.

As he stole across the room I woke --
too late, he held me down.
For once he gets inside your room
a devil cannot be fought.

What did he bring? All that devils have:
despair, confusion, memory of loss.
He left them there with me.
then departed for wherever it is that devils dwell.

So I live in his aftermath,
damned, no remedy.
Devil of cities, I cannot carry this burden of years.
Return, and take back what is yours.

(1976)

By the shore

It's warmer tonight and a fog lies across the lake. The ice is still sound -- it won't thaw yet for weeks -- but as soon as evening falls, even on a moonlit night, nobody ventures out on it. It's not that we're afraid of them, exactly -- they must be far more afraid of us, I suppose, though who knows what they think? -- but all the same we keep our wary distance as they keep theirs. In the morning, perhaps, as we hack through and clean out the holes in the ice and set our lines, we'll come across their traces, their scratchings and their footprints, the bloody scraps of a desperate meal they wrested from the black water below.

Many of us have never seen them, or aren't sure. Sometimes, staring out at the lake, the fog swirls apart and for an instant something seems to dart across, far from shore, or stands, just for a moment, and stares back. They never come ashore, never pick around the edges of the camp in search of old bones or flakes of desiccated fish, not that there'd be much to find. Where they go after sunrise or once the ice breaks up for good and spring comes we don't know and don't ask. To the far shore, we suppose, or deep into the woods beyond, where we ourselves don't venture.

The worst is when they fight among themselves. It doesn't happen very often; only now and then, in the bitterest part of the winter, when we ourselves are nearly starving, without notice their hideous screaming cuts through the night and we cover our ears -- though who could block out that sound or forget it once it is heard? Then after a while it's suddenly quiet, and we know perfectly well what that quiet means. No one has ever found a body, the next morning, on the ice.

The abandoned

Let's get one thing straight: there was no Ariel. That was only the first of his countless lies. Here's another one: he had no magic, no book. It was all me. When I found them on the rocks -- him and his daughter -- they were half-drowned, at death's door. I revived them, conjured food and drink from thin air, built him a palace from sea foam. I was his architect, his slave, his whore. At his bidding I assumed the form of a woman, a boy, whatever he wanted. I took on other likenesses as well, ones he might find uncomfortable to talk about. I passed no judgment -- that was of his world.


In the end, of course, he was "rescued," restored. When he promised me that he would come back to me, in time, I knew better than to believe him. I could have killed him -- all of them -- right then, but the truth is, my one weakness, I loved him. I let him go.

Though I can't cross the water I know all things. I know how he mocked and slandered me, calling me hideous, a monster, the whelp of a witch -- I who have existed from the beginning of time. But my anger burned itself out long ago. He's dead now, as are they all. And no one will ever find this island again. I will see to that.