Arts
Mark put on all the winter gear he had, with an empty backpack underneath his coat. He went out the back door, closed it firmly behind him, and walked down the back steps onto the screened porch. The wind was roaring around the house, and a fine mist of snow was sifting in through the screens. He had admired the grandeur of the gale at other times; now, thinking of himself up in that vastly powerful air, it seemed not admirable but merely terrifying. What could he do up there, but get himself dashed to pieces? He went first down into the basement. He didn’t have any ski goggles, like Vicente had for snowmobiling, but he had some safety glasses down there, and he put them on underneath his ski mask. The mask pressed the glasses uncomfortably against his face, but it would have to do. Then he walked on back to Sandra’s basement room. Her spirit lamp was there, still burning on her altar table; the thought that her life’s measure might be no more than the measure of oil left in the lamp made him close his eyes in dread. Daisy, dear, he thought desperately. Can you help me? Of course, Mark Lucifer. Only tell me what you need, came the reply. Mark opened his eyes, and there was Daisy, calmly regarding him by the light of the lamp. I need to get to the McCutcheon farm, quickly. We’re out of safer options—flying seems the only way. But I’m afraid. I don’t know how to fly in such a storm. You can do this, responded the duck. And you will do still greater things than this. If you get lost, look for me, and I will lead you. She spread her luminous wings and beat them slowly, rising into the air to look Mark in the eye. Do not be afraid, she said. Then, with a bright pulse of light, she vanished. One feather drifted down from where she had been. Mark caught it wonderingly. After a moment, he opened his jacket and tucked the feather into his shirt pocket. Back out on the porch, the wind pressed on all the screens, shaking them like an invading host. When Mark stepped outside, he was quickly up to his knees in the snow. He turned to face away from the wind. He felt clumsy and weak; he could barely walk through these drifts, in these boots, in all this gear. The grey morning light revealed snow spilling through the air all around him in vast, twisting sheets; there was some visibility—more than last night, anyway—and he could see maybe fifty yards. But flying seemed impossibly far-fetched. Yet Sandra needed him to do it. And Daisy said it was possible. He considered the problem. He’d have to stay low, so as not to lose sight of landmarks on the ground. He’d be visible in the air, of course, but after all: who’d be out in a storm like this? Only a fool such as himself, obviously. He was probably safe from discovery. And safe or not, it had to be done. He’d follow Amber street, turn left at Central, and then right onto Old 31, and then follow that north out of town. None of the roads would be plowed, but surely he’d be able to tell where they were from the air. The McCutcheon farm was about two miles north of town; it should stand out from the air because of the thickly wooded margins that protected it from the neighboring farmlands. Right. He put his hand over his shirt pocket where the feather was. Help is on the way, true love, he thought. Then he turned to face the wind, spread his arms, and tentatively rose up into the air, making the earth go down by about fifteen feet or so. Immediately, the wind threw him back. He tumbled, lost his sense of direction, whipped through the branches of a bush, and hit the ground, getting a face full of snow. Damn it! It should have been obvious: tentative flying wasn’t going to cut it, not in this storm. He pulled himself to his feet, fueled by anger, and threw himself back into the air, his arms in a swept-back position, hands low by his waist. Timi couldn’t wait peacefully, as her mother and grandmother seemed to be able to do.