Текст книги "Hallowed"

Автор книги: Cynthia Hand

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter 6

Sooner or Later

“Five more minutes, people.”

Government class. I’m watching Tucker take a test on the U.S. Constitution. I finished it fifteen minutes ago, so I’m sitting watching him as he leans over his paper, frowning, pausing to tap his pencil in a crazy rhythm on his desk like that might jog his memory. Things are clearly not going well.

At any other time I’d find him adorable like this, all frustrated and pursed in concentration. But all I can think is, Who cares about a stupid government test? You’re going to die. And it’s my fault, somehow.

Stop it. Stop thinking that. You don’t know for sure.

But it feels like I do know. The conclusion I’ve come to is that Tucker was supposed to die in the fire. If I hadn’t abandoned my purpose, if I hadn’t flown off to save him, he would have died up there in the woods above Palisades. That was his destiny. I was supposed to choose Christian. Tucker was supposed to die. Now, with this new dream, it feels like the same thing playing out again. Christian and me, walking in the woods again. Tucker dead.

Only this time, it’s not some split decision that I have to make. This time I’ll have months to agonize over it.

And here’s the other realization I’ve come to: it doesn’t matter how much time I’m given to think it over. I’ll still choose Tucker. I don’t care if it screws up my purpose.

I’m not going to let him die.

The problem is, I don’t know how it’s going to happen, so I don’t know how to stop it. It’s like that movie Final Destination, where these people were supposed to die in a plane crash, but they got off the plane and so Death comes hunting them down, one by one, because they were supposed to die. I’ve been over the craziest scenarios, like: a) Tucker gets in a car wreck, b) he chokes on a piece of meat at dinner, c) he gets struck by lightning because it never ever stops raining, d) he slips and falls in the shower and drowns, or e) his house gets hit by a meteor. But what can I do about that? It’s not like I can be with him all the time. I did get so wigged out that I sneaked out to his house a couple times in the middle of the night to watch over him while he slept, just in case, I don’t know, his comic book collection decided to spontaneously combust. This was dumb and admittedly creepy in an Edward Cullen kind of way, but it was the only thing I could think to do. Thank God he’s not in rodeo anymore, since I don’t think I could bear to watch him try to ride a bull right now.

So I’ve appointed myself his guardian. I’ve also picked him up for school every day this week and driven us there so slowly that he’s started teasing me about driving like a granny. He’s noticed, of course, that something’s wrong. Nothing ever slips by Tucker. Plus I am not being very subtle in my spazzing out about this boyfriend-destined-to-die thing.

This morning, for example. We were sitting in the commons during breakfast break and there was this loud, sudden pop from the other side of the lunchroom, and I couldn’t help it. I moved fast, too fast, so fast that Mom would have freaked if she’d seen, putting myself between that noise and Tucker. Then I stood there, waiting, hands clenched at my sides, until I heard a few boys laughing at the doofus who had crushed a soda can under his foot—a soda can!—and now everybody in his group was congratulating him on his spectacular noise-making ability.

And Tucker was looking at me. Wendy too, her bagel lifted halfway to her mouth. Everybody at my table, staring.

“Wow,” I said breathlessly, trying to cover. “That scared me. People shouldn’t do that.”

“Shouldn’t crush pop cans?” asked Wendy. “You’re pretty jumpy, don’t you think?”

“Hey, I’m from California,” I tried to explain. “We had to go through metal detectors to get into the school.”

Tucker was still looking at me, his eyebrows drawn together.

Now as I watch him struggle through his test, I think about telling him. I could tell him and then there would be no secrets between us, no lies. It would be the honest thing. But it would also be a terrible thing. A selfish thing.

Because what if I’m wrong? After all, I thought my last vision was telling me I was supposed to save Christian and wrong-o. It’s not the kind of news you want to deliver unless you are pretty freaking sure.

But what if I’m right? Would I want to know if I was going to die?

My eyes wander past Tucker, two rows over, to Christian. He too is already done with his test. He looks up, like he can feel my gaze on him. He gives me a faint smile that only lasts a few seconds. Then he glances at Tucker, who’s still frowning obliviously at his paper.

Nice move in the cafeteria this morning, Christian says suddenly in my mind.

He’s talking in my head! For a minute I’m too shocked to form a response. Can he tell what I’m thinking right now? Has he been reading my mind this entire time? I’m torn between the desire to answer him or to attempt to block him completely.

Oh, you saw that? I answer finally, trying to push my words out to meet him the way I did when I talked with Mom that day in the forest, when we had an entire conversation in our heads.

I can’t tell if he hears me. His eyes lock on mine.

Are you okay?

I look away. I’m fine.

“Okay, pencils down,” says Mr. Anderson. “Bring your test to the front. Then you’re free to go.”

Tucker scowls, sighs, then makes his way up to Mr. Anderson’s desk with his test. When he turns back, I give him my most sympathetic smile.

“Didn’t go well, huh?”

“I didn’t study,” he says as we gather up our stuff and head for the hallway, me carefully avoiding Christian. “It’s my own fault. Burning the candle at both ends, as my dad says. I have a Spanish test tomorrow that I’m probably not going to do much better on.”

“I could help you,” I offer. “Yo hablo español muy bien.”

“Cheater,” he says, but smiles.

“After school? I’ll tutor you?”

“I have work this afternoon.”

“I could come after.” I know I’m being persistent, but I want to spend every possible minute by his side. I want to help him, even if it’s only with his Spanish. That I can do.

“You could come over for dinner, and then we could hit the books. But we might have to stay up pretty late. I’m seriously that bad at Spanish,” he says.

“Good thing for you, I’m kind of a night owl.”

He grins. “Right. So tonight then?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Hasta la vista, baby,” he tells me, and I shake my head and smile at how adorably dorky he can be. His Spanish only comes from Arnold Schwarzenegger.

That night I find myself sitting in the warm, lighted kitchen at the Lazy Dog Ranch. It’s like a scene from Little House on the Prairie. Wendy sets the table while Mrs. Avery finishes up with the mashed potatoes. Tucker and Mr. Avery come in from the barn and both give Mrs. Avery a quick kiss on the cheek, then roll up the sleeves of their flannel shirts and scrub their hands in the kitchen sink like surgeons prepping for the OR. Tucker slips into the chair next to mine. He squeezes my knee under the table.

Mrs. Avery beams over at me from the stove.

“Well, Clara,” she says. “I must say it’s nice to see you again.”

“Yes, Mrs. Avery. Thanks for having me.”

“Oh, sugar, call me Rachel. I think we’re past the formalities.” She slaps her husband’s hand away from the basket of dinner rolls. “I hope you’re hungry.”

Dinner turns out to be pot roast and gravy, potatoes, carrots, celery, and homemade buttermilk rolls, washed down with large glasses of iced tea.

We eat quietly for a while. I can’t stop thinking about how devastated this whole family is going to be if they lose Tucker, can’t stop remembering the way their faces look in my dream. Sad. Resigned. Determined to get through it.

“I tell ya, Ma,” Tucker says. “This is really a fine meal. I don’t think I’ve told you enough what an amazing cook you are.”

“Why thank you, son,” she replies, sounding pleasantly surprised. “You haven’t.”

Wendy and Mr. Avery laugh.

“He’s seen the light,” Mr. Avery says.

This seems to ignite something, and suddenly everybody’s talking about the fires.

“I’ll tell you what,” says Mr. Avery, spearing a piece of meat with his fork and waving it around. “They ever catch the bastard who started those fires, I’m going to give him what for.”

My head whips up. “Someone started the fires?” I ask, my heart suddenly thundering.

“Well, they think one was started by natural causes, like a lightning strike,” says Wendy. “But the other was arson. The police are offering a twenty-thousand-dollar reward for anybody who gives them information leading to an arrest.”

This is what happens when I stop watching the news. They call it arson. I wonder what the police would do if they found out who really did it. Uh, yes, officer, I believe the one who started the fire was about six foot three. Black hair. Amber eyes. Big, black wings. Residence: hell. Occupation: leader of the Watchers. Birth date: the dawn of time.

In other words, that’s twenty thousand dollars that no one’s ever going to see.

“Well, I for one hope they catch him,” says Mr. Avery. “I want a chance to look him in the eye.”

“Dad,” says Tucker wearily. “Give it a rest.”

“No.” Mr. Avery clears his throat. “That was your land, your grandfather’s legacy to you, that was everything you ever worked for, your truck, your trailer, your horse, all those odd jobs, scrimping and saving to be able to afford the rodeo fees, the gear, the gas for the truck. Years of backbreaking work, sweat and more sweat, hours of practice, and I will not give it a rest.”

“Wait,” I say, still catching up. “It was the Palisades fire where they suspect arson?”

Mr. Avery nods.

So, not the fire Samjeeza started trying to flush out my mom and me out at Static Peak. The other fire. Someone deliberately started the other fire?

“It doesn’t matter,” Tucker says offhandedly. “It’s over and done with. I’m grateful just to be alive.”

So am I. And what I’m thinking in this moment is, How can I keep you that way?

Later Tucker and I go out to the porch. We sit in the swing and rock. It’s cold, freezing actually, but neither of us seems to mind it. It’s too cloudy to see the stars. After we’ve been sitting there for a while, it starts to snow. We don’t go in. We lie there in the swing, swaying back and forth, our breath mingling as it rises in foggy puffs above our heads.

“The sky is falling,” I whisper, watching the flakes drift with the wind.

“Yeah,” he says. “It kind of looks that way.” He sits up in the swing to look into my face, and my heart starts pounding a mile a minute for no good reason.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “You’ve been tense all week. What’s going on?”

I stare up at him and think about losing him and my eyes suddenly brim with tears. And tears—any girl’s tears, but mine especially—really get to Tucker.

“Hey,” he whispers, and instantly gathers me up in his arms. I sniffle against his shoulder for a few minutes, then get myself together and look up and try to smile.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just stressed.”

He frowns. “Angel stuff,” he says, not even as a question. He assumes, every time something’s weighing on me, it must be angel stuff.

I wish I could tell him. But I can’t. Not without knowing for sure.

I shake my head. “College stuff. I’m applying to Stanford, you know.” This is true. Even though I think it’s pretty far-fetched, even though I can’t drum up much enthusiasm for college, even Stanford, I’ve been applying.

Tucker’s expression clears, like he suddenly understands everything perfectly. I’m upset because I am going to college and he’s staying here.

“It’ll be okay,” he said. “We’ll make it work, wherever you end up, okay?”

“Okay.”

He hugs me again, his playful shoulder-squeeze hug. “Everything’s going to be all right, Carrots. You’ll see.”

“How do you know so much?” I ask, only half playfully.

He shrugs. Suddenly he frowns, cocks his head slightly to one side.

“What is it?” I ask.

He holds up a hand to quiet me. Listens for a minute. Then he lets out a breath. “I thought I heard something, that’s all.”

“What?” I ask.

“A horse. I thought I heard a horse.”

“Oh, Tuck,” I say, hugging him tighter. “I’m sorry.”

But then I think I hear something too. A rumbling kind of noise. Maybe hoofbeats.

I listen for a few moments and still hear it, the steady rhythmic strike of something against the earth. Then the huff of air from a large moving animal, running, breathing heavy.

My eyes meet Tucker’s. “I hear it too,” I tell him.

We pop out of the swing, dash onto the front yard. I turn a slow circle in the yard, listening, as the sound gets closer.

“That way,” I breathe, pointing toward the Tetons. Tucker starts running in that direction, leaps over a low fence. That’s when Midas breaks the tree line, running hard, sweat gleaming along his flanks. Tucker sees him and gives this great, joyous whoop. Midas neighs. I stand there and watch as Tucker and Midas meet each other in the field near the house. Tucker throws his arms around Midas’s shoulders, buries his face in the glossy neck. They stay that way for a long time, and then Tucker pulls away and starts moving his hands all over Midas’s body, looking for injury.

“He’s burned, real skinny, but nothing bad,” he calls out. “Nothing we can’t deal with.” Then he says to the horse fondly, “I knew you’d make it. I knew that fire couldn’t get you.”

His parents and Wendy come out onto the porch, see Midas, and run down into the field with us to marvel over this crazy miracle. Wendy holds my hand tight as we all bring the horse back into the barn, back where he belongs.

“What once was lost, now is found,” Mrs. Avery says.

“See, Carrots,” Tucker says, stroking Midas’s nose. “Things have a way of working out the way they’re supposed to.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

Sorrow descends on me again the next day. I’d almost forgotten how awful it feels, the way my throat closes up and my chest constricts and my eyes burn. This time I’m in the grocery store with Jeffrey, and the minute I tell him he goes all angel-blood ninja, paranoid and crouching down right there in the middle of the aisle between the yogurt and the cottage cheese while I call Mom again on my cell. I would have thought Jeffrey was funny if I hadn’t been so freaked out by the prospect of getting killed by a Black Wing, only this time I assume I can’t get killed. If I die here on aisle nine, I’ll never make it to spring and the day at the cemetery.

So Samjeeza’s not here to kill me, I think. But it’s not really me I’m worried about. In spite of all my loony ideas about possible ways that Tucker might die, the one that strikes me as the most likely is that a Black Wing shows up and kills him. To get to me. To punish me, maybe, for turning my back on my purpose. To balance the scales. Or maybe simply because Black Wings are bad and they like to do bad things, such as do away with those the good people care about.

The idea terrifies me. But again the sorrow feeling is gone even before Mom gets there. Like it never happened. Like it’s all in my head.

A few days later, at Angel Club, Jeffrey’s showing us this trick he can do where he bends a quarter in half using only his fingers. Then of course we all have to try it, first me, and Jeffrey’s none too pleased when I can bend the quarter too, then Angela, who tries so hard that her face turns purple and I think she’s going to pass out, then Christian, who can’t do it, either.

“Apparently not my thing,” he says. “Pretty neat, though.”

“It could be genetic,” Angela theorizes. “Something that runs in the family with you and Jeff.”

Jeffrey snorts. “Oh, yes. A quarter-bending gene.”

I think, what good is it that I can bend quarters? What kind of useful skill is that? And suddenly I feel like I want to cry. For no good reason. Bam—tears.

“What’s the matter?” Christian asks immediately.

“Sorrow,” I croak.

We call my mom. Angela is super spazzing out this time because this is her home and it sucks for your home to not feel safe. My mom shows up ten minutes later, all out of breath. This time she doesn’t look that worried. Just tired.

“Still feeling it?” she asks me.

“No.” Which means I am feeling very stupid at this point.

“Maybe it’s your empathy thing,” Angela says to me as she walks me to the door of the theater. “Maybe you’re picking up on people around you who are sad.”

I guess that would make sense.

Mom, it turns out, has a different theory. I find this out later that night, when she comes into my room to say good night. It’s still snowing, has been since the night of Midas’s return, coming down in big flakes at a slant outside my window. It’s going to be a cold night.

“Sorry I keep, you know, crying wolf,” I say to Mom.

“It’s all right,” she says, but her expression is pinched, like I’m giving her new wrinkles.

“You don’t really seem that alarmed,” I point out. “Why is that?”

“I told you,” she says. “I don’t expect Sam to come after us so soon.”

“I really feel sorrow, though. At least I think I do, when it happens. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“It means something.” She sighs. “But it might not be a Black Wing’s sorrow you’re feeling.”

“You think it’s somebody else’s?”

“It could be yours,” she says, looking at me with that quasi-disappointed look again.

For a second it feels like all the air is gone from the room. “Mine?”

“Black Wings feel sorrow because they are going against their design. The same thing happens to us.”

I’m stunned. Seriously, I have no words.

“What Black Wings feel is much, much more intense,” she continues. “They have chosen to separate themselves from God, and that causes them an almost unbearable pain.”

I can never go back. That’s what Samjeeza kept thinking that day. I can never go back.

“With us it’s a little more subtle, more sporadic,” she says. “But it happens.”

“So,” I choke out after a minute, “you think I’m feeling flashes of sorrow because I didn’t . . . fulfill my purpose?”

“What are you thinking about, when it happens?” she asks.

I should tell her about the dream. The cemetery. All of it. But the words stick in my throat.

“I don’t know.” That’s true. I don’t remember exactly what I was thinking about all those times, but I would hazard a guess that it involved Tucker and my dream and how I’m not going to let it happen.

Fighting my purpose.

Which means I’m going against my design.

The sorrow is mine.

Chapter 7

Go Take a Hike

The next morning there’s two feet of snow on the ground. Our yard’s a winter wonderland, covered neatly in a downy white blanket that makes everything seem muffled. That’s the way it is in Wyoming, I’ve learned. One day it’s autumn, red leaves spiraling down from the trees, squirrels running around frantically burying acorns, a tinge of smoke in the air from people’s fireplaces. Then, like overnight, it’s winter. White and soundless. Really freaking cold.

Mom’s downstairs frying up bacon. She smiles when she sees me.

“Have a seat,” she says. “I’ve just about got your breakfast whipped up.”

“You’re perky this morning,” I observe, which I find odd considering our conversation last night.

“Why shouldn’t I be? It’s a beautiful day.”

I step into the kitchen and discover Jeffrey sitting at the counter looking as half awake as I feel.

“She’s gone crazy,” he tells me matter-of-factly as I slide in next to him.

“I can see that.”

“She says we’re going camping today.”

I swivel around to look at Mom, who’s flipping pancakes, whistling, for crying out loud.

“Mom?” I venture. “Did you happen to notice the snow outside?”

“What’s a little snow?” she replies, an extra twinkle in her twinkly blue eyes.

“Told you,” Jeffrey says. “Crazy.”

As soon as we’re finished with breakfast, Mom turns to us like she’s the director of a cruise ship, ready to get us started on our day.

“Clara, how about you tackle the dishes? Jeffrey, you load the car. I have some final things to do before we go. Pack for the weekend, both of you. Dress warm, but with layers, in case it warms up. I want to leave at about ten. We’re going to be hiking for several hours.”

“But Mom,” I sputter. “I can’t go camping this weekend.”

She fixes me with a steady, no-nonsense look. “Why, because you want to stay home and sneak over to Tucker’s?”

“Busted,” laughs Jeffrey.

I guess I wasn’t being as quiet as I thought sneaking out of the house.

“I call shotgun,” Jeffrey says, and that’s that.

So by ten o’clock we’re all showered and dressed and packed and bundled into the car, the heater on full blast. Mom passes me back a thermos of hot chocolate. She’s still in this supernaturally good mood. She puts the car in four-wheel drive and turns the windshield wipers on to clear away the dusting of snow that’s coming down, humming along with the radio as she drives into Jackson. Then she pulls up in front of the Pink Garter.

“Okay, Clara,” she says with a mischievous smile. “You’re up.”

I’m confused.

“Go get Angela. Tell her to pack a bag for the weekend.”

“Is she expecting me?” I ask. “Does she know that she’s going on some loony camping trip in the snow?”

Mom’s smile widens. “For once, Angela doesn’t know anything about it. But she’ll want to come, I have a feeling.”

I go to the door of the theater and knock. Angela’s mom answers. Her dark eyes go immediately past me to my mom, who’s now out of the car and coming toward us. For a second, Anna Zerbino looks like she’s going to pass out. Her face gets this strange, part-terrified, part-reverent expression, her hand involuntarily coming up to touch the gold cross dangling around her neck. Apparently Angela’s enlightened her about my family being made up of angel-bloods, and in Anna Zerbino’s experience, we’re something to be feared and worshipped.

“Hi, Anna,” my mom says in her nicest, sweetest, trust-me voice. “I wonder if I might borrow your daughter for a couple of days.”

“This is about the angels,” Anna whispers.

“Yes,” answers my mom. “It’s time.”

Anna nods silently, clutching at the doorway like she suddenly needs it for support. I dart up the stairs to find Angela.

“I think my mom might be hypnotizing your mother, or something,” I say as I push open the door to Angela’s room. She’s sprawled out on her stomach on her bed, writing in her black-and-white composition book. She’s wearing a red Stanford hoodie and only a blind person wouldn’t notice the huge Stanford banner she’s tacked on the wall over her bed.

“Wow, go Cardinals,” I comment.

“Oh hey, C,” she says, surprised. She flips her notebook closed and tucks it under her pillow. “Were we supposed to hang out today?”

“Yep, it’s written in the stars.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve come to steal you away for a magical two days and one night in the freezing-cold snowy wilderness. Courtesy of my mom.”

Angela sits up. For a minute she looks like an exact replica of her mother, except for the golden eyes. “Your mom? What?”

“Like I said, she’s taking us camping, and you’re invited. We’ve got tents and sleeping bags and even those metal poles you roast hot dogs on.”

“I don’t understand,” Angela says. Her gaze flits to the window. “It’s snowing.”

“So true. I don’t understand either, believe me,” I say. “So are you coming camping with us or not?”

In less than ten minutes she’s packed a duffel and is seat-belted into the back of our SUV, looking like she’s had a few too many cups of coffee, she’s that jittery. To some extent, Angela is always this way around my mom. It has something to do with her never knowing any other angel-bloods before she met us. Certainly she’s never had an adult angel-blood to look up to, just her quiet, broody, fully human mom with all her religious beliefs, who right now is standing on the boardwalk waving good-bye with tears in her eyes, like she’s afraid she’ll never see Angela again.

Mom rolls down the window. “It’s all right, Anna. I’ll bring her back to you safe and sound.”

“Yeah, it’s fine, Mom,” Angela mutters, embarrassed. “I’ll be home Sunday night.”

“Yes, okay,” Anna says in a low voice. “You have a good time.”

It’s quiet on the drive into the mountains. Jeffrey turns the radio on, but Mom lowers the volume so we can barely hear it. Then we wind our way up a series of hairpin turns, the road narrowing to a single lane, one side cut against the sheer rocky face of the mountain, the other dropping to a ravine below. I wonder what would happen if we came upon somebody on the way down. Finally, after more than an hour, the road levels into a small turnout. Mom pulls over and parks.

“This is as far up as we go in the car. We’ll have to hike from here.” She gets out. We’re met by a blast of absolutely freezing air as we open our doors to grab our packs from the back. We stand for a minute staring at the trailhead and the distant ridges of the mountain over the treetops.

“At least it stopped snowing,” Jeffrey says.

Mom leads us into the fresh powder, followed by Jeffrey, then Angela and me walking side by side. The snow on the trail is halfway up our boots. We walk for a long time. The air seems to get thinner. The whole trip reminds me of the time Mom brought me to Buzzards Roost when I was fourteen, where she told me about the angel-bloods and flew out across the valley to prove that she was serious. I wonder what she’s going to reveal to us this time.

After a couple of hours of monotonous trudging, Mom turns off the trail and toward a deeply wooded part of the forest. It’s colder here, darker, in the shade of the towering pines. The snow is much deeper off the trail, sometimes almost to the knees. Within minutes I am chilled to the bone, shivering so violently that my hair pops loose from its ponytail. Beside me, Angela suddenly slips and falls, getting herself completely covered with snow. I reach down to help her up.

“Bet you’re wishing you’d given this whole camping trip thing a bit more thought,” I say through chattering teeth. Her nose and cheeks are bright pink, almost clownlike against her shock of black hair.

“We’re supposed to have an immunity to cold,” she says with her eyebrows drawn together, like she just can’t figure out why it’s not working.

From ahead of us, Mom barks with laughter.

“Sometimes, Angela,” she says, not without affection, “you really are full of crap.”

Angela’s mouth opens in shock for a second, but then Mom keeps laughing, and it quickly spreads to the rest of us, even Angela.

“I read it in a book,” she protests. “Seriously.”

“It’s when you use glory,” Mom explains. “Glory keeps you warm. Otherwise, I’m reasonably certain you could freeze to death.”

“Like now, for example,” I chime in.

“Okay,” says Angela sheepishly. “I’ll have to write that down. Just as soon as I can make my hands work again.”

“It’s not much farther,” Mom promises. “Hang in there.”

Sure enough, after another ten minutes of miserable progress in the snow through the deep woods, Mom stops us. She lifts her head and smells the air, smiles in a kind of serene way, then tells Jeffrey to make a sharp right turn.

“There,” she says, pointing to a narrow gulley a bit farther down the mountain. “We need to go through there.”

Jeffrey leads the way, taking us down the slippery trail until he stops so suddenly that Mom almost crashes into him. His pack slips from his shoulder. Mom grins, a tired but triumphant gloaty expression, and steps aside to let Angela and me pass through so we can see what they’re looking at. Then we stop too, our mouths dropping open, our own packs dropping to the ground.

“Holy . . . ,” breathes Jeffrey.

Yep. That’s the right word.

It’s some sort of meadow, a vast, flat stretch of land surrounded on two sides by mountains, the third edge a beautiful shining lake that’s clear enough that you can see the landscape reflected back perfectly. A few feet from where we’re standing the snow disappears, becoming instead a long, soft grass, so green it almost hurts the eyes to look at it after so many hours of white on white. It’s not snowing here. The sun is sinking behind the far mountain, and the sky is a riot of oranges and blues. Birds are winging their way back and forth across the meadow, like they too can’t believe that they’ve stumbled into this paradise out here in the middle of nowhere.

But the meadow’s not what we’re looking at. What has the three of us (not Mom, of course, since she obviously knows all about this) gaping stupidly out into the sunshine is the fact that the meadow is crowded with tents. About two dozen people are bustling around, some building campfires, some fishing on the lake, some simply standing or sitting or lying down in the grass talking.

My eyes are drawn to one particular woman, mahogany-skinned with long, lustrous dark hair, a face like the Sacagawea golden dollar. And a pair of dazzling wings folded like a magnificent white robe against her back.

“This,” Mom says, gesturing around the meadow, “is what’s called a congregation. A gathering of angel-bloods.”

“Congregarium celestial,” breathes Angela.

The lady with the wings sees us and waves. Mom waves back.

“That’s Billy,” she says. “Come on.” She removes her coat and the rest of her winter gear until she’s only wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. Then she strides off barefoot into the grass. “Come on,” she calls back to us again. “They’ll be eager to meet you.”

We leave our packs at the edge of the grass and move hesitantly into the meadow. Several people stop what they’re doing to watch us.

“What is this?” Jeffrey asks beside me, still confused.

Mom’s already reached Billy, who throws her arms around my mother like the two are old friends. Then they turn and start back toward us, and when she gets close enough this Billy woman hugs me too, a giant bear hug with surprising strength.

“Clara!” she exclaims. “I can’t believe it. I haven’t seen you since you were knee high to a grasshopper.”

“Uh, hi,” I reply stiffly against her hair, which smells like wildflowers and leather. “I don’t remember. . . .”

“Oh, of course not,” she says with a laugh. “You were tiny.” She peers over my shoulder. “And this is Jeffrey. Good God above. Already a man.”

Jeffrey doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he’s pleased by this announcement.

“Meet Wilma Fairweather,” announces my mom as a formal introduction.