XIX. Allies
They returned to the hill the following morning. Ingrid wasn't sure what she wanted to do with Scott's body, but she didn't want it left in the open to be eaten by rats and worms and who knew what else. Burying him at the place where they'd last made love--Horseshoe Bay--crossed her mind, as did the dogwood cemetery. Except both of those places were so very far away.
"We could also use the cemetery just outside Rudgard," Darren observed from the front of Cambridge’s wagon.
"Yes," Ingrid said. "I'll have to think about it some more."
She steeled herself as best she could for the sight atop the hill. Crying was a foregone conclusion--never again would there come a thought related to Scott that didn't bring tears. But she also wanted to maintain her courage, if not for the sake of Scott's memory, then for that of Darren, who would be the one to carry the corpse to the wagon once she'd wrapped a blanket over it. Doubtless he too was feeling things at the moment. They needed to be strong together.
Only there was a problem... Scott's body was no longer on the hill.
She walked past Randy's corpse, past Cambridge's corpse, to the place where the blood-stained blanket remained anchored, and there was nothing else to see. She turned this way and that, looking every direction. The answer from all points, however, was the same. Scott had disappeared.
"Someone took him," Darren mused.
"Yes but who? And why?"
"Perhaps someone from the village can tell us. Remember, there were a lot of people on their here when we left."
But following his suggestion only deepened the mystery. No one in Rudgard knew a thing about a body on the hill, though several people admitted visiting the place where "the whitest light ever blinded me from every star in heaven" as one gent in a basement barber shop described it.
In fact, talk of what had happened on that night was the main topic of discussion about every tavern, stable, and general store during Ingrid's three week stay in the village. A kind of cautious optimism seemed to have taken everyone as news of Woodward Cambridge's heroism spread. That this was the news they put together for themselves surprised Ingrid at first. Yet could she blame them for their self-assuredness? They were doing the best they could with what little evidence they’d found. Perhaps time would teach them other things, but not today.
Still, it did get irritating to hear his name lauded over and over again (as well as her earlier certainty that the dwellers would hate Cambridge forever proven false), to the point where she stayed indoors as often as possible, listening to Darren's ideas about where Scott's body might have gone, or chatting with Echo Gardener over tea. As it turned out, the old woman had her own thoughts to share with regards to the father of her unborn child.
"I've read that places where the interstice can be opened are never stable, even under the least favorable conditions for crossing," she claimed one morning near the end of Ingrid's stay. "Perhaps what you did in your sleep happened again all on its own. Maybe just for long enough to embrace the body."
Ingrid's teacup shook. Here was a strange, unsettling idea. Picturing Scott's body afloat in that empty, infinite plain of nothingness between all the conceivable passions ever felt by living things made her green. He'd be ripped apart in a tug of war of emotions.
"I would rather he got stolen by pirates," she said.
"You don't mean that."
She looked out the window; on the walk, a boy no older than five stood crying with a half-eaten apple while his mother counted change from a tin cup.
"I'm not sure what I mean anymore. Except this: I'm going home. Back to the progressive."
"Why?"
"Darren says my mother left some things for me there. Things I won't need to look for this time," she added, thinking of the diary at Horseshoe Bay which had never turned up.
The remark puzzled Echo. "I'm sorry?" she said.
"A house," Ingrid smiled. "Her house. And a restaurant at a park."
"But isn't this region special to you?"
"Again, I just don't know anymore. I'm disappointed the dwellers are putting Cambridge on a pedestal. I understand it but I'm disappointed. Also..." She let out a breath, knowing well before the first tear fell that she was going to cry. "Without Scott...no. This place...I guess doesn't mean so much to me anymore. We came here together, and...and..."
Echo touched her hand. "It's all right, dear. You don't have to go on."
"Don't worry," Ingrid replied, wiping her cheeks. "It doesn't shame me. It just...hurts. I mean you spend years shutting yourself away from this crazy life you have. Building walls to close out a family that hates you. Trying to make this quiet little place where you can just...just live life doing your own pretty, private things. And pretty soon you stop caring about everything else. Nothing matters anymore. Then...then..."
"And then something wonderful happens," Echo said softly. "Right?"
"Something more wonderful than I'll ever have words for." No longer able to hold the teacup steady, Ingrid put it on the table. "Along comes this man who loves me. And he won't stop, even after I've pushed him away. I swear, Echo...he climbed right over that wall and put his arms around me. It gave me strength. It made me want to make friends with the world again. I saw him one morning after we first got back together, sitting at the kitchen table the way we are now. He looked sad and empty and lost. But when he looked up and saw me," she sobbed, tears coming in a flood at the memory, "everything changed. He smiled. He got so happy. And I was like...I'm doing this to him. I'm making a difference in his life. And I loved him right back for that. I loved him back so much."
"That's what brought you here, darling," Echo reminded her. "Remember it always. That's what brought you here."
Ingrid sat with her head in her hands until the crying stopped. It took a long time, but when at last she was able to lift her eyes, she said to the seamstress: "Yes. But I can't stay here without him. It would never feel right. I have to go home."
***
Ingrid had been to the part of the region known as Frondplume once before. It was no longer a part of her conscious memory, but she'd been there. It took up a large part of the region's tropical southwest, where dense jungles thrived so well under the near constant sun there were few explorers brave enough--or foolish enough--to enter them. Sixteen years ago, Lisa Felton hadn’t been given a choice. She'd plunged into its lush green thickets, where huge spiders spun webs strong enough to catch lizards living under the rocks, and snakes wide as tree trunks sometimes dropped from sloping palms to wrap themselves about the necks of unsuspecting prey, with a baby in her arms, a plan flaring in her mind, and a witch in hot pursuit. That witch--Nancy Semeska--wanted Lisa dead not only for the crime of insurrection, but because Lisa was a witch herself. Thus, knowing the region would never be safe for her and her baby, she had fled to the door of another region.
Ingrid learned all of this from Darren while preparing to leave Rudgard, as well as on the road to Frondplume, which took five days to cross by niddy. Their first stop on the trip was Coldfrock Castle, there to retrieve what useful clothing and food left over from the ogre siege that they could. During this short stay Ingrid also learned that the passage out of Frondplume did not lead directly back to Ohio, or indeed anywhere close. She had just fitted herself into a plain green dress she'd found in the servant's quarters when Darren appeared, holding a sheet of parchment and looking rather apologetic.
"It's all right," she’d assured him, "I was done here. Aristocracy doesn’t suit me, so I ignored the dresses upstairs."
Darren's face didn't change. So he was upset about something else. She asked him what, and instead of answering, he gave her the parchment. On it was a name--what looked like a Spanish name--and an address: a place in Manila, the Philippines, called Mckinley Hill.
"What's this?" she wanted to know.
"It's where you're going to wake up," Darren replied, "after you leave Frondplume. Put it in your pocket so you don't forget."
"I don't know the first thing about Manila, Darren. Please tell me this is a joke."
"I'm afraid not. But it's okay," he went on, "the man who lives at the address is a friend of your mom's. A fellow...traveler. Years ago he owned a hostel in Dalandaniss. But when Cambridge showed up he returned to Manila and became a lawyer. He can help you with fixing a passport and whatever other bureaucratic necessities there are with flying to the U.S. None of it will be legal, of course, but in that regard there won't be much choice."
"Does he know I'm coming?"
"Yes. Your mom took a great number of precautions before leaving the progressive. Hid some cards under the table just in case what came off the deck didn't provide a winning hand. He knows you're coming and he knows what you look like. Just make your way to the address once you're in Manila. I'll teach you a few basic Tagalog phrases as we ride."
"And from there I'm on a plane to Cleveland?"
"That's right. Lisa's house is already yours. You'll need to sign some papers, but it's yours. And the Ship-to-Shore awaits its new management while some other friends take care of it in the meantime."
These last bits of information were ones Ingrid already had. But hearing them again, this time packaged with further, even more meticulous plans, made them seem like they'd been made with the air of a woman writing her last will and testament. Lisa had left things for her daughter in the progressive--things that would help her build a stable, functional life there should she be fortunate enough to get back. About her own life it was clear there had been grave doubts indeed.
Despite a certain grimness that came with this, the ride away from Coldfrock maintained an almost whimsical pleasantness over the next two days. The air stayed moist and breezy, hissing between sentinels of tremendous, ancient trees that nodded from surrounding slopes. And where there weren't trees, there were crops. Fields of corn lined the road, husks sparkling in the sunlight, as did giant fruit patches with strawberries big as Ingrid's fist.
By the third day things were changing. The rich, healthy blue of the sky began to fade like plants left too long in the sun. The air went from warm to hot. Ingrid's dress felt stickier by the minute. Shaking its bodice helped a little, but by mid-afternoon, she was frustrated with all the sweating. She looked across the now lifeless field they rode through, and said:
"Fuck."
Darren looked at her. "Excuse me?"
"Sorry," she muttered. "I'm just hot. Are we getting close to Frondplume?"
"Closer by the minute. Try pouring some water down your back."
"I need a lagoon. Like Brooke Shields."
The other laughed. "It'll be dark soon. Cooler."
And so it was. But though Woodward Cambridge was dead, the region still had its vampires. They swooped and buzzed Ingrid's hair as the sun went down. They bit at her arms. Swatting them did no good. For every three she killed, five more landed on her.
"Is Manila like this?" she asked on the afternoon of the fourth day.
They'd slept in an abandoned barn the night before. Tonight, chances were they would not be so lucky. The road had become a narrow dirt track that cut through an expanse of what looked to be open wetlands, with mosquitoes buzzing everywhere.
Darren slapped his forehead, splatting one of the bugs into a disgusting henna tattoo. "What, tropical? Oh yes. But it's a bit more civilized than this. A bit," he added after a short pause.
"Why Manila?"
"It's a place where mothers bond heavily with their children, and vice-versa. Remember that a passage through the interstice must have a common theme residing at both ends."
"But don't all mothers love their children?"
"Not the way they do in Manila. Tell a Filipina that babies in the U.S. get forgotten inside cars and die of heat stroke while their parents do the grocery shopping. She'll look at you like you've gone mad. Tell her that American parents swear in front of their children. She won't believe you."
"I can't imagine doing any of those things either."
"Wait until the child is two years old and tearing about the house like a miniature dambuhala."
She winced. "Ooh, I'd rather not think about that."
"See?"
"Yeah but I'm not going to kill the poor little guy, no matter how bad it gets."
"I know," he laughed. "I'm not being a hundred percent serious, of course. What I am serious about are these damned mosquitoes." He slapped two more off his arm.
"Are they going to be with us the whole rest of the way?"
"Indubitably."
"Terrific," she moaned.
As she had feared, no place of refuge appeared that night, forcing them to sleep as best they could under cover of thin blankets they'd brought from the castle. She woke up next morning irritated, itchy, and in need of a bath. The latter, at least, could be provided, as there were many small, shallow pools of water dotting the landscape. All it took was courage enough to leave the road, walk a short distance, and push aside what stalks of high reeds grew around the oases. Ingrid found herself more than willing to brave these challenges for even a little respite.
The place where she crossed back home was better still. On the morning of the fifth day the road plunged into what looked like a rainforest, and the understory was at least ten degrees cooler. Wet, mossy tree trunks, some wide as the gates of Castle Coldfrock, rose by the hundreds into a canopy occupied with myriad cawing jungle parrots. Chatty and cheerful, these birds soon took to swooping the niddi. Some of them, Ingrid noticed while ducking a rain of feathers, even seemed to be smiling. It looked silly--it was silly. And it made her laugh.
"Are all the animals in here so cheerful?" she asked Darren.
His reply dampened her. "No. In fact a lot of the frogs and geckos are poisonous. Lisa probably used a glamour to keep them away. We won't have such conveniences at our disposal."
"So we need to be careful."
"Very, very careful."
"How far is it to the crossing point?"
Her answer came about two hours later when Darren pulled his niddy to a stop next to--wonder of wonders--a deep, blue lagoon dappled by the shadows of its concealing trees. A waterfall from a stocky cliff-face kept it full, and kept the lily-pads that bobbed on its surface in constant motion. Nevertheless, it was so clear that Ingrid could see straight to the bottom.
"This is where you depart," Darren said, gazing into the depths.
For a moment her stomach tightened. "Where? Underwater?"
He laughed. "Oh goodness no. You can stretch out under any one of the nearest trees."
"Oh. Well don't say things like that. My drowning days are done."
"Sorry. Although this lagoon is safe to swim in should you wish to partake."
The water was too tempting to refuse. Darren offered her some privacy under the justification of gathering firewood for a camp, and once he was out of sight, she took everything off and swam to the middle, letting her body indulge in the coolness. A few dives beneath the surface revealed a cave which prevented the lagoon from overflowing, and she had time to think that nature, like love, was maybe not as complicated as most people made it out to be. All it needed for life was the proper set of ingredients: coarseness and strength, softness and frailty. Then Darren asked from somewhere in the trees if she was finished, and she called for another ten minutes to dry off and get dressed.
After dark they ate dinner in front of the fire. It was the same one they'd had not long ago in a different forest—bread, fish, coffee. This time, however, the space between them was empty, and Ingrid had to force herself not to look at it. She didn't want to leave this region in tears. After dinner they brushed their teeth, using a compound made from wood ash that Darren claimed the region-dwellers mixed all the time. Then it was time to leave.
"Ready?" Darren asked.
Ingrid was looking at the moon. The twig she'd used to brush her teeth lay in one hand. In the other was the address in Manila.
"When it comes to crossing regions I'm not sure I know what ready is," she replied.
"It'll be just like before. You'll go to sleep, and when you wake up, you'll be in another world."
"And what about you?"
"What about me?"
"Where will you go after I'm gone?"
Darren looked into the heavens, yet she had the queer idea that he wasn't, like her, seeing the moon. He was seeing the stars.
"Back to Rudgard for awhile," he guessed. "Then maybe on to some other towns. Bowershim still needs help, and I've always been something of a journeyman. That's part of what took Lisa so long to catch me."
"Please allow your journeys to take you back to the progressive some day. I'll be at the house in Sandusky."
His eyes returned from their spacewalk. "And one day, Ingrid, there will be a knock at your door."
The address went back to her pocket. Minutes later she had a makeshift bed of blankets spread in front of the fire. As she lay back, her thoughts went to the baby. Lisa if it's a girl, she told herself, Wesley if it's a boy.
"That's it," Darren said, reading her thoughts, "think of the baby as you go to sleep. Think of what it means to you and Scott. You're a mother now, Ingrid. You know that."
Ingrid reached again into the pocket of her dress. It was the servant girl's dress she'd found days ago at the castle. Inside was a fragment of a letter she'd been reading over and over during the trip. A daughter's letter, written in English, that summed up everything Ingrid wanted Lisa--or Wesley--to feel about her mother one day.
Thank you for being my mam. Thank you for bringing me into this wurld. Thank you for feeding me, and teaching me, and bying me clothes and toys. Thank you for teling me wen I was rong. Thank you for teling me wen I was rite. Thank you for your bedtime stories. Thank you for hugging me. Thank you for kissing me wen I was hurt. Thank you mam so very very much. This alone is love. Thank you.
Ingrid folded the letter and pushed it into her bodice, where it could rest over her heart.
"Goodnight, Darren," she whispered.
"Goodnight," came his soft reply.
Thinking of the baby then, loving the baby, Ingrid fell asleep.
***
Two very distinct things greeted her upon return to consciousness. The first was the sun. It stabbed her eyes, and for a moment, she panicked, fearing she'd somehow gotten lost in the interstice. But then came the next thing, this one a man, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, his hair black, his skin brown.