To say Julian saw everything would be literally untrue. If you were to speak in figurative terms, which Julian would certainly appreciate, then you probably could get away with saying that he saw everything that fateful day that was the beginning of the February blizzard. He saw things that you saw: Kimi coming out of The Passage and appearing atop Wachusett Mountain; Carl stopping at Mister Donut; Abby confronting her father; and his brother, Joshua, reading a passage from A Separate Peace. He saw these things not in a linear fashion, as you or I might see a movie at the Orpheum Cinemas in the center of Old Wachusett, but rather like a dream, multiple images flashing before his eyes in and out of sequence, his mind left with trying to make sense of it when he awoke. For when Julian saw these things, he was sleeping. Julian slept during the daytime. It was at night when he was awake. Such was the blessing and the curse of his unique sight and his physical limitations.
Other things Julian saw, things you didn’t see:
Greg Horton’s body discovered by snowmobilers who thought it would be fun to go for a joyride in the storm of the century, never suspecting they would be the first residents of Old Wachusett to discover evidence of the evil that had visited their once tranquil city;
Tony Cunningham waking up to his girlfriend’s screams and stumbling upon Linda Horton sprawled on the front steps of their apartment and then spending the next twenty minutes sitting in the newly fallen snow and weeping over her before someone found him and called the police;
The wolf—the same wolf that had earlier taken Abby upon its back—finding Kenny in the makeshift igloo that Kimi had built for the boy in the center of the clearing. The wolf at first had been hesitant at entering the clearing, but seemingly upon further reflection—if such a thing were even possible for an animal—overcame any reluctance and sniffed out the boy, licked him awake, and carried him on his back to the boy’s house, dropping him off at the front porch before anyone came to the door;
Ted Brimfield eating supper and reading Mad magazine by flashlight while his mom and twin sisters played the fun and exciting pop-o-matic game Trouble by candlelight (they lost electricity soon after supper) then going to bed and dreaming that a frighteningly huge eagle had crashed through the window in the parlor, flown into his sisters room, and ripped their sweet, precious bodies to shreds, only to wake up to his mother’s screaming, evidence that he hadn’t been dreaming;
Ben McNally playing Monopoly with his mom, dad, and grandpa, Band-Aids on his chin, happy to be safe at home after the ‘incident’ at the Iron Stairs, relieved that his mom had bought the story of the Scanlon twins stealing the groceries, thinking that maybe the ‘incident’ at the Iron Stairs with that humungous bird-thing hadn’t really happened in the first place, thinking that maybe he had slipped and fallen and dropped the grocery bag and he had needed a story to tell his mom and that’s what he had come up with. At least, that’s what Ben was hoping had really happened;
David Schofield calling his wife at the library half a dozen times, coming to the conclusion she had left and was stranded on the side of the road in the middle of the blizzard, but then finally getting her on the phone and finding out that she had simply fallen asleep while going over the budget numbers. Her quavering voice had alerted David that something was wrong, but Connie assured him it was no big deal, she would tell him once she got home, which wouldn’t be that night because she’d heard on the radio that roads were impassable. She would spend the night on the couch in the break room, eating food left in the refrigerator and cupboards. David didn’t have to worry about her, she was a big girl, and she could take of herself. She asked if David and Josh were all right at home. David said yes. He didn’t want to upset Connie any more than necessary, so why bother telling her Josh had taken The Beast out for a spin in a blizzard. Besides, David could handle that issue on his own once Josh returned home. He didn’t mention Teri staying the night—she would sleep on the leather couch downstairs, David upstairs in his own bed, the two of them staying as far away from each other as was physically possible—as he had decided to wait until the morning to deal with that. David told Connie he was sorry about the other night, Connie said she was too, and they hung up the phones;
Kimi trying to enter The Passage as it closed behind Achak and Josh, but failing. Kimi trying over and over to summon The Passage to reopen, but failing at that as well. Kimi running into the forest on Wachusett Mountain, the branches parting for her as she disappeared into the swirling, wild whiteness;
Carl Sanderson waking up hours after slamming his head on the floor of the foyer at Faith Community Church, seeing the carnage he had wrought, and leaving through the front door of the church.
There were also many things that Julian did not see—as I said, he could not see everything—some of which he could not have cared about less. But, there were things he did not see that he was interested, very interested, in seeing. Things that he felt—knew—were important to see.
Who were Kimi and Achak, and from where had they come?
Where had Carl gone after leaving the church?
What had happened to Clem Scanlon, the one carried away by the eagle?
But the things that Julian needed most to see, feeling it was a matter of urgency, maybe even of survival, were the following:
Where had Achak and Joshua gone after they disappeared from Wachusett Mountain?
Who was John Smith?
And why, despite numerous attempts, was he unable to see what had happened to Abby after she had climbed onto the back of the wolf? She, and the wolf, had disappeared as soon as she had settled onto its back. The wolf had later reappeared in his dream, but not Abby. How was that possible? And why?
Julian could see many things others could not, in spite of the restraints on his wrists and ankles that kept him confined to the bed in his institutional room while he slept during the day, in spite of being bound in a wheelchair at night and left to watch television while everyone else in the institution slept. Yes, in spite of these physical limitations, Julian saw lots of things others did not.
He often saw things inside others as well, things they themselves could not see.
Like the turmoil his family had been going through the past two years since that fateful July 4th, since that terrible basketball game. Julian saw the emptiness in his mother’s life. The coldness in his dad’s heart. And, perhaps most painful of all, the hidden guilt deeply ingrained within his brother’s soul.
One more thing Julian saw. He saw it standing in the blizzard, its branches unmoving, defiant against the storm that raged around it. The image lasted only a moment before it faded, but Julian had the impression that, however such a thing were possible, the Initial Tree wanted Julian to see it. To take notice of it. As if that would be important, however obscure it now seemed.
After Julian fell asleep the day after the blizzard, he slipped into the nightmare he’d first experienced almost two years ago. Like the fire in that dream, this new vision grew to horrifying and unexpected proportions. If he could have awakened himself and uttered forth words, Julian would first have screamed. Then he would have told whoever was there to listen that he, and everyone else who lived in Old Wachusett, would soon be consumed by what was coming for them.