Thirsty - M. T. Anderson [9]
Jerk is fussing around us. “Are you okay? Are you, like, okay? Hey, what —?”
“Come on,” says Tom.
I watch their legs walk away over the grass. Tom’s dry foot and wet foot going plod, squoosh, plod, squoosh.
I wait for a minute. The plod, squoosh fades to nothing. Then I roll over so that my head is projecting out over the water.
I watch and breathe shallowly. Nothing at first. Then, slowly, slowly, I watch my face reappear in the reservoir.
For a while I lie like that, my leg in the mud, my face hanging a few inches above the ripples that, just a few moments before, would not hold my image.
A figure is bending over me. The man in black is at my side. He reaches down one of his fine hands and pulls me to my feet.
His face is hard and young and almost elfin. Though he is wearing a sharp sixties suit, it looks as if he could play the panpipe and worship things among the toadstools. He has a compassionate smile, though. “I saw what happened,” he says.
I look at him. I am sort of wary, because I am not quite sure what happened.
“How they ganged up on you,” he says.
I shrug, and I say, “I started it.”
He nods, and his hair moves in the wind. He puts his hands in his pockets. “Did you? Did you start it? Who can say? You are going through a difficult age,” he says, “I’m sure. So many contrary emotions. Some of them very new and violent. You won’t be a boy for long. There are a lot of changes you’re going through right now. Hormonal and so on.”
“Yes,” I say. I want to escape. One of my feet steps toward Tom and Jerk, who are getting farther and farther away. I can tell Tom is mimicking me, and Jerk is nodding sadly.
The man in black squints down the shore at them. Then, with a wide smile, he adds suddenly, “You must feel very disoriented sometimes.”
“Yes,” I mumble. I want to run and rejoin Tom and Jerk, because if I don’t rejoin them soon, Tom will not forgive me. Instead of forgiving me, he will employ his Five-Alarm Sarcasm, which has been known to strip the finish off Colonial furniture.
The clouds can be seen moving on the surface of the water.
“I saw you the other night at the lynching,” says the young man, rocking on his heels. “You seemed surprised. Startled? Uneasy?”
I nod.
“I saw her die,” he says, looking above my left shoulder out at the lake, biting his upper lip for a moment in regret. “The stake didn’t go in correctly. It was too large to fit through her ribs. As the executioner pounded it in, you could hear the ribs popping and cracking.” He looks at me. “Watching a vampire die, the worst part is the heart. It’s acquired a life of its own by that time. When the stake reaches the heart, the heart starts squealing in terror. Like a piglet.”
“That’s . . . of . . . okay. Thanks,” I mutter. “I guess I better catch up with my friends.” I start to walk away.
Tom and Jerk are now far away, walking shoulder to shoulder. I would stay and talk to this man, who I can see has an unusual and stimulating viewpoint, except that he is obviously a psychopath and I’m not yet interested in dying. (LOCAL BOY FOUND DECAPITATED IN DITCH: “MISSING HEAD NOT MUCH OF A LOSS,” SAYS EX-FRIEND TOM.) I am walking away down the path of yellow grass.
“I saw the whole fight just now,” the man in black is repeating behind me.
I keep walking.
“I saw what you saw,” he says.
I keep walking.
“I saw that you had no reflection in the lake.”
I stop. Chills go up and down my spine.
I turn back to him.
“No reflection.” He has stepped back and is sitting down casually on the embankment. “Don’t worry. I’ve been sent to help you.”
“What?” I say. “Help?”
“I am an avatar of the Forces of Light.”
“What?” I say stupidly.
“I’m a celestial being. I’ve been sent to ask your help. Must I shout, Christopher?” I walk back warily to his side.
“How do I know that you’re a celestial being?” I ask. “You don’t look anything like a celestial being to me.”
He rolls his eyes and smiles a disappointed little smile. Then he wavers and flickers like a flame on the wind. He disappears and reappears.
When he is fully substantial