46

Men shouted to make themselves heard above the shriek of the power saw. The saw lowered in pitch, sputtering, almost stalling. It cut into the tree.

The cathedral trembled. I opened my eyes slowly. Any last hope that this was a dream died. I found myself standing, my arms crossed over my chest, on a gnarled shelf high in the interior of the wooden shaft. Below me was an oblong of light, an opening too narrow for most humans. The illumination that spilled into the tree was the color of sunset.

The saw stopped. Men cursed, a dog barked, not barking so much as a hysterical canine tirade—There they are. The saw puttered like a motorcycle, gained strength, and sliced into the wood.

There they are! Motor exhaust drifted upward. I would be able to shift my arm soon. The men worked feverishly, trying to race the setting sun. The bulk of the big tree trembled, echoing with a series of methodical blows. An ax. The sawdust smelled like cinnamon.

It didn’t surprise me, I told myself. None of this surprised me. Now, I urged myself. Move your hand. Turn your head. Rebecca must have taken refuge higher in the tree. She must be hiding up near the tapering chimney open to the sky. Black dust sifted down from the interior. The scream of the saw shifted to a new position, and another saw stuttered and started up, the men working fast, sundown nearly here.

With copious effort I discovered movement in my right forefinger. And then, like someone doing complicated mental calculations, I moved the forefinger of my left hand.

I had experienced dreams like this, my closing arguments, the jury’s impassive faces, my best three button suit, and my tongue would not work. My voice dead, my mind blank, my notes gibberish.

Hands tore the bark and light broke into the base of the tree. The dog leaped into the opening, and clawed, trying to climb the interior, barking crazily, his handler calling to him, the dog furious that he couldn’t get at me. Let me go. Let me sink my teeth into him. He could taste me in his mind. How sluggish we seemed to this dog, how obstinate and stupid. I’ve got him!

One of my hands reached upward and dug deep into the char opposite me. My other hand joined it, and I hung there, gradually climbing the shaft of the tree, toward the fading splash of sky. Rebecca was not here.

They dragged the dog out of the tree, the beast yammering, tearing at the soil. The ax blows resounded, and now there was a new pitch to each blow, splintering wood. Far below, at the base of the interior, a hand reached and missed, and tried again. The hand found a grip and with a great heave a section of the tree broke free.

I dug my fingers into the ancient charcoal, and thrust my head and shoulders through the top of the tree. The redwood was still alive, despite its hollow core. They were killing it, and I knew as I teetered there that Rebecca was in trouble. I couldn’t see her, but I could tell.

Richard—help me.

Joe Timm’s face was gaunt, his eyes searching the ground with nothing of his old self-assurance. Two hundred miles out of his jurisdiction, he was not in charge of these people, but stood among them with natural authority as lights were switched on so the saws could finish their work.

Joe was unshaven. He wore a hunting jacket that hung loosely. He touched his mouth and rubbed his bristled chin, a habitual gesture, nervous. He put one hand on his hip, where a handgun, or a flask, offered him some security.

How is your wife?

Joe did not look up, but he took his hand away from his hip and stood like a man looking off the edge of a cliff. He bunched his fists. And then, only after a long moment, gathering strength, did he look up again.

The others saw me at the same time he did. The saw fell silent raggedly, sputtering, stalling. The dog saw me, too, and cringed, whining, circling, his handler struggling.

Joe Timm gazed up at me, and a sad smile creased his face. He shook his head. Compassion for Joe stilled me, so I was unprepared for the blast of the shotgun. Buckshot ripped past me. Joe spun to seize the barrel of the gun. The dog sniffed frantically, searching the ground, looking up, demanding. When he saw me the dog leaped in my direction, his chain a taut, straight line.

Then I saw her.

She was in the branches of a nearby tree, human, clinging. The branches shook. She hung on tightly, her face pale with the effort.

“Come away,” I whispered.

She shook her head.

I stretched my arms, reached my hands, letting my fingers regain that scope they had come to know, and I toppled forward. The air supported me, and I rocked to avoid a branch. My lips could not form a word. I swam upward, glided, then scrambled, fighting, winning the treetops.

Follow me I called.

To the west a great wave broke, silent at this distance. To the east Highway One meandered, a string of emergency vehicles, police units, and what I guessed to be a forestry service bus. My inhuman eyes registered this, and I made sense of it only as I circled, my flight always half-broken, one wingbeat away from plummeting.

Below, branches crackled. Heavy feet broke brush. More people were hurrying toward the site. Could she hear me calling her name? Could she guess what had become of me, where I had escaped? I sailed wide over the place I had last seen her.

Treetops are a supple green, bright, half-air. In this night sky I saw what I wanted to see, as though my eyes were the source of illumination. There was no further sign of Rebecca.

What was it I dreamed of being as a boy? Did I want to be a racecar driver, a fireman, a soldier? Surely, all of that. The policeman, the Marine. I was no different than any other boy. And if I dreamed of flying, it was with a cape, or with the wings of a hawk, not like this, a winking, leather span.

But more than anything, I had dreamed of being a hero. In my childhood I had only the slimmest sense of what this amounted to, but I saw now that my adult experience had not made me wiser. All I craved now was to love, and to keep my love from harm.

There was still no sign of her. I hovered in place like a falcon, beating my wings. The bones of my wings ached with the effort. I hated bodies, not this mutant shape, and not the human body, but bodies in general, all bodies. Each one was a trap.

We don’t have much time.

But the flight that would imitate mine did not take place. Something in Rebecca’s character would not let this happen. I nearly fell, and fought hard to stay where I was. I had seen this, too. I had seen this, and known it was coming. I whirled, a brown leaf.

I heard her. Rustling, fluttering.

Branches swayed below, parted. Something struggled upward. A treetop shook, needles raining. A pair of wings escaped the trees.