True paid his first visit to Africa when he was twelve years old, on the morning that Nett, the kitchen girl, made him chase her back behind the milking shed. As he rounded the corner, expecting to have to sprint to catch up, she spun around and grabbed his hands, giggling, then pressed her back against the smooth, dry wood. Nett was older by two years. She played games True didn’t understand.

"Now," she said, tilting her head and making her lower lip all puffy. "Put those sooty hands all over me."

"What?" said True. He was breathless with running and wondered for a moment if he’d heard her right. "Ain’t no soot on my hands." He stepped away from the wall and showed her. "And why you want me to? That’s a good dress. Your momma’d wear me out."

"Oh, you so stupid!" said Nett. She made fists at her sides and stomped her foot. "How you live so long being so dumb no man can say."

True straightened his back and got set to march off. One thing he was sure would get him a whipping was hitting a girl, especially a trumped-up big house girl like Nett. True’s pappy had been a groom to a retired colonel who fought with General Greene at Springfield, but aside from the old master naming all his house slaves in the General’s honor, that was his family’s sole claim to social elevation. Now Nett had his blood up, and True knew from experience that the only way to get it back down again was for him to punch somebody. He turned on a heel and stomped away from Nett, looking to ambush one of the soft boys from the nail shop.

"Wait," said Nett, stepping forward with a pleading expression. "Don’t go. I’m sorry." She took True’s hands gently, and what was more surprising, he let her. She drew him back behind the shed.

It was dusk, and the lightning bugs had just started their winking dance. One hovered in front of the fence on the opposite side of the shed from the way they’d come. Every few seconds he’d light up his lantern then blow it out. Light it up, blow it out.

"Ol’ pops can’t keep his wick lit," True said about the flitting creature.

Nett grabbed him by the collar. "I bet you can." She pulled him in and kissed him dead on the mouth.

True felt the ground give way beneath him. Suddenly, the sky was as black as a night without stars. For a split second he thought something was wrong with his eyes. Then he wondered if the problem was in his brain. Somehow he knew that Nett was far away, though whether it was her smell or the shuffling of her cotton dress he missed, he couldn’t say. His body rotated in the darkness like the crank on a gin. The sensation of weightlessness was brief, but he never forgot it. He’d had dreams of flying before that day. All he got after were dreams of falling.

Just as he was about to cry out for help the darkness broke and he landed sideways in the tall grass. There was no tall grass behind the milking shed. True had a mortal terror of snakes, so he scrambled to his feet instinctively, without taking time to look around. Before he knew what was happening, he had wedged himself between two trunks of a tall, leafy tree and was casting about for a low branch to swing out on. He let go of the impulse and lay back against the trunk, eyes flicking left and right so fast they might have been spinning. His heart socked his ribs, he sucked air like a catfish drinking muddy water. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t scream. Some instinct deeper than panic had stuck a pin in his tongue and wouldn’t pull it out.

When no mass of pit vipers surged out of the ground to bite off his leg, True’s heart rate slowed. He looked first at the tree he was standing in. Its bark was a deep earthy brown and its jade leaves grew in clusters, like feathers on a rooster’s tail. Then he looked out beyond the branches of the tree. Tall grass filled a bowl between peaked hills. True could tell by the color of the grass that it was well fed - good dirt and plenty of water. Good dirt meant critters, life-giving manure. Water meant a stream, or a bog like Momma told him they had out in Louisiana country. And sure enough, he could see, snaking its way down from one of the hills, a curvy line where the grass grew high but hunched over, tufted heads tipped forward to cry over their liquid bounty.

The thought of snakes gave True the shivers, and this time he did climb up onto a branch. It was thick and steady enough to walk on, so he did, taking in a wider view of the valley. There wasn’t that much more to see, really. Just grass and a few trees like the one that had given him shelter, and something he thought might be a tree or might be a huge squat stone with saplings shooting out at angles. He sat down on the branch contemplating this monstrosity, decided it was a tree at that, and decided it was certainly no native of Virginia.

The panic that had paralyzed his tongue had faded, and the sweat that had broken out on his brow felt cool now that a breeze had come up. He watched the wind knock the grass over with a giant unseen backhand. All at once he knew where he was and how he’d come to be there.

"Nett done killed me," he said out loud, "and I gone back to Africa."

It was surprising how little he minded. He was dead, sure, but he reckoned on seeing Momma by-and-by. Pappy was around here somewhere, running the hills like a young buck, like he’d always said he’d be. True was trying to remember if Pappy had ever said whether snakes could still get you once you were dead and back in Africa when he heard a drumbeat rolling his way, low and fast. He looked downstream and saw a bull running like his tail had caught fire.

The bull was a pretty beast, but strange. Its back was arched and its coat dirty red and its horns were a yard on each end. It thundered upriver, hooves pounding, head swinging side-to-side. Mournful bass notes marked each swing. "Oom! Oom! Oom!" it grunted. In its side, a slender spear, bloody handled, bobbed in time.

A half-second behind the bull rode two giants on horseback. True knew his Bible, so he knew about giants. How they’d knocked folks over back when Nora built the Ark. How they’d cursed God and Israel and how David struck down that Goliath. He’d never guessed giants rode horses, though. And now he thought of it, he’d always pictured them as white folks, too. Big ugly white folks taunting the brown face o’ God. The story always made him want to smile and spit at the same time.

These giants were as black as a man could be. Their heads were covered by a sort of hat made of wrapped cloth, but he could see their faces and the long forearms that projected from their striped robes of blue and white and gold. He could see their sandaled feet. It almost made True laugh, to see a black man ride. None of the overseers let the field slaves ride a mule, never mind their own stout ponies. But these giants rode, and their horses were tall as corn stalks. Taller, even. As tall as he imagined an elephant to be, though he found out later how stingy he’d been about picturing that beast.

As True watched, one giant drew an arrow from a quiver at his side. The bow in his hand was as thick as Pappy’s cane. The giant drew his bowstring back to his ear and loosed. True clapped his hand to his mouth as the arrow buried itself in the bull’s back. The bull lifted its head and gave a terrible groan, but kept running.

The second giant laughed and hollered something to his friend, who grimaced and pulled back on his reins to let the other gallop forward. The second giant drew an arrow. The trio was near enough now that True could see the eyes of the bull, two rolling black opals. He could also see the bowman’s hands, which were huge and dry, with flakes of peeling, blanched skin that Momma would have called ashy. It was strange to True to think that giants in Africa should have ashy skin. He’d conflated Pappy’s notions of Africa with Momma’s of Heben so long that he half expected angels to be flying around with feathery wings, though Pappy had always said he’d like to hunt a lion when God took him along to the promised land.

The giant’s left hand clutched the bow, thumb behind the wood and fingers in front. Hist right hand hooked the string by means of a metal guard looped around his thumb. True saw it flash as the archer pulled the string to his ear. Remembering the bull’s pitiful tone, he covered his ears. That’s why the giant’s scream sounded muted and distant. He didn’t see what had struck him, not at first, but he did saw the giant drop the bow as his right hand shot up in the air. The gesture was just like when the ladies got the spirit while Old Ma Oublay was leading them in the circle dances - elbow snapping, palm open to the sky - but the look on the giant’s face was nothing like rapture. His mouth had come unhinged, his tongue flopped like a dog’s, and his eyes got bigger than the gleaming domes of the bull. His knees lost their grip on the horse and he jolted to one side. One giant leg stuck straight out as it cleared the horse’s back. The other padded the ground then collapsed under the giant’s weight. The giant tumbled, rolled over onto his behind, and goggled past the bull at a late arrival to the party.

She came from the direction of the river. Her back was perfectly straight. That was the first thing True noticed about her. It seemed an abnormally straight back, and he realized that in all his years, he’d never seen any man or woman, any master or missus or slave, with no bit of slouch. The straightest back he’d ever seen before then was when Mr. Refus, a free black from Alabama who was making his way north, had snuck by to visit his sister, Miss Suzy, and promised he’d be back in two years with money to buy her and the babes. True had been no more than a tyke, and he’d admired how straight Mr. Refus had stood, filling the doorway in his Sunday suit and hat, and admired it even now, despite Miss Suzy’s unchanged condition. The woman who now stood nocking arrows and firing - One! Two! Three! - faster than his eyes could follow, put Mr. Refus’s back to shame.

Having never pictured a black giant, True certainly had never pictured a black woman giant. As tall as either of the men, the newcomer was so dark she might have bathed in pitch. Her teeth and the whites of her eyes shone in contrast, as did her hair, which was of a color True had never seen on man or beast. He might have called it gray if somebody had asked him, but only after fretting for a better idea. It was a regal color, made up of varied shades from paper white to wispy blue. On summer nights, True was fond of sneaking out to the little pond past the cornfield to swim. Standing on the bank before any of the young’uns had jumped in, with not a breath of wind to ripple the pool and the moon shining its lantern overhead, he reckoned might have seen that color on the water. Now it wreathed the giant woman’s head, a moonbeam halo under the light of day.

She was dressed in a short dress, sleeveless and legless and dirt brown, with laces criss-crossing the bosom. The bow in her hands was tall and thick as an ox yoke. She wore her quiver on her back, like an Indian. Strapped underneath the quiver was a spear, its broad-head projecting out past the giant woman’s shoulder. The spear put True in mind of the old stories, and the woman herself of power, so he named her Miss Goliath in his head. Miss Goliath of the back and the spear and the bow.

The horseman who had kept his seat until now was swift enough to bring up a shield from his horse’s rump and block the woman’s second and third arrows, but the fourth bloodied his shoulder. He dodged the fifth by diving from the horse’s back, using the shield to absorb his impact. It splintered beneath his weight, being made of wood and straw, and he tossed it away.

By this time the unhorsed rider had gained his feet. One of the giant’s arms hung limp, an arrow protruding from the bicep, but with the other he seized his horse’s bridle and steered the beast between himself and the woman. She held her shot as though considering whether or not to bring the animal down, but decided against it and flung bow and quiver aside, running to close the distance between herself and her adversaries. As she drew level with the bull, it fell, its compact body flopping over. It lay on the ground stunned and snorting. The giantess turned her head the merest fraction. When she turned back True saw blood in her eyes.

The giants had tried to retrieve bows to strike her at a distance, but her bare legs ate up ground too quickly. Just before she reached them she drew her spear from over her shoulder. It was all of iron, a single piece, with the figure of a woman sculpted into the handle near the broad head. One man pulled a hatchet from his belt and reared back as if to throw it. The spear caught him first and he fell, clutching the shaft. The tip of the spear projected from his back, opposite the left side of his chest.

The other man (he didn’t seem so much like a giant now, cowering before the haloed giantess) showed his intelligence by displaying empty hands. Miss Goliath lifted her head and barked something at him in a language that sounded to True like a mess of grunts and clucks and muddy vowels. But as she spoke, the meaning of her words poured into him, molasses sweet and coffee bitter.

"Go!" she said in the known/unknown tongue. "Tell your old men that the red buffalo is mine. I will kill any man who comes to take it as a trophy or for its flesh or to make a potion with its horns. Tell them to send me their daughters if they would have a blessing from the Red Buffalo Woman. Send them before the rains come, or I will speak to the lightning and make it strike you in the field, strike every man who has a daughter in the house. Send me your daughters before the rains and I will send them back warriors, bold spear maidens. Or do not send them and die. Then I will take them. That is the word of the Red Buffalo Woman. You hear? Now, go!"

The man hauled himself into his saddle, his eyes flicking between Miss Goliath and the spear pinning the other giant to the ground. His lips twisted like he smelled something disagreeable. After he had chewed his cud long enough for Miss Goliath to grit her teeth, he said, "I will tell them," and galloped away.

Miss Goliath started back in the direction of the animal, but froze when she heard the fallen rider groan. She looked at the man, frowned. Going down on one knee beside him, she felt around the wound made by her spear. She and spoke a few words True couldn’t make out. With a swift jerk, she removed the spear. The man began to convulse. She clapped a hand over his mouth and nose. As he twitched and kicked, she stuck the thumb of her other hand into the hole that the absent spear had left. The man arched his back in agony, then collapsed.

When he had lain still for a slow ten count, she took her hand from his face. Working quickly, she unwrapped his headgear and bound it under his left arm, to cover the wound front and back. She pulled the bandage tight and tied it off, then stood with hands on hips, examining her work. She took a moment to strap the spear to her back. The man did not move. True wondered if he was dead, if she had saved or killed him. He thought saved was more likely, but the fellow sure did a good job of playing dead. He crouched low on the branch, watching Miss Goliath grab the man’s ankles and drag him through the high grass.

She dragged him to where the bull - the buffalo, True corrected himself - lay on its side. Miss Goliath folded herself over it like True had once seen a doctor from out Richmond way bend over Jeffrey, the old butler, after he’d collapsed on the porch steps. The doctor had lain his head on Jeffrey’s chest, listened for half a minute, then shaken his head. Miss Goliath draped herself over the red buffalo for several minutes. She ran her hands along its horns. She whispered to the beast. True crawled along the branch, trying to hear the words she was speaking into its ear, but awe kept him from creeping too close.

Whatever she said, the words worked. When Miss Goliath stood back and lifted her arms, the buffalo tossed its head, threw its weight on its front legs, and stood. A spear was still in its back. The buffalo seemed not to notice. Miss Goliath placed a hand on its head and tilted the spear, twisted, and pulled it out. She sneered at its barbed head, slick with the buffalo’s blood. She touched the buffalo’s head, a calming gesture.

The horseman rolled over when she prodded him with the spear. He groaned.

"Get up! Get up, lazybones," said Miss Goliath.

The man tried to push himself up from his left side. He screamed in pain. Miss Goliath kicked him.

"Not like that," she said. Still clutching the barbed spear in one hand she lifted him by his shirt and set him on his feet.

The man braced his legs wide and stuck his arms out for balance, amazed to finding himself upright.

"There. You’re alive, eh?" said Miss Goliath. She held out the spear to him. "Take this and don’t let me see you again on my land. You have a daughter?"

The man stammered something unintelligible. Miss Goliath grabbed his wrist, wrapped his fingers around the spear.

She enunciated her next words slowly. "Do you have a daughter?"

"Yes. Yes," said the man.

"Good. Tell her the Red Buffalo Woman sends her papa back to her. She will come and bring an offering. I will teach her my medicine. You tell her that."

The man stood staring at the weapon in his hand as Miss Goliath turned away. He stared so hard, True was sure he was going to run her through. Miss Goliath didn’t give him a second thought, just stepped in front of the buffalo and clucked her tongue. The beast began to walk after her, loyal as a hound. The man let his hand fall to his side, barely holding on to the spear. He looked behind him, saw the path through the grass his fleeing horse had made, and marched after it, darting glances over his shoulder.

True watched him go. He watched Miss Goliath go, too. He sat in the tree as the swish of the grasses parting before her grew fainter with distance. It occurred to him that throughout the fight and its aftermath, nobody had looked his way. The leaves weren’t thick. Had the horsemen or Miss Goliath looked, they would have spotted him.

Maybe I’m invisible, he thought. Maybe even in Heben, I’m a ghost.

Invisible or not, the tree’s rough bark felt uncomfortable against his skin. He could still feel, still hurt. Dinner had been over an hour before Nett pulled him behind the shed, and True was a growing boy. He’d want something to eat before long, and aside from a few roots he’d heard the name of but had no idea how to find, he didn’t know what folks ate in Africa. So he climbed down from the tree and, swallowing hard, walked out into the tall grass.

He could see the horseman running after his horse a quarter mile downstream. Upstream, the red buffalo trudged along behind Miss Goliath. Either one seemed just as likely to bust his head as look at him, but Miss Goliath had been merciful to her enemies. That seemed like something you’d read in the Bible. He knew Christian folks sometimes took chilluns in. Missus was always finding homes for the high yellow slave babies who showed up at the big house. True made his decision. Ducking low as much to look for snakes as to keep out of sight, he hustled along the buffalo’s path upstream.

***

"Why’d you keep calling her Miss Goliath?" said Marty.

Mr. Green shrugged. "’Red Buffalo Woman’ didn’t sound like a name to me. The stories Ma Oublay used to tell were populated by animals and abstract concepts. I did not associate them, in my younger days, with anthropomorphized aspects of the human condition."

Marty blew across his hot apple cider. The wood stove four feet away threw off enough heat that the steam was barely visible. He’d already unbuttoned his overcoat. Now he shrugged it onto the back of the chair.

They were in Mr. Green’s sparse but clean lodgings above Grouselle’s Provision Store. Its location out on on the edge of Sutton Mill was ideal for his employment, according to Mr. Green. He could begin and end a circuit lighting the oil lamps twice daily from that very location. Marty didn’t point out that the same could be said of any lodgings in town. He knew plenty of reasons his host might wish to remain out of sight as much as possible. One was simple habit. Having lived so much of his life avoiding heights and depths of feeling, he no doubt found it more comfortable to avoid human company. Marty knew that inclination well.

"How long did it last, that first visit?"

Mr. Green tipped the cooking pot containing the cider into his own mug. He considered the liquid for a moment before setting it in front of the stove. "That first was the most uncertain. Least practiced, one might say. I suppose I remained in Africa for a mere afternoon. In that time I stalked Miss Goliath to her abode. It was a cave well screened by foliage, its mouth scarcely wide enough to admit a body. The buffalo roamed free out-of-doors. There was a clearing a stone’s throw westward where they grazed. Once I had spied it out, I hunkered in the grass - it held no terrors for me by then - and dredged up courage. But I did not find enough to approach her, not then. My store of boldness was all tapped out, and I was tired. The heat was oppressive, though no more so than our Virginia summers, and before I’d marshaled resolve to hold my head up, I fainted."

He sat at the head of the table, swirling the hot cider, looking Marty in the eye. "I woke in my own bed, with mother sleeping in the chair. I remember she had a basin balanced on her lap, with a cloth to daub my forehead. And though she slept, it did not fall. That’s mothers for you. When she found I had no fever, she whupped me, which I didn’t mind. Then she bade me never see Nett again, though of course the command was folly. I saw her often, passing between the kitchen and her quarters. The smith’s shop sat between the two premises, and I was apprenticed to the smith, though nothing came of it but a lifelong disgust at ill-fitted horseshoes."

Marty grinned, feeling he should be amused. All he could really feel was apprehension. Mr. Green’s face was a placid mask. Marty rarely saw the old man smile.

"I’ve told this tale before," said Mr. Green. "Why did you ask it of me again?"

This was the question Marty had been dreading throughout the recitation of young True’s adventure. The truth was that he was afraid to ask the question he’d come to ask, so had picked another. He thought he knew the answer to his actual question, and he was completely certain that he didn’t like his self-selected answer. Now that it came to the crunch, Marty was embarrassed at his own cowardice. Mr. Green had been his mentor from Marty’s boyhood on. He’d saved Marty’s sanity, most probably his life, despite the pain it caused him. He deserved better than to be held at a distance when a crisis was in the offing.

"I want to know something," said Marty. He paused to think through his phrasing. "I want to know if I can give it up. The story, I mean. Can I pass it on to somebody? Can somebody take it away? Can I get free?" This last question came out in a rush. He regretted it immediately. "Sorry," he said. "I’m not comparing myself to you."

Mr. Green held up a hand. His face had the same soft look Marty had seen earlier, after the lamplighter had found his lantern extinguished but intact. "We have both been captive men," he said. "Don’t trouble yourself over the diverse construction of our cages."

He was about to say more when a knock intruded on the morning’s peace. The sound startled Marty. He dropped his mug with a thump and cider splashed over the table. Mr. Green frowned, but not at Marty. He listened to the door before opening it a crack.

"Goodman Green?" said a voice unfamiliar to Marty.

"I am Mister Green, yes."

"Can you step out? Mister Pelham would like a word?"

Mr. Green nodded without enthusiasm. "Permit me a moment," he said.

"Take your time," snapped the man outside the door.

Mr. Green pushed the door shut, making sure it latched, before turning to Marty. "You had best be going. We can take this up another time." His tone was mild, but distant, with a sprinkling of regret. As soon as he had spoken, he turned away from Marty, looking for his coat, which like Marty’s was on the back of a chair.

Marty stuck his arms through the sleeves of his own coat, then fetched Mr. Green’s. "Is something wrong?" he said. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No trouble," said Mr. Green. "Politics." He looked at Marty, took the coat. He slipped it on with a grunt. "Go on home."

"Sorry. If you’re in trouble, I want to help. Plus I really need to know the answer."

Mr. Green donned his hat and gloves. "The answer," he said, "is no. No you can’t pass it on. No, nobody can take it from you. If somebody takes the story, it’s their story, not yours. You still have to tell your own in your own way."

Marty sighed. "I was afraid you’d say that." He finished putting on his hat and gloves and looked straight at Mr. Green, letting determination show in his face.

Seeing there was no sense wasting more words in his direction, Mr. Green again and opened the door. He called down the stairs, "I’m coming now, Mr. Pelham. Young Martin is with me, my apprentice." He led the way down the steep steps onto the small porch at the back of Grouselle’s.

The exterior door stood open to the wind. There was only a slight breeze, but it was bitter cold. Marty folded the collars of his coat inward to shut out the chill. Most of the back lot was taken up by chest-high rows of firewood covered over by an assortment of weather-beaten oilskin coats. There were four rows of stacked wood, each three to four yards long, with aisles to walk between. Seven men had situated themselves among the rows. Six were of the the sturdy woodsman type ubiquitous in the region. They were bundled up in coats and hats like Marty and Mr. Green’s own, but their hands were bare, and every one was clenched into a fist.

The seventh man stood with one boot resting on the lowest step of the porch. He was dressed in a thick wool coat and black knit gloves. A fox fur was around his neck, and on his head a round hat displaying the tail of the same animal. His cheeks were fat, but his nose was high and lean, which gave him the look of an emaciated basset hound. Projecting from his lips were three inches of thick cigar. As he pinched the cigar between two fingers, the breeze shifted, and Marty was engulfed by an aroma very like sweet roasted chestnuts.

"Mister Green," said the smoker, placing emphasis on the appellation. The locals rarely called True Green anything but Goodman, save for the Methodist minister and his wife, who had been abolitionists before the War.

"Pelham," said Mr. Green.

"Won’t trouble you long," said Pelham. He took a draw from his cigar, blew out the smoke in a languorous cloud. "You’re a busy man, I’m sure." He paused to acknowledge Marty with a nod. Then he stretched, yawned, drew another puff and grinned at his companions as he exhaled. "Fact is, there’s election coming up. I’d hoped you’d see your way to putting in a good word for me with Young Sutton."

"Election?" said Mr. Green. He showed Marty two raised eyebrows. The expression was too comical to be genuine. "Has our beloved gore been incorporated by an act of government, then?"

Pelham returned Mr. Green’s look with an equally exaggerated smile. As his lips peeled back from his teeth, a chill jolted up Marty’s back. Pelham was missing two of his front teeth, the pair that would have adjoined his incisors. The prominence of the eye teeth changed his smile into a snarl. "No indeed," he said, "and more’s pity. You know I’ve agitated, True. May I call you True?"

"Certainly, Everett. And it is a pity, I know."

"Ayuh," said Everett Pelham. The subtle expression of agreement had puzzled Marty the first dozen times he’d heard it. He suspected the locals were unaware of its presence in their vocabulary. It accompanied nearly every nod, to the extent that he’d concluded it was just the sound their mouths made when their chins dropped. Pelham said, "It’s board election I mean. Suppose you know, Doucette will step down as chairman."

"I did know," said Mr. Green. His face lost all suggestion of mirth. "I was not aware the decision was common knowledge."

Pelham puffed on his cigar. "Not common," he said, and tapped his forehead. "But known."

Since his duties as lamplighter took up only the first and last hours of the day, Mr. Green spent much of his time running errands for Old Sutton, the nonogenarian founder of the mill bearing his name and his son, Young Sutton, who made the high-level decisions concerning the mill. What fell from the table of the Suttons was meat and bread to the community, and the word of a Sutton was law. Sutton Mill was officially a gore - an unincorporated settlement - so had no recognized local government. In former times, Young Sutton had run it as his private principality, but being now in his seventh year, he had some years ago created a Board of Overmen to see to day-to-day operations of both mill and town.

This much Mr. Green had explained to Marty on those odd nights when Marty had found him willing to talk about his life. Most of their conversation was about Mr. Green’s visions of the Red Buffalo Woman and Marty’s of the Grey Maiden, but over the years Mr. Green had filled in enough details about the world he lived in that Marty could pass the time with the locals. Chairman of the Board of Overmen was the closest thing Sutton Mill had to a mayor. It was a feather Pelham evidently wanted in his cap, and he thought Mr. Green’s influence with the Suttons could swing the vote his way.

Marty had no idea if this supposition were true or not. The Suttons were rarely seen in town, according to Mr. Green, and on the one occasion when Marty had asked to go along on an errand, his mentor had refused firmly, saying by way of explanation, "Mr. Sutton prefers not to see new faces." His tone had warned Marty to let the matter drop.

In a still more guarded tone, Mr. Green now said to Pelham, "Do you have reason to expect a challenge for the chair? A man with your history of devoted service should have naught to fear."

One of the Pelham’s bare-knuckled attendants spoke up, "There are enemies everywhere."

Pelham darted a glance at the speaker . The man visibly wilted. Snapping his head back around to Mr. Green and Marty he said, "A man only know his friends when that friendship’s tested. I’m proud to call you my friend, Mr. Green. Hope you feel the same." He gave a stiff bow, knocking his boots together as he tipped forward from the waist, hands on back and belly. Marty was instantly reminded of a drinking bird toy Uncle Frank had given him on one of his infrequent visits, though Pelham’s nose didn’t dip much lower than Mr. Green’s shoulder. The boot striking brought another, blurrier image to Marty’s mind, but for the moment he couldn’t bring it into focus.

Mr. Green nodded. "I’ll consider what you said."

"That’s all I ask," said Pelham. He paused, looking past Mr. Green to where Marty was standing. "Is your apprentice well, Green?"

Pelham, Green, and the six silent men all looked Marty. Marty, naturally, looked at himself. Though he had not felt the shift, he realized that he was leaning to one side, putting most of his weight on his right foot. He felt an urge to turn his head, to glance back over his shoulder. It was as if someone had tapped him to get his attention and his body had made a reflexive response. And he knew, as Mr. Green knew, that this was exactly what had happened. Someone had tapped him, summoned him, called him away.

Like young True waking up in bed after the first of his visions, Marty was on the verge of awakening in his own place and time. He knew from conversations with Mr. Green how this would appear to others. The eyes of the Marty in this place would go blank, then lose all power in the limbs. After crumpling to the ground, the body would simply vanish. Mr. Green had seen this happen often enough that the spectacle no longer disturbed him, but if Pelham and his cronies were to witness it, they would certainly drive Mr. Green out of the county, if the didn’t burn him as a witch.

Looking into Mr. Green’s wide eyes, Marty faked a swoon. As he threw himself into the performance, he concentrated on his surroundings. The wood pile. Pelham and his men. Frozen mud and heaps of snow piled up by Mr. Green’s shovel. Gloria had a marvelous ability to shut out the world whenever she cracked a book. What Marty knew about staying in a scene he’d learned from watching her and from six weeks of torment in 8th grade drama club. Now he poured out every ounce of acting ability he had into stumbling forward, holding out a hand to Mr. Green.

Mr. Green caught his elbow.

"Is it a fever?" said Pelham. He took a long step backwards, raising his hands as if to ward off the illness. Marty had seen similar responses on previous occasions when he’d used this ruse. It was understandable, he supposed, in this age before penicillin and Purell.

None of Pelham’s heavies retreated. Each man slid his left foot forward, glaring at Marty with an identical look of suspicion. The eeriness of their synchronized movement distracted Marty enough that for a moment, the urge to turn his head and acknowledge the hand that was drawing him out of Sutton Mill vanished. But only for a moment.

"Matthew, fetch Doctor Ferrier," said Pelham.

The man who had earlier invited Pelham’s withering glance nodded.

"No," said Mr. Green. "No. Thank you, Pelham, but there’s no need. The lad is prone to attacks of falling sickness. It will pass."

"As you say," said Pelham. He seemed to notice his hands and stuck them firmly down at his sides. "Well. Best see him out of the cold."

"That I will," said Mr. Green. He turned Marty towards the house.

Together they began to mount the stairs. Marty tried to concentrate on the task, to feel the solidity of the wood beneath his feet, but he felt himself going numb. It took all his will to keep moving forward.

"Green!" said Pelham.

"Yes?" said Mr. Green, looking back.

"I’m a man who pays his debts, Green."

Mr. Green nodded. "I’ll remember. Close to door, would you?"

Over Mr. Green’s shoulder, Marty saw Pelham’s eyebrows twitch. Then all expression vanished from his face. He gestured at Matthew. As the man stepped onto the porch and reached for the outer door, Pelham gave another short bow. Then the door banged shut, and the windowless stair went under-the-bed dark. Marty only knew Mr. Green was close because he could hear him breathing.

"Go on home," said Mr. Green.

The pressure to do so was a tilting vending machine braced with shims and duct tape. Marty sat down on a step. But he wasn’t quite ready to go. "Pelham’s trouble," he said.

"He sure is," said Mr. Green. "But you let me worry about Pelham and his uglies."

"I can’t give somebody else my story."

"No you can’t. Not this story. Not your own." Marty must have made a noise then, though he’d tried to be strong, tried to shoulder his burden like Mr. Green had taught him. He must have made a noise, because Mr. Green said, "Don’t you worry. You can’t give it away, Marty. But nobody can take it from you, either."

Marty turned his head.

***

"Whoa, finally," said Tom. His hand was on Marty’s shoulder. "You were really out of it. I tapped you, like, three times."

Marty looked down at his hands, which were still wrapped around his phone. The screen had gone dark, but he had no doubt that if he woke it, he’d see a pixelated representation of True Green’s apartment over Grouselle’s Provision Store and True himself standing halfway up the stairs.

"Yeah," said Marty. "I was miles away."

"That’s why we have to take this deal man. Your leprosy, or whatever."

"Narcolepsy," said Marty with a smirk.

"Or whatever!" said Tom. "With that going on, man, it holds us back. The team doesn’t like to say anything-"

"I know," said Marty. "They’re the best. You’re the best."

"We’re so the best, buddy! And we worry about you." Tom sat down on the arm of the sofa. "That’s why we don’t rush you. We coulda had a mobile port of Lamplighter out, like six months ago. But whenever anybody thinks about bringing it up, you have one of your space out deals at a meeting and we let it drop." Putting on a goofy grin, he pinched Marty’s sleeve. "At least it only happens while you’re in the game, right? I mean, so long as you’ve got me to drive."

"Yeah," said Marty. "I don’t know what I’d do if it was like, all the time."

Marty tucked his phone away, using the distraction as an excuse not to met Tom’s eyes. The fact that he’d convinced most of the team that he only "spaced out" while gaming or driving was a huge personal achievement. It was also the lie that twisted his guts into balloon animals. Narcolepsy was at best an oversimplification of his actual condition. Pretending to soldier on despite its effects, a martyr to his artistic aspirations, made Marty feel like a fraud and a coward.

How many times had Gloria told him he ought to come clean, to admit to Tom that his "space out deals" were the very reason he was so desperate to create? They’d been arguing about it since month eight of their two-year relationship. Gloria knew more about what was really going on with her boyfriend than he’d shared with anybody else in Real Life. But all that meant was that she believed a different set of evasions and half-truths.

"Seriously man. You’re gonna take the deal, right?"

The urge to come clean with Tom surged in Marty’s chest. He fought it down. Video games were all he knew, and he needed Tom and Gloria and all the rest to bring Far Realms to life. He couldn’t tell his story any other way. And that meant keeping his mouth shut about the visions of the Grey Maiden that came to him any time he was stressed or excited, or his visits with Mr. Green that he was plunged into by sadness. Those visits had lifted him out of crippling depression more times than he liked to admit even to himself. There was no way he could tell his best friend that a 19th Century lamplighter had saved him from losing his marbles, or worse.

He also couldn’t give his story away to somebody else. That would mean starting over, putting off the end of the craziness that had consumed his life. Prestor’s game might take six months to turn around. It might take years. He couldn’t go on balancing on the knife edge of raw emotion for that long. It was only the awesomeness of Gloria and his friends that had kept him going until now. In a strange way, he owed it to them to lie.

"It’s a team decision," he said, making an excuse he hoped Tom would accept without question. "We’ll tell everybody tomorrow. I’ll tell them. At the debrief. Then, ya know, we’ll talk about it." An inspiration struck him. There was one big question Verity had left unanswered, one key to the kingdom she hadn’t laid in his hand. "Some people might not be willing to move, ya know. Josh and Muhinder - they’re always helping out their dad. And Kristin. Her husband can’t just pack up and go."

Tom stroked his chin. "Oh yeah, the professor dude. Yeah, you’re right. Man! It sounded so great, like too good to be true."

"That usually means it is."

"Huh?"

"If it sounds too good to be true, it usually is."

"Yeah. Gotcha. Okay, we’ll take it to the team." Tom looked thoughtful for a moment, almost zen. He consulted his watch. "Right. It’s three thirty-nine and 48 seconds. Want sushi?"

Marty smiled, grateful to Tom for letting him off the hook. "Sure, man. I’m always ready to scarf raw fish this time of day."

"You an me both, buddy. Flight out is at 6:15. Means we better get to the ’port by five, what with routine cavity searches and all. Let’s sneak out the way I sent VIP. You’ve given the backers enough to drool over."

Marty glanced at the TV. Backers were still lined up to play the demo, but the boiling of the crowd had cooled to a simmer.

"Eh, let’s eat at the airport." He pointed his chin down the hall in the direction of the stage entrance. "Give ’em one more thrill."

"You sure?"

"Sure I’m sure. Besides, if we turn in the rental before we eat, it’ll give you a chance to get good and wobbly before we take off. On expense."

Tom’s entire face brightened at the prospect of booze. His twenty-first birthday bash was still a recent memory. Gloria was planning Marty’s own, though 21 was just a number to Marty. Drinking was one of life’s pleasures he couldn’t trust himself to enjoy. The swigs of vodka he’d shared with Tom in High School had brought on an immediate attack of "narcolepsy". He’d spent a night-and-a-day watching the Grey Maiden battle a rampaging goblin horde, which turned out to be the highlight of a week spent at the Marie Gould Rejuvenation Center.

"Alright, bro. Let’s give ’em a show," said Tom, and led the way from the greenroom.

Marty took a last look around, scooped up a cookie, and followed.

***

At that moment, 35,000 feet overhead, Verity Kessel was sitting in a first class seat next to Lane Prestor, who had fallen asleep the moment their Delta 787 reached cruising altitude. It was an impressive, the way he could put himself out almost at will, catching up with his sleep whenever circumstances allowed. Verity herself hardly slept at all, these days.

She opened an app on her laptop. It didn’t go by any special name, was simply labeled "contact" on her desktop. After answering prompts for her username and password, Verity was presented with a plain, white-on-black terminal with a spinning wait icon comprised of the characters /|-|\ displayed at the same screen position in rapid succession. After a few seconds the icon disappeared, replaced with a question.

"What news?" it read.

Verity glanced at Prestor. Satisfied that he was sleeping soundly, she typed her answer.

"Made the offer. Teller balked. Will add pressure. Please be patient."

"Our patience is everlasting."

Verity sat back, unsure if an answer was required.

The spinning icon appeared again, then, "You will restore us. You will bring back The World."

She couldn’t help but respond to that.

"Yes I will," she typed, smiling. The messenger app closed itself. Verity looked out the window, experiencing a tingle of delight. As the billowy clouds drew slowly away from the plane, she pictured casting herself into their midst, her arms transformed into feathery wings that propelled her through the heavens unaided.

As a girl she’d had dreams of falling. She dreamt of flying now.