or on a swaying branch, not on the solid and unchanging earth. Then he said, “If he is gone forever, it is all over.”
“But the battle—”
“If he is lost, it will not matter who wins.” He looked like he needed a blanket, and a cup of sweet coffee, and someone to take him somewhere he could shiver and babble until he got his mind back. He held his arms stiffly against his sides.
“Where is this? Nearby?”
He stared at the tulip plant, and shook his head. “Way away.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m needed here. And I can’t just leave. How do you expect me to get there? I can’t fly, like you, you know.”
“No,” said Horus. “You can’t.” Then he looked up, gravely, and pointed to the other dot that circled them, as it dropped from the darkening clouds, growing in size. “He can.”
Another several hours’ pointless driving, and by now Town hated the GPS almost as much as he hated Shadow. There was no passion in the hate, though. He had thought finding his way to the farm, to the great silver ash tree, had been hard; finding his way away from the farm was much harder. It did not seem to matter which road he took, which direction he drove down the narrow country lanes—the twisting Virginia back roads which must have begun, he was sure, as deer trails and cow paths—eventually he would find himself passing the farm once more, and the hand-painted sign, ASH.
This was crazy, wasn’t it? He simply had to retrace his way, take a left turn for every right he had taken on his way here, a right turn for every left.
Only that was what he had done last time, and now here he was, back at the farm once more. There were heavy storm clouds coming in, it was getting dark fast, it felt like night, not morning, and he had a long drive ahead of him: he would never get to Chattanooga before afternoon at this rate.
His cell phone gave him only a No Service message. The fold-out map in the car’s glove compartment showed the main roads, all the interstates and the real highways, but as far as it was concerned nothing else existed.
Nor was there anyone around that he could ask. The houses were set back from the roads; there were no welcoming lights. Now the fuel gauge was nudging Empty. He heard a rumble of distant thunder, and a single drop of rain splashed heavily onto his windshield.
So when Town saw the woman walking along the side of the road, he found himself smiling, involuntarily. “Thank God,” he said, aloud, and he drew up beside her. He thumbed down her window. “Ma’am? I’m sorry. I’m kind of lost. Can you tell me how to get to Highway 81 from here?”
She looked at him through the open passenger-side window and said, “You know, I don’t think I can explain it. But I can show you, if you like.” She was pale and her wet hair was long and dark.
“Climb in,” said Town. He didn’t even hesitate. “First thing, we need to buy some gas.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I needed a ride.” She got in. Her eyes were astonishingly blue. “There’s a stick here, on the seat,” she said, puzzled.
“Just throw it in the back. Where are you heading?” he asked. “Lady, if you can get me to a gas station, and back to a freeway, I’ll take you all the way to your own front door.”
She said, “Thank you. But I think I’m going further than you are. If you can get me to the freeway, that will be fine. Maybe a trucker will give me a ride.” And she smiled, a crooked, determined smile. It was the smile that did it.
“Ma’am,” he said, “I can give you a finer ride than any trucker.” He could smell her perfume. It was heady and heavy, a cloying scent, like magnolias or lilacs, but he did not mind.
“I’m going to Georgia,” she said. “It’s a long way.”
“I’m going to Chattanooga. I’ll take you as far as I can.”
“Mmm,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“They call me Mack,” said Mr. Town. When he was talking to women in bars, he would sometimes follow that up with “And the ones that know me really well call me Big Mack.” That could wait. They would have many hours in each other’s company to get to know each other, after all. “What’s yours?”