The Wind Between the Stars

Chapter 4

When his family saw him dragging the box to the dock, they all asked what he was doing and offered to help, but he refused. Everything that had happened between him and the swamp had been private, secret, hidden; he wasn't sure the voice would answer him unless he was alone.

The box was fuller than he expected. He thought he had gotten rid of most of this long ago, but everywhere he turned he seemed to find more dregs of his past. A bright Bermuda shirt, a cracked lantern, a flattened hat. A red sweater; terry-cloth wrist bands; a scrap of black lace. Masks, all of the same face. All of it had held promise and all of it had fallen flat. He stopped just shy of the end of the dock and contemplated simply setting the box out with the trash and walking away, but he knew there would be no satisfaction in that. When he and his siblings had been telling stories around the campfire, he considered lighting a blaze of his own and creating a pyre for his former selves, watching the sparks of their stories soar up and away. But in the end, it was always between him and the swamp. Maybe he would never get away from it. Maybe he had given too much to the water and not taken enough back. Maybe it was simply the only place he belonged.

He flung the hat in first, launching it like a discus; it hit the water with a satisfying slap. The shirt caught the breeze and fluttered before settling on the surface. He hesitated before throwing the lantern, attention caught by his reflection in the broken glass. Was it him? Had it ever really been him, or had he always been a caricature?

You're here now. The voice creaked along with his restless footsteps. You've never been more yourself, more alive. Isn't it glorious?

It was agony. He had never felt more torn asunder. Was that the essence of his nature? Was that what he was supposed to feel for the rest of his life? He lobbed the lantern in before he could stop himself, and it landed somewhere to the right of the hat, sinking too fast to track. "No. No more." He shook his head vehemently. He had tried to define himself in so many permanent ways—tattoos, piercings—but he didn't feel any more grounded. "I can't do this any more." He tied the black lace around one of the sweater's sleeves and wrapped the wrist bands around the other before balling up the red fabric and plunging it into the water.

Do you remember who you were before the swamp? Do you even remember the sound of your own voice—what you truly sound like when you aren't speaking to them? The voice curled around him like a supportive arm on a shoulder.

Did he? His true voice had always seemed at odds with his size and demeanour, so he usually tried to add some bass or a bit of a rasp, a growl to give it some heft. What would happen if he took all those trappings away? "No more masks," he said experimentally, forcing himself not to modulate his tone. He grabbed one mask from the box and punted it like a football, watching it bob on the surface for a moment before beginning its descent. "I don't want to be anything but me anymore." His voice seemed to echo off the water.

So don't be. The voice held a slight sulkiness, like the sheen of oil on water. Revel in what you are.

It sounded like a trick, a trap. The swamp had led him to all those things: the buzzards and fireflies, the fun house with its friends, the masks of the fiend. It never forced him to follow or use or take, but it had led him all the same. "I want to do things my way," he said, throwing another mask into the water. "I want to do things on my terms. Not theirs." He paused and took a deep breath before adding, "Not yours." His voice was small and trembling, but it had never been more his own.

Revel in what you are, the voice repeated, kinder this time but weary, like a beleaguered friend tired of giving advice that was never heeded.

He stood at the edge of the dock, turned the box over, and dumped the final detritus of his life into the waters that had given it to him. "I want to do it on my own," he declared, standing up straight. He was buoyed by loss: his brother, his career, his path. He wasn't the hungry young man who had poured his heart out to the swamp anymore; now he needed his heart back, strong and beating.

He prepared himself for a backlash, for the swamp to rise up in an affronted wave and smack him down, tumbling him head over heels for his insolence, but it did nothing of the kind. It swallowed up the stragglers from his box that had been floating fruitlessly on the surface and then went still, a perfect mirror for the full moon above. Of course. We've only ever wanted to help. You know we will always be here for you.

At one time, that had been the root of his strength, the assurance that he carried a bit of the swamp with him everywhere he went, in everything he did. Now he knew that he was the only one who could fill the holes within himself—and, more importantly, that some weren't meant to be filled. There would be no replacing his lost brother and dear friend; that loss would stay with him forever, but he could choose to let it buoy him. "I know," he replied softly. "You always have been. And I'll always come back. I promise. But right now... for now, I need to do things a different way. My way. Do you understand?"

The air at the edge of the swamp felt slick again, and he had the sense that if he had struck a match, the whole grove would go up in flames just like that, decking the sky with a collar of fire. Of course, it said at last. We're family. We've only ever wanted the best for you. You know that.

"I do." He dropped to his knees on the bank of the swamp and leaned forward as if praying, touching his forehead to the water. It would likely be the last time he would be there for a while, even if he wasn't truly ready to let it go. He had to start some time, however, and he had already wasted so much time in his life. "Thank you for everything."

You're welcome.

He stood and breathed deep. So many people turned up their noses at the smells of the swamp, but they were a slice of home to him, and he wanted to remember its rhythms and its reek as he went forward. It felt like a huge burden had been lifted off his shoulders, and he couldn't wait to walk his new path without it.