His bottomless throat broke their kiss. Matthew and Tizzy were clenched on the sideporch swing. Both faces turned in the moonlight. The boy was confounded, having just gotten past her obstinance to her t.i.t again.

"b.u.t.ton--" the man was calling.

It was well beyond the witch's hour, they were supposed to be asleep.

"He's at it again..." she said.

"Yeah..."

Matthew had coaxed Tizzy out to his bedswing, thinking they were less likely to be heard if he got lucky and fell into the breach. Well, he was working on it. Here, for chrissake, was some serious t.i.tty. Preacher's girl t.i.tty. He'd begged, pleaded, lied and whined into her mouth for more, much more, adventurous loving. But now Bob was back there, routing the hootowl for the second night since they'd arrived. Bob won. Without a blip, boy and girl slipped off the swing, then skulked down the porch to the rear corner of the house. There, they both crouched, hidden behind a lopsided laundry wringer; peering into the backyard.

As before, Nottingham was fishbelly white, naked save for his underpants as he paced along the wood's edge.

"Hyere now, Buuu-tton--"

The trees knit together, silent and black, resisting his guttural plea.

"--c'mon in here girl," he drawled.

Nottingham hovered for a moment, his eyes combing that nocturnal thicket. From his crouch behind the wash kettle, Matthew thought big daddy looked more pestered than before; like he'd been caught short on the upstroke himself and was pretty fed up about it. Just then, Tizzy pinched his arm.

"Matthew, look..." she whispered, pointing.

Matthew followed her gaze, to a murky tangle of pine boughs above Nottingham's head.

And there she was. b.u.t.ton's cupidface. Hiding from Bob, high and dry, in the nook of a tall tree. b.u.t.ton looked frozen in plaster, like the cherub in the graveyard, but a cherub perched on high: clutching, riveted to pine bark as she watched the man pace below. Bob shook his head finally. He muttered something none of them could hear and went back inside. So she was safe. Wasn't she? Safe from what ailed her? Nevertheless, tiny b.u.t.ton did not move.

Swiftly, Matthew and Tizzy withdrew, back down the sideporch. He caught her arm, pulling her into a secret shadow outside her open bedroom door.

"Listen Tizzy," he shushed her. "I got me an idear."

"What's it now?" Her nightgown gave a shiver, from one late vision too many.

"Don't ask yer fool questions jist yet." He thumbed a black fetlock from her wide chinaman eyes. "Do as I say."

"I ain't gonna let you mess with me..."

"Shhh, I ain't even talkin bout that, now shuddup. What I'm wantin ye to do is, I'm wantin ye to go in there, git yerself dressed and wait under the covers. And stay put till I comes to fetch ye."

"Well, why would I up and--?"

"It may be a hour er two, but afore long I'll be in to fetch ye. Now git after'er--"

"But--"

He didn't give her time to ponder or worry the subject; Matthew creaked off down the porch, leaving Tizzy with her loving mouth open. She had no real choice but to seek the bed.

When he shook her back to life, Tizzy was drifting on the sea and the sea was a mother's hand. Tizzy felt warm by now, her print dress bunched around her under the blanket. Matthew seemed full awake, almost goosy as he tugged on her toe.

"C'mon, hop to," he hissed.

She took much too long, to his liking, as Tizzy wiped sleep from her eyes and fumbled with her s...o...b..ckles. Such a careful nature was irksome. He didn't know it was the special care Tizzy took not to spill her secret gold chain.

"I swear, Matthew," she yawned. "I'm tuckered out..."

"I ain't."

"...well...well I am. You better fess up and tell me what this is about now."

"Keep yer voice lowly. I heard ole Bob millin around in the kitchen."

She dropped to a whisper. "Dang it, what're you up to?"

Matthew slipped off the bed and knelt before her. His eyebrow c.o.c.ked, he caught Tizzy's face in a firm grip, gleaming into her with righteous intent.

"You don't know it. But he carries a torch when he goes."

"Who?"

"Bob. Who else? I seen the fire in his hand the last few nights, I could see it without boostin my haid off the piller. You can tell that pineknot burnin fer quite awhile before he's blotted by the trees."

"Yeah...so, yeah...?" She was afraid of what came next.

"So I figger a lit torch is a sight more simple to foller than some tracks in the wood. And we're as good as a coupla ghosts tailin him, since we'll be sneakin up behind, afoot in the dark."

She wanted to quarrel, yet knew there was no hope. It scared her witless; the idea of venturing out on wild Riddle Top in the pitch of night. But she didn't need a divining rod to divine that Matthew was going with or without her. His curiosities were tweaked. Every gravedigger knew where curiosity led, so why fret it? And she sure as shooting wasn't about to lay around this creaking house by herself, listening to every whistling timber or night hooter, with Matthew off traipsing lord-knows-where and Bob Nottingham lurking lord-knows-where and b.u.t.ton high in the pines.

"I gotta know where he goes," the boy said simply.

He waited for her fuss and fury, but it didn't come. Glum, but with groggy purpose, Tizzy finished buckling her shoes then stood up. Matthew was already watching out the window.

Shortly, the kitchen doorspring groaned and Nottingham was etched in moonlight. Tizzy joined Matthew at the window in time to see a torch be lit, just beyond the clothesline. Nottingham strode around the outhouse; soon the flame fractured inside a skein of branches.

"Here we go," Matthew blurted, and they left out the side door.

Matthew set the pace, Tizzy scurried to keep up. Upon entering the trees, all moonlight vanquished, masked by the inky black pines. The two ran soft beneath sap-scented cover. The clutch of towering spars did not bode kindly. Still, they ran. Soft. Far up the trail was a winking dot of flame, Nottingham's torch. Every time it disappeared Tizzy would feel a panicky pang in her stomach until it shone again, flickering, moving up the mountain. She raced after Matthew. Matthew raced after the fiery dot. Ripping along, the needles scratched and stung.

Nottingham kept a brisk point, surefooted up the dark, rocky path. Bob had trekked these woods many a night, of course, this was just the same old trail for that crow-chucking Bob, right? G.o.ddam right, Mad Dice's mind insisted. Same d.a.m.n trail. Same d.a.m.n Bob. Sonic speed decisions, maybe. But somebody had to make them.

Before long, Matthew was breathless, sweat dripping off his gla.s.ses; and he'd grown tired of Tizzy's grip on his shirttail. Silently, Matthew cursed the day Nursy Jane told him his eyes were weak. But he couldn't let on to Tizzy. Not now. Not here in this maze of shadowpines and strange buglife. They crossed the creek which had flummoxed him earlier today and Matthew almost cried hallelujah: Nottingham's torch was still in sight, bending higher, climbing up a grizzly creva.s.se. The boy raced to keep that glow from escaping; he'd barked his shins many times already on deadwood and boulders; he imagined Tizzy's bare legs were plenty worse. But she did not whimper or moan. She showed some stern makings--would you believe it?--a gritty resolve as she dogged his heels.

It felt like they chased that fire for hours. Until, fatefully, Nottingham crossed a moonlit glade and his silhouette was briefly apparent. Matthew and Tizzy hung back in the trees, afraid to enter the open field until the man had forded the clover and foxtails and was well into the woods again. Lest Bob see them, they panted and stuck fast; gambling with each second. Matthew waited as long as he dared. Then he dragged Tizzy in a mad, silent dash across the open moonshine.

Breaking into the far trees, the boy's popbottle eyes were peeled, antsy to recapture Bob's guiding light. Hallelujah! There it was! His flame; the torch of Bob winked across a crowded ashgrove, climbing his pike. Boy and girl charged, onward through stinging wild forest, for surely the end must be near. And so it was.

Suddenly, up ahead, the torch dipped from sight--into the clot of leaves. They ran. They waited at full speed. But that torch did not reappear. Pushing on for a full minute into the black tangle, both hearts sank like bullets. Their torchbearer was gone. Just as suddenly, both hearts froze in their tracks.

"Matthew--"

"s.h.i.tfire--"

Caw, it said. The raven's call recoiled through high timber. They heard little else while gasping air.

"Where we go now?" she asked.

"Don't know..."

"Mebbe you could--"

"I jist don't know."

"I thought he'uz suppose to be easier to tailgate in the dark."

"Guhhhh..."

"Yer always so smart. I ain't spendin the night out'chere, a-waitin fer some snake er a bear to git us."

He said nothing. The boy just stood there, hexed. Tizzy could feel his tremble, he was heaving so close, fear quaking down his spine, down his shirttail to Tizzy's hand.

"Whatsa matter, Matthew?" she whispered finally. "We kin jist retrace our tracks, back to the house."

"Unnnh...I..."

"Yeah? What's got holt a-you boy?"

"I cain't see."

"Nary kin I--"

"Naw, I mean I cain't see nothin. Like I'uz inna coalmine."

His blood ran to icewater, he twitched as--caw--that black agitator went screeching again, somewhere high overhead.

"Nothin at all?" Tizzy began to tune in a picture. Here was a fine fettle; she'd never once suspected his eyes were so datburn weak. The boy didn't answer, and that was bonnie fine too because Tizzy put him together quickly; Matthew was blind as a mole and too ignorant to beg. She'd bet ten bright pennies that her mole needed thicker lenses than a mole's pride would allow. She might as well learn to like it. Besides, Tizzy was not afflicted. Her eyes were pretty good. For the first time she realized she could make out the trees and leafy shapes in this dark forest. There wasn't much light, but there was enough for Tizzy's chinaman eyes. Tizzy had adjusted long ago to her dim surroundings; she just hadn't realized. She didn't need a yard of moonlight to find her way around. At her feet, in fact, she could barely discern a damp, worn trail.

"Lord awmighty son, why didn't you say so?" She grabbed his hand and pulled him from his trance. Nudging up the path, Tizzy spied most of the low branches, warning him or pushing them aside. Matthew did not resist.

Tizzy was wrung out, but she hadn't traipsed this far to turn tail without fully quenching Blind Birdnell's thirst for the unnatural. Besides, she'd grown plenty curious herself. And if they didn't catch up to Mr. Nottingham's torch in short order, she could still find her way back. Tizzy reckoned she had two, maybe three, more hours before dawn. A fresh, tingling surge of excitation swept up from her womb. It felt good to be calling the shots for a change. That's what Matthew always talked about--calling the shots. She gave him an extra rough jerk, he was lagging back. Too sluggish for her temper.

"Stop yer poutin," she commanded.

Matthew gave no lip at all in these black woods. He was too shamefast. His eyes had betrayed him. The boy did as he was told, in a downright simple way. She led him up an invisible, blindman's path. Stumbling forward, he followed her into denser thicket, cracking his knot-loving head on a lowslung limb. The limb was dead; it broke off, splintering bits into his shirt, down his sweaty spine. Soon, they dipped into a cutback; most likely the same cutback that swallowed Nottingham's torch, robbing Matthew of his eyes and his criminal dignity. Tizzy gleaned her way through the forest, up a mossy rock grade, the tracks growing slippery, the tracks fading until she paused in her pursuit. She looked deep into the midnight around her. She listened deep. He asked what she was up to and she shushed him.

Crickets got louder. The wind sang sharp. There was a long chirping lull before Tizzy allowed that they might of left the trail. No, Tizzy wasn't so sure of their bearings. Apparently the rocky upgang had thrown her off scent. Too bad. Better to retrace their steps and maybe get a few hours sleep than wander farther astray. Cautiously, she gave Birdnell the spur; she prodded her dunderbilly back along the thick pine ridge, searching for their lost pa.s.sage down the mountain. And, while nighttime was taffy in Riddle Top's clutch, they still couldn't have circled fifteen minutes inside these singing pines before Matthew began to detect a soft glow; and thusly, they stumbled upon the toy cottage.

Tizzy let go.

"Kin you see that'there?"

"Uhhh-huh...sure do," and he took exception, specs glistening down into a tiny dell.

"My word. I do too..." She crouched. He did the same. "...and they's a candle in the winder there."

Nestled down in this k.n.o.bby pocket, ringed with trees, a cottage glowed so terribly, terribly pretty beneath tonight's halo-ringed moon. The white paling fence slanted low, doglegging up a gentle slope toward a roundstone well. The toy cottage looked eldish and sound as the rocks it was hewn from, beneath notched timbers and riven-shake roof. It reminded Tizzy of something out of her nursery tales.

"Let's git closer," she spat in his ear.

"Okeedoke." Matthew was born again ready and tickled to boot. h.e.l.l yes, he'd already begun to resent her scurrilous tones, hadn't he? Tizzy was acting awful sa.s.sy for her britches. And, be that as it may, it would do him no good to rile her now. Not until the sun came up.

They crept down into the cottage's hollow, then across the raking yard; no smoke curled from the chimney as boy and girl approached, yet this well-kept acre felt serene. In pitched shade by the front door, Matthew and Tizzy knelt, scooting on hands and knees over to the only candle-lit window. They heard the brogue, saw the stagface. Embroidered curtains were drawn apart, revealing Nottingham's seamy face within.

He was talking; his voice a dead, underbelly rumble from beyond the gla.s.s. Outside, the two huddled, peering up at the windowsill, afraid to show themselves further; his cragged nose and jawline caught in eerie candlelight. He sat back, restful, rocking slow. They could see that much. He would speak then stop as though listening, carrying on a low conversation with someone. But they heard no other voices. It was hard enough to hear Mr. Nottingham. Tizzy made out a word or two--just s.n.a.t.c.hes about secession (or was it salvation?) taking every wrong turn. It was hard to tell. Those two words sounded a lot alike. She heard him say, "I'll be d.a.m.ned," quite distinctly, then his voice dropped again, dull and steady, saying night things they couldn't understand to others they couldn't see. Tizzy couldn't be sure; was it her own blood pounding or the boy's beside her? She wanted to steal a quick peek inside the cottage room, so did Matthew, but their nerve failed them. Another inch into the light and their reflected glimmer was sure to draw Nottingham's eye. If the wall hadn't been there, Tizzy could have reached up and touched him. They were that close.

Feeling thwarted, jittered with fear, Tizzy and Matthew finally made retreat from the cottage, careful as they left the window. They were wincing all the way across the yard and did not exhale till they reached the trees.

"Who'uz he a-yappin at?" Matthew seethed.

"His Juda dog fer all I know." Her eyebrows met, staring back at the cottage.

"Hear any that he'uz a-runnin on about?"

"No, not really. Just a snip about secession and how he'd be d.a.m.ned."

"Yeah, I heard that. I heard that last part."

"Ain't much to go on." Adding, subtracting, she trained on the far candlelight.

"Sure ain't."

"Mebbe we kin take a closer looksee, by daylight."

"Whoa now, Tiz, ye mean--?"

Before he knew it, Matthew was being led back down the mountain trail, headed for his bed on the sideporch. It was rough going in the dark with only Tizzy to guide him. His feet got wet and he heard a host of crawlers, skreaking chatter that made his flesh crawl. But he hurried along, just the same, blind and unaware of any who were watching.

b.u.t.ton was crawling with ants. The ants were angry and when they were angry they crawled fast, like tonight. b.u.t.ton did not care. She didn't even care if they bit her, which the ants seldom did. Other places, maybe, anthills were only angry in the heat of day, most colonies didn't take to the trees; but up here, on the mountain, in a tree, everything was different. It was best not to think about that. Saucer-eyed, streaked with pine tar, b.u.t.ton did not think much at all. b.u.t.ton eked. b.u.t.ton endured. She clung to her sticky, ant-swarming bough, ever alert, gazing down through a wilderness of sharp needles and claws. She was used to all manner of insects feasting upon her, pismire ants were no worse than most. She'd never been anywhere but this mountain. And she never slept by night. Sometimes, she'd move from tree to tree, bearing witness to the prowlers and death rattles and bloodl.u.s.t which rose with each moon. High above, b.u.t.ton's cupidface stayed hidden, mute and unmoved by such goings on. Most every night was the same night. Because of him. Because of the others. Each night became a bottomless well, for so many lost changeling souls. Angry. Crawling. Dying. A feast of tiny souls gasping to the bitter end, some who would gasp forever. Because they were forever. He was forever. Forever and the same. Then, with each dawn, the chickens would be stealing b.u.t.ton's feed before that man returned, before he pa.s.sed below, always returning to the bed he never slept in. His bedscent was very strong. She often caught his scent inside her bare little room. She did not smell him now. Not lately. These ants weren't boiling any faster or biting, not for a spell yet; their tempers waited for the walking man, the soulfeeder. And he would be late returning. Why shouldn't he be? b.u.t.ton perched awake, sticking fast to the sap, and watching, everwatching for his advent. She'd learned her lessons long ago. The things one saw could not be dreamt or whispered of, least of all by the b.u.t.ton; for she was his b.u.t.ton, like it or not. And she was the one who beheld the two who dared to wander; that idiot boy and that wily girl. She was even an itsy-bit surprised when they came back down again, breathless and blind and far, far below.

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