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They come back different.
Wirt wants to rationalize it all away, once they come home. He wants to try to pretend that it was a strange hallucination that somehow he and Greg both shared, but they’re different now. He’s heard that near-death experiences can do that to a person, but he doesn’t think it’s supposed to be quite like this.
(His mother tries to say it’s normal, natural, that he can take his time, that he was brave, saving Greg. She doesn’t know the half of it. He doesn’t think he can ever tell her.)
He’s afraid of the dark, now. He’d grown out of needing a night light when he was eight; the night after he returns he’s digging in his mother’s catch-all closet (because she never throws anything out) to find one. That almost makes things worse, because when he’s caught between sleep and wakefulness, the light feels threatening, somehow. The shadows it creates seem to move.
He keeps his desk lamp on and sleeps with a shirt draped over his eyes as a makeshift mask. It’s hot and uncomfortable, but he doesn’t have to worry about seeing things that aren’t there. At least not at night.
He keeps the radio on, because the silence is so rarely silent.
He wants to think Greg is unscathed, because Greg sleeps like he has always done (and Wirt does not let himself think like the dead any longer). Greg eats without pushing his food around his plate and tells anyone who will listen about their adventure. He plays outside and brings Wirt interesting rocks and their fridge is covered in crayon drawings of Beatrice and The Beast and The Woodsman and the various others they’ve met along the way.
And he’s cold.
When they were discharged from the hospital Greg had frostbite. Wirt had heard one of the doctors admitting to his stepfather that they didn’t quite know how, it hadn’t been anywhere near cold enough for that, but Greg’s hands and feet were red and blistered the first week home, and Mom nearly went mad with worry trying to keep him from getting his hands dirty and risk an infection. Weeks later and Greg’s hands and feet might be back to normal but his touch is cold, and he shivers if he’s not bundled up. Sometimes, when Wirt looks at him, there are bruises under Greg’s eyes that seem to disappear when he blinks.
Sometimes Greg comes into Wirt’s room at night and climbs into bed with him, and it feels like he’s sleeping with a corpse.
---
Wirt talks to the birds, when no one is around to hear him. He doesn’t know if they understand - he’s really rather certain they don’t - but he talks to them anyway. He keeps a bag of birdseed in his pocket and feeds them, remembering Beatrice’s complaints about dirt and worms. He hopes she’s okay. He wishes he could ask her, or ask the birds to carry a message, but he knows it’s foolish.
But he moves his poetry reading from his bedroom, at night, to outside with the birds. They don’t seem to like Plath much, but they stick around for Kipling.
(Sara finds him, one afternoon, and Wirt thinks he is going to absolutely die of embarrassment right then and there but instead she asks him what he’s reading and he even lets her borrow his copy of Robert Frost poems when she asks.)
Something pulls at him when she suggests they visit the graveyard sometime, maybe during the day, but it’s a long while before he’s ready for that.
---
The thing is, parts of it make a strange sort of sense, when he tries to look at it logically. He finds gravestones for Margueritte Grey and Quincy Endicott in the graveyard, when he finally has enough courage to visit - during the day, this time. They’re old graves, well worn by the weather, and maybe he’d seen the names when he’d come with Greg, maybe they’d stuck in his memory to be pulled up later when he was unconscious. Maybe.
But he goes to the library and looks through the town archives, and finds articles on microfiche and photos of Mr Endicott - who looks just like Wirt remembers - and he doesn’t think he could have made that up. There are too many coincidences. Especially when he then goes and looks at the maps.
Past the river, across the bridge, are the woodlands. It’s not a forest, according to the current map, and he has to check what the difference is (the canopy isn’t as thick, apparently. Probably because people have gone in and chopped down trees over the last century). It isn’t a forest now, but it was.
It was a forest, and beyond it was farmland, and a potter’s field for the dead and a schoolhouse for the local children that had burned down and a mill where the miller’s family had died and -
Wirt stops looking at the history, after that.
---
Greg crawls into his bed on Christmas Eve. Wirt has a heated blanket these days, even though his mother thinks they’re dangerous, and he wraps Greg in it before they flop back into his pillows. He’s gotten better about the dark, and there’s just the night light for the room. It no longer looks like a lantern coming out of the darkness.
“Do you think Santa will find Beatrice? And Lorna? And Unkle Endicott Aunt Grey and--” Greg’s voice is surprisingly concerned and his eyes are wide in the darkness.
“Of course he will.” Wirt stopped believing in Santa before he stopped being afraid of the dark, but he’s not such a jerk as to make Greg think he isn’t real. “He’s Santa.”
“But William Tellsley says they’re not real.” Greg’s voice wavers, uncertain. “And if they’re not real, how can Santa find them? I tried to draw him a map, but Mom says Santa doesn’t need maps.”
“What does WIlliam Tellsley know?” Wirt pulls Greg a little closer into a hug. “He sounds like a big jerk.”
“He’s my friend.” Greg clings back. Wirt can’t remember ever hearing Greg this uncertain before. “He’s not a jerk.”
“Well he doesn’t know much about Santa Claus, then.” It’s Christmas Eve. Greg should be wondering about his presents, not what other people are getting. “Santa will find everyone, even Beatrice and her family. And they’ll all get presents.”
“Do you promise?”
Wirt wonders if he’d ever been able to trust someone as simply and honestly as Greg does. If he’ll ever be able to trust someone at all like that. It’s something precious, something that should be protected. He makes himself smile. “I promise.”
Greg sighs in relief. “Good. Everyone should get presents. Even the Beast. I bet he wouldn’t be so lonely if he had presents.”
Wirt feels his eyebrows hit his hairline. “What? Greg, he tried to-” But Greg has his eyes closed and his breathing is suddenly even, and Wirt doesn’t want to finish what he was going to say. He makes sure Greg’s wrapped up and closes his own eyes, and hopes he doesn’t dream of anything at all tonight.
He wakes up with Greg’s elbow in his eye. Also ‘Santa’ got them a Sega Genesis, and Wirt thinks Greg is going to forget all about Beatrice and the rest for a while.
It surprises Wirt, how often he can completely misjudge his brother.
---
“Where are you going?” Wirt looks at Greg who is bundled up in his warmest clothes, looking roughly egg-shaped, and at the backpack Greg does not need when he’s off playing with his friends.
“To find Beatrice.” Greg says it simply, like the words don’t hit Wirt like a punch, and he rummages in his bag to pull out a colorful fold of construction paper covered in glitter and googly-eyes. “I made her a Christmas card.”
“You - I - Greg, you can’t.” Wirt can’t have this conversation here, where their - his - their mom might hear. He shoves his boots and coat on and drags Greg outside. “You can’t go see Beatrice.”
“Why not?” Like it’s that simple, like they can just walk there. “I bet she misses us. I miss her.”
“I miss her too, but she’s not - Greg, it wasn’t real.”
It’s not what he means to say. He wants to say something about - about ghosts and maybe other dimensions and near death experiences and he’s been reading about time dilation but Greg is a little kid and he looks at Wirt with such betrayal on his face that Wirt hastily backs up, hands waving in front of him. “I didn’t mean -”
“They were real!” Greg shouts, determined and angry and upset. “They are! I know they are! Don’t tell me they aren’t!” He’s breathing heavily and Wirt feels bad all over because he’s pretty sure it isn’t just William Tellsley telling Greg what happened…didn’t. “And I’m going to bring them Christmas presents!”
“I’m sorry,” Wirt kneels down in the snow. “I’m sorry, Greg. I didn’t mean to say they weren’t real.”
Greg hiccups, and Wirt thinks that he’s almost never seen his little brother cry. “Okay,” he agrees, amiably enough. “But you have to help me take them their cards.”
“Wirt, I don’t think we could find them again. Remember how lost we were? And Mom and your dad will kill us if we get lost again.”
“We just have to look,” Greg says, completely assured. “And we’ll find them.”
Wirt realizes that if he doesn’t figure out a solution, Greg is going to go off and do this on his own.
“Okay. Okay. We can go - we can go to the woods and leave them there for someone to find. If they’re addressed to - to Beatrice and anyone else, they’ll get delivered properly.”
Greg brightens up. “Good! I’ll go get some stamps!” He rushes back inside.
Wirt trudges after him, because if he’s going back he’s going to do it properly.
(He doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. It isn’t like he’s made plans to do…exactly this.)
---
Mom thinks they’re going to the library and gives Wirt a grateful look as she heads to bed, one of her bad headaches coming on. His stepfather is at the office because something big came up and he has to take care of it, even though he’s supposed to be on vacation. Wirt has a backpack and a bus schedule and Greg’s hand in his as they head out.
It’s still morning. They should be inside playing Sonic and eating chocolate. Instead they get on the bus (the #9), which takes them the twenty minutes across town. The river, when they drive over it, is icy at the edges. Wirt promises himself they are not going near the water.
The stop they get off at is called Alderwood Lane. Wirt had actually tried to see if Edelwood was - well, not real but maybe based somewhat on reality, like a tree that grew out of corpses. He was far too glad to find out that bit had been the woods alone.
On one side of the road, there’s a doctor’s office and a convenience store and a bunch of houses. On the other side is the park that leads into the woodland. Greg, of course, runs ahead, and Wirt rushes to catch up.
This is stupid, he thinks. This is dangerous.
And it feels right.
---
Greg knows where he’s going.
Greg knows where he’s going and that thought makes Wirt feel ill and at the same time he can’t pull himself away, can’t stop following. Greg sings Christmas carols and marches through the snow - there are footprints in the snow, signs of other people having been here, like this is a normal place to hike - and Wirt rotates between holding Greg’s hand and clutching at the shoulder of his coat because he will not let them be separated.
It’s bright, and sunlight filters through the trees, and none of the trees have faces and none of the animals look wrong and Wirt keeps telling himself this and ignores the way shadows seem to flicker in the corners of his eye. Nothing is familiar, and he wants to be grateful, but there’s something that pulls, and he wonders if that’s what Greg feels and what Greg is following without any concern at all.
This is stupid and dangerous (but it’s just a park, a preserve, just a normal bit of land) - and Wirt almost trips over Greg when he stops at the edge of a clearing. “This is a good place.”
“A good place?” Wirt looks around and maybe the shadows seem a little darker here, even though it’s just past noon, but it’s still normal. They haven’t gone anywhere, right? (He looks behind them, and their footprints are still there, along with the trail they have been following.)
There’s a large tree stump to the left, nearly five feet across. Under the light dusting of snow Wirt can see graffiti and where people have carved their initials, and the wood looks ancient. Greg wobbles his way over, already digging through his backpack, and kneels in the snow and starts setting things down on the stump.
Halloween candy he must have saved. Some rocks that glitter in the light. A carrot, and an apple. A whole package of licorice candy that Aunt Judy had given him. The stuffed kitten he got as a kids meal toy. A bell that Wirt is pretty sure came from the Christmas tree. A tarnished spoon, and a bracelet made from telephone wire.
He puts the cards out one by one, too. It’s not too windy but it’s enough to make them topple, and Wirt finds himself looking for branches and rocks that will help hold them in place or weigh them down.
Greg doesn’t explain. He just sings a song to himself about how Christmas is important and how presents mean you remember and you won’t ever forget. Wirt never knows where these songs even come from, but Greg carries on until the whole display is set up exactly how he wants it to be, and then he turns to Wirt.
“What did you bring?”
Wirt feels like a terrible brother. “I - uh - I didn’t bring anything.” Greg is looking at him and then frowning at his backpack and Wirt rallies. “I brought supplies in case we got lost again!”
“Okay!” Greg turns back. “Then these can be from both of us.”
It doesn’t feel like enough. It doesn’t feel at all like enough when Greg wants to remember and Wirt can’t bring himself to forget. So many people had helped them, when they’d been lost. And they’d been rude and afraid and they’d lied and run but - but they got home, in the end, and Wirt has Greg and his family and…
One of the cards disappears, along with the package of licorice. Greg cheers. Wirt lands on his butt in the snow, ignoring the way his pants are instantly wet. “W- what?”
“I told you they’d come!” Greg is jubilant. “Presents are important!”
Wirt does not remember any assurances from Greg about any of this. He stares as a second card, this one addressed to Lorna and Auntie Whispers, just… fades away. It seems to age, as he looks at it, the colors fading first before it turns transparent and then invisible. The bell goes with it.
“Can you see them?” he asks Greg, because all he gets are the vague not-there shadows.
“A little!” is Greg’s cheerful reply. There is a light shift of wind that seems to caress Wirt’s face. “Beatrice says hello!”
“Hello!” Wirt gets back to his feet and tries to brush off his butt without looking silly. He probably fails. “I - uh. Merry Christmas.”
There’s another bit of wind, and he can hear birds chirping. Wirt feels really bad about not bringing anything with him now. “Greg wanted us to come and say hello. He was - he was worried that Santa didn’t visit you.”
“I brought you a rock! And a bracelet!” Greg tells the air. “Wirt forgot to bring presents so he can share mine.”
“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Wirt admits. Then catches himself and feels his face flush. “Not that I can see you, I mean. I can’t hear you, either. That’s all Greg. But - but I hope you’re okay. I don’t even know if it’s Christmas for you at all. Time - time might be different.”
Greg turns and looks up at Wirt, still smiling. “She says that’s okay. She’s glad we got to go home!”
“Me too,” Wirt can almost see the shape of someone, if he looks away completely and doesn’t let his eyes focus. “I. Uh. Maybe I could read you a poem?” He’s been reading more for Sara, and it’s getting less embarrassing to do it with someone else around. “If you’d like. Not that you have to. It’s just poetry and it’s probably weird and you have things to do.”
Greg grabs his hand and tugs, so Wirt has to look his way and the shadow is gone. “She says she’d like that! You should read a poem. Then I’ll sing her a song!”
“Another song?”
“I just came up with a new one!” Greg is, as always, utterly unrepentant. “You go first!”
Wirt closes his eyes, even though he can’t see anyone but Greg looking at him, and takes a breath. After everything he’s had… well. He’s been reading a lot, and sometimes it’s the only way he’s been able to sleep, and Sara’s been encouraging him. So he’d memorized a few, just because.
Maybe he knew he’d need one, eventually.
“They shut the road through the woods seventy years ago…” He’d memorized this one because it feels so much like what had happened - the world that had been and the world that is, and Wirt and Greg caught between. It doesn’t matter that he knows what this place once was, because there’s no road back to it again. Not one he can dare take.
When he finishes, there’s a sigh through the trees and he hears Beatrice’s voice, as though from far away. “Oh, you dear, dear boy.”
“She likes it!” Greg tells him, and Wirt can’t bring himself to say he knows. He just nods.
Greg instantly starts in on a song about bluebirds eating worms, and Wirt is pretty sure it isn’t just the wind he can hear - it’s laughter.
---
The bus is thankfully warm, and also thankfully empty. Greg flops against Wirt’s side, genuinely tired, and yawns as they head back into town.
“Greg?” Wirt manages, after an unprecedented amount of silence.
“Yes, Wirt?”
“Thanks for remembering.”
“You’re welcome, Wirt.”
There’s another tired silence.
“Next year,” Greg says, yawning between his words. “Next year we won’t be late.”
Wirt drops his arm around Greg and keeps him close. “Sounds good, little brother.”
Next year Wirt will bring a whole book of poetry for Beatrice. And a card for her family. And Greg will make sure he doesn’t let himself pretend to forget.
They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods