The Line Between

The shadow fought me. Whatever I had seized between my burning, frozen hands — and I could not tell whether it was as small a thing as the fox or as great as the Goro — the shadow wanted it back, and very nearly took it from me. And why I did not, would not, allow that to happen, I cannot put into words for you. I think it was the hands' decision, surely not my own. They were the ones who suffered, they were the ones enti–tled to choose — yes, no, hang on, let go … I was standing far — oh, very far indeed — to one side, looking on.

Did I pull what I held free by means of my pure heart and failing strength, or did the shadow finally give in, for its own reasons? I know what I believe, but none of that matters. What does matter is that when my hands came back to me, they held the fox between them. A seemingly lifeless fox, certainly; a fox without a breath or a heartbeat that I could detect; a fox beyond bedraggled, looking half his normal size, with most of his fur gone, the rest staring limply, and his proud brush as naked as a rat's tail. Indeed, the only indication that he still lived was the fact that he was unconsciously trying to shapeshift in my hands. The shiver of the air around him, the sudden slight smudging of his outline … I jumped back as I had not recoiled from the house–thing's shadow, letting him fall to the ground.

He landed without the least thump, so insubstantial he was. The transformation simply faded and failed; though whether that means that the fox–shape is his natural form and the other nothing but a garment he was too weak to assume, I have never known. The moon was down, and with the approach of false dawn, the shadow was retreating, the house–thing itself withering absurdly, like an overripe vegetable, its sides slumping inwards while its insides — or whatever they might have been — seemed to ooze palely into the rising day, out to where the shadow had lain in wait for prey. Only for a moment … then the whole creature collapsed and vanished before my eyes, and the one trace of its passage was a dusty hole in the ground. A small hole, the sort of hole that remains when you have pulled a plant up by its roots. Or think you have.

There was no sign of the Goro. When I looked back at the fox, he was actually shaking himself and trying to get to his feet. It took him some while, for his legs kept splaying out from under him, and even when he managed to balance more or less firmly on all four of them, his yellow eyes were obviously not seeing me, nor much else. Once the fox–shape was finally under control, he promptly abandoned it for that of the old man, who looked just as much of a disaster, if not even more so. The white mustache appeared to have been chewed nearly away; one burly white eyebrow was altogether gone, as were patches of the white mane, and the skin of his face and neck might have been through fire or frost–bite. But he turned to stare toward the place where the house that was not a house had stood, and he grinned like a skull.

«Exactly as I planned it," he pronounced. «Rid of the lot of them, we are, for good and all, thanks to my foresight. I knew it was surely time for the beast to return to that spot, and I knew the Goro would care for nothing else, once it caught sight of me and that stone.» Amazingly, he patted my shoulder with a still–shaky hand. «And you dealt with your little friends remarkably well — far better than I expected, truth be told. I may have misjudged you somewhat.»

«As you misjudged the thing's reach," I said, and he had the grace to look discomfited. I said, «Before you thank me — " which he had shown no sign of doing — «you should know that I was simply trying to save whomever I could catch hold of. I would have been just as relieved to see the Goro standing where you are.»

«Not for long," he replied with that supremely superior air that I have never seen matched in all these years. «The Goro consider needing any sort of assistance — let alone having to be rescued — to be dishonorable in its very nature. He'd have quickly removed a witness to his sin, likely enough.» I suspected that to be a lie — which it is, for the most part — but said nothing, only watching as he gradually recovered his swagger, if not his mustache. It was fascinating to observe, rather like seeing a new–born butterfly's wings slowly plumping in the sun. He said then — oddly quietly, I remember — «You are much better off with me. Whatever you think of me.»

When he said that, just for that moment, he looked like no crafty shapeshifter but such a senile clown as one sees in the wayside puppet plays where the young wife always runs off with a soldier. He studied my hands and arms, which by now were hurting so much that in a way they did not hurt at all, if you can understand that. «I know something that will help those," he said. «It will not help enough, but you will be glad of it.»