Free Wild Fell by Michael Rowe

under my bed. From the bottom drawer of my dresser, I took out a pair of clean pyjamas and put them on. Then I jumped onto the bed, crawled under the covers, and pulled the sheets and blanket over my head. I listened to the silence of my bedroom on the other side of the blanket, praying I wouldn’t suddenly hear that strange double voice, or feel a little girl’s icy hand pull the blanket away from my face.
    Fifteen minutes later, I heard the sound of my father’s footsteps on the stairs and my bedroom door opened. He walked in and came over to the edge of the bed, smiled down at me. Very gently, he tousled my hair.
    “Everything all right in here, Jamie? You ready for bed?”
    “Yes, Daddy.”
    He wrinkled his nose. “You smell anything funny, Jamie? You have any accidents you want to tell me about?”
    “No, Daddy.” Normally, lying to my father would have been unthinkable, even impossible. But tonight, all I wanted was normalcy, ease and light. “I don’t smell anything funny.”
    He shrugged. “Probably just my imagination, never mind.”
    I took a deep breath. “Daddy?”
    “Yes, son?”
    “Daddy, I don’t like my mirror. Can we get rid of it?”
    “What do you mean, get rid of it?” He peered over at the mirror on the wall. “Is it cracked?” He sighed. “You didn’t crack it, did you, Jamie? Your mother is going to be furious if you did.”
    “No, it’s not broken, I just . . . well, I don’t need it.”
    “Jameson,” my father said. The switch to my full name wasn’t lost on me. “Your mirror is fine. I don’t know what this is about, but—”
    I cut him off, reaching for his hand and squeezing his fingers tightly enough for him to look back at me with an expression of mild surprise. “Daddy, would you stay here with me for a little while? Until I fall asleep? I’m scared.”
    His face softened. “Jamie, what’s wrong? There’s nothing to be scared of. Are you upset about the bike? We’ll get it back. You shouldn’t have gone out of our neighbourhood, but what happened wasn’t your fault. Is that what this is about?”
    I glanced over at the darkened mirror hanging innocuous and now empty on the wall. “Daddy, just stay with me. Please?”
    “All right. But just for a little bit.” My father lay down beside me on the bed and put his arm around my shoulders, pulling me in close.
    I pressed my face into his shirt and inhaled deeply. I felt my heartbeat slowing as I relaxed into the bulwark of his warm body and his warm scent. In time, I fell asleep safely against my father’s chest. He must have left the room at some point when he saw that I was asleep, turning off my bedside lamp and leaving me in the dark.
    I dreamed I was astride my red Schwinn on a promontory of land overlooking a vast, dark lake.
    From the centre of the black water rose an island encircled with a wild coronet of grey rock and black-green pine trees. On the island was a castle whose turrets rose above the blackened pines. The sky was streaked with thin sunset stripes of hard red, luminous orange, and bright celadon blue.
    The vista was a familiar one: I knew every wave, every jutting rock, every arching pine bough stretching up to gouge the bleeding red sky. The landscape was as familiar to me as my street, but even in the dream I knew it was somewhere I had never been.
    The air was raw and northern, but wondrously fresh. I was cognizant that it was late because the sun was going down and the temperature was plummeting as I sat there staring at the island. I knew I was a long, long way from my house—much farther than I had ever been before. I felt the comforting solidity of my Schwinn between my legs and I knew I needed to get pedalling or I was going to be in a lot of trouble.
    There was someone standing directly behind me, but I didn’t turn my head to see who it was. I already knew who it was. Instead I just stared at the darkening twilight lake and said, “It’s late. I need to get home.”
    I