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down the path.
    Even with the stones guiding his way, he nearly got lost. If the stones were supposed to serve as directional markers, they could have been arranged in a better fashion. Some ofthe stones sat on the edge of the path while others veered off into the underbrush, causing him to step clumsily and blindly into a bush or to bark his shins on moss-covered deadfalls. All the stones had a symbol, each one different, carved into them, and they seemed to radiate with that same phosphorescent light.
It’s reflecting the moonlight; that’s got to be it.
When he touched one, it was as cold as ice. He pulled his hand away and felt a timorous laugh quake through his body.
    He stood there for a moment, the reality of the situation settling upon him. Wandering around out here in the dark was foolish. He could trip over something, break an ankle. Or fall down a blind ravine and break his neck. If he was so curious about where this path led, he could follow it tomorrow in the daylight.
    Yet something refused to let him turn around and return to the house. He could convince himself that he swore he smelled his father’s cologne again, stronger here in the woods, but he didn’t necessarily think that was true. Whatever was urging him to keep going was inexplicable.
    Alan continued down the path. The antacid began working on his ulcer, dulling it into stupid submission. By the time he reached the end of the path, all the glowing white stones behind him now in the darkness, he’d forgotten about the pain.
    The trees opened up on an immense moonlit clearing of low grass, billowy ground fog, and pockets of tiny white flowers. He stepped into the clearing and looked around in awe.
    The trees seemed much older than the ones in the woods, their trunks an impressive circumference, likethe trees in the redwood forest off the Pacific Coast, and they were as white as polished bone in the moonlight. They were staggered in a rough circle around the perimeter of the clearing, glossy and seeming to drip wetly with moon glow. Their bare branches reached high into the night sky and passed like a network of veins across the colorless face of the moon. They were towering, tremendous, mind-boggling things.
    In the center of the trees was a small lake.
    Its surface covered by a blanket of roiling mist, the lake didn’t appear to him all at once. The mist slid slowly off the surface of the water in a rolling, smoky fashion, dense as wool. As it reached the edge of the lake, the mist thinned out until it clung low to the ground where it continued to undulate as if alive. Motionless, Alan stood and watched as the mist dissipated throughout the clearing, slowly spreading out to the surrounding corral of trees. It took several seconds before he realized he was holding his breath.
    It’s beautiful …
    Alan walked to the edge of the lake and peered down at the water. It could have been tar or smoked glass it was so black. His reflection mirrored up at him, looking ghastly and skeletal. His skin was white as stone, his eyes huge and dark and seemingly recessed into deep pockets. He could easily make out the apostrophe-shaped cut above his right eyebrow and the bruise on his cheek.
    He dropped to one knee and reached out, sticking two fingers into the water—
    (ice-cold!)
    â€”only to pull them quickly out, hissing betweenclenched teeth. A bundle of muscles at the small of his back tightened from the cold. He flexed his fingers, working the feeling back into them, amazed at how numb they’d become from no longer than a split second beneath the water. It was July and the water was ice-cold …
    His reflection stared up at him.
    Rippling.
    Things moved in the trees.
Large
things.
    Alan stood and stared at them: black silhouettes framed against the night sky. Only the ones on the branches that passed in front of the moon were clearly outlined.
    Birds,
he thought, though the realization afforded him little relief and did