The path goes up and up and up, and everyone is so tired, but the old fears are fresh enough to keep us walking, to keep us moving through this heavy weariness. I reluctantly rejoin the movement up the mountain. Nearly everyone stares at the ground in front of their feet. Maybe that’s all that matters right now. One step after the other. Moving farther up. Moving farther in, away from her. Hoping she won’t find us, won’t convince us to go back.
Up ahead and to the left, I notice that the trees clear along the edge of the cliff, and I find myself walking faster, faster, stumbling over my own feet, pushing between this person and that person, mumbling my apologies, my voice strange in the voiceless woods. I get to the clearing and it is what I hoped it would be: an overlook. A cold wind blows up from the valley, rushes through that open space, agitating the leaves behind me into the wild rustling sound of secrets. I climb a kind of stone platform, and the rock is gritty under my fingers. There’s no snow up here, but the rock is cold. Everything feels present and real.
Have you ever, for a flash of time, understood the significance of being? The miracle of existing? That’s what I feel now, climbing up onto the ledge: the particular roughness of the rocks under my knees, the chill of the wind on my face. The unique expression of my existence, here, as I stand.
I look out over that huge expanse of miles that all of us walked through, and I scan the valley. I hold one hand up, shield my eyes from the glare of those bright clouds, and hope to see nothing out there except empty plains.
At first I’m relieved and my shoulders relax because all I see is the undulating ground stretching to the west, as far as the horizon. The wind continues to whip up around me, and I draw my arms closer to my chest, duck my chin down, and try to find warmth in my body. It is there somewhere inside of me, that warmth, that fire. I can sense the rustling of all the people hiking, moving up the mountain behind me. I can feel them glancing at my back as they pass, taking in my silhouette on the overlook, probably wondering why I would stop, why I would look back. This makes me angry. I want to turn and answer them, answer all of their unasked questions.
I knew him.
I loved him.
Do you have any idea what our freedom cost?
But I keep looking out over the plains, and finally I see something like two ants wandering along a dusty pile. I sigh. All the way down there in the valley, where we began the climb up this mountain, through the trees, those two small specks walk away, walk west. Their progress is barely visible, but there is nothing to stop them, not as far as the eye can see. We will soon be separated by this great chasm. Everything has fallen into a stark, dazzling white, the light glaring off endless miles of glittering frost. I can smell snow, but none is falling.
He is going with her.
I hoped that he might be among the last of the crowd, that he could possibly be tagging along at the back, that he would come up and surprise me. We would hug and I would laugh out loud—my first real laugh in a long time—and he would explain how he got out of going back and that all the wrong I had done was magically undone.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t reverse my mistakes, couldn’t easily untie my deceptions, and the only option was for someone to go back. He is doing it. I strain my eyes toward the horizon, but even from that height, I can’t see the mountain we came from, the one whose shadow we have finally escaped. I don’t think I’d want to see it, but I search that far-off horizon anyway.
“Do you see him?” she asks, walking up behind me. Not long ago, she would have wrapped her arms around my body, moved in close and held me. I would have felt her warmth against my back. But not now. Not after everything that has happened.
I close my eyes, imagining. I shiver and nod. “I can’t believe he has to go back.” Unspoken are the words, It’s my fault.
We stand there in those words, the wind whipping them around us, catching on them, sailing away with them. She doesn’t offer any kind of consolation.
“It was here all along,” she says, a lining of amazement in her voice. “This mountain was here, waiting for us.”
“Are you . . .” I begin, then start over. My voice is hoarse, and I clear it against the dry, cold air. “Do you . . . remember?”
“Everything. It’s all coming back to me.”
“Even before?”
“Even before.”
“Me too,” I whisper.
How is it that a mind can contain so many memories? Where does it all fit? Into what nooks and crannies do we place these recollections of love and sadness, horror and joy? Into what tiny space of our minds do we put a person we met long ago, or a disappointment, or a lie? And where do memories go when we forget, and how is it that they can come rushing back, unbidden?
I am embarrassed by what I did, the choices I made. There are things I would rather forget, but because I can think of nothing else to say, a confession emerges: “I’m such a liar. You know that by now, right? How many things I said that weren’t true?”
She is still as a fence post. It almost seems like she’s holding her breath.
“You know, I would lie for the fun of it,” I whisper, “even when there was nothing in it. Just because. I don’t even know why. What’s wrong with a person who lies for no reason?”
I don’t realize she is crying until I hear her try to stifle a sob, like a hiccup. She moves closer but we’re still not touching, and we remain there for a time, watching the two people down on the plain. We cry together. She sighs a trembling sigh, and when she speaks I can tell she is trying to lift our spirits.
“The rumor coming back from the front is that the higher you go, the warmer it gets.”
“Then we should keep walking,” I say, but I don’t move. A great silence falls on us as the last people pass by behind us. He is not among them. I knew he wouldn’t be, was positive of this after seeing the two far-off figures walking away, but I had still allowed myself to hope.
“There they go.” She steps away, as if she can’t stay too close or she’ll give in to old impulses like hugging me or pulling me close. “He saved all of us,” she says, and I can hear the tears in her voice. “And now he’s going back.”
I nod again, the tears flowing. I wipe them away hastily with the back of my hand. They’re embarrassing, those tears. They make me feel small.
“Dan,” she says. “It’s time. He’ll find her, and he’ll follow us over.”
I look over at her for the first time since she came up behind me. “Will he? Will he find her? Will he find us?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Will he find me?” I ask, my voice tiny and quivering.
Wordlessly, we climb down the rock and turn toward the top of this new mountain, this fresh start, this beginning. We can see the tail end of the procession of people moving up the trail. We will soon be back among them, or maybe we’ll stay back a bit, find our own pace.
“I wonder,” I say quietly.
“Wonder?” she asks, falling into step beside me. I want to take her hand again, but those days are long gone. “Wonder what?”
My response is a whisper. I can’t imagine she even hears me. “Can he really cross from there to us? Or is he lost? Forever?”
The breeze snatches my words and throws them out into the void, but she hears them. And she smiles. “He’ll find us.”
So childlike. So trusting. I want to question her. I want to raise my flag of doubt, but before I can, she says it again.
“He’ll find us.”
Acknowledgments
I’m incredibly thankful to God for this unexpected writing journey. It wouldn’t be possible without those of you who faithfully read my blog in the early years or those of you who continue reading these books that stumble into the world. Thanks so much to all of you readers out there for hanging with me.
Ruth, you came along and believed in me at just the right time.
Kelsey, your unwavering support, belief, and enthusiasm changed the trajectory of my writing l
ife, which would be unrecognizable without your confident encouragement.
Revell team, especially Michele, Karen, Jessica, and Nathan, your hard work, your kindness, and your willingness to stand with me at conferences and hand out ARCs to total strangers has meant the world to me. You have been tireless champions of my writing. Thank you.
Rachelle, thanks for taking me on, and for whatever else might be around the bend.
Mom and Dad, I know you didn’t have a lot of money, but you bought me books, and that changed everything for me.
To the Kindred Collective, my Kentucky crew, for the love and space you’ve given Mai and me. It’s nearly impossible to put into words what each of you means to me, or how you continually remind me that writing is about more than publishing. You help me circle back around to who I am.
To Dinner Club, for the laughs, the tears, and the life, for the stories and the late nights. We still need a hashtag.
Bryan, your friendship has made me a better person, despite your faulty adoration of Wheat Chex. This book is for Parker.
To Cade, Lucy, Abra, Sam, Leo, and Poppy, for being exactly who you are.
To Maile, my love. Let’s keep writing.
Shawn Smucker is the award-winning author of Light from Distant Stars and These Nameless Things, the young adult novels The Day the Angels Fell and The Edge of Over There, and the memoir Once We Were Strangers. He lives with his wife and six children in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. You can find him online at www.shawnsmucker.com.
SHAWNSMUCKER.COM
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Table of Contents
Cover
Praise for These Nameless Things
Books by Shawn Smucker
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraphs
Contents
Anytime to Three Months
I’m Afraid Not
The White-Haired Woman
The Emptiness
Looking for You
Closer Than They Might Appear
The First Drowning
The Tea Party
The Field
My Own Flesh and Blood
Crossing Over
A Place in This World
Leaving
The Man in the Hotel
Driving Away
Gone Again
No Trespassing
Into Nysa
No Cares in the World
You Should Turn Around
When Everything Started Happening
An Unexpected Encounter
Night Swimming
Shirley
The Woman at the Window
What’s Real?
The Question
The End of Me
She Went Under
Desecrated
The Carpet
The Boat
Sinking
The Weight of Memory
Photographs
Was It You?
A Wedding and a Ring
Dreams and Open Windows
New Developments
The Door
Going Under
The Loss of You
The Glassy Sea
Following Her Down
Something Beyond Us
Let’s Not Leave Her Alone Anymore
Too Many Secrets
Heavy Things
She’s Gone
Our Future Spelled Out
Screams at the Cabin
So Close
When You Arrive at the End, Keep Going
It’s True
Reality
Swimming Underwater
Only the Deepest Pools Remain
The Open Window
When I Knew
The Clouds Bear Down
The Far Green Country
Gone
The Fly
The Nesting Doll
Two Months Later
Floating Away
Another mesmerizing story from Shawn Smucker
Prologue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
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