Mothman's Arc

Chapter 7 of 7

Outside, the frogs kept up their noise. Inside the lavender tent, Mothette still held Mothman's hand. He should have felt only her warmth. Instead something else was pressing at the back of his skull, a shape he couldn't name. He tried to focus on it and the shape slid sideways. He blinked slowly. His antennae drooped against his head. Mothette watched him. What is it, she said. His mouth opened. Something is coming, he said. Not the bridge. Something else. She sat up straighter. Where. When. He tried to picture it and the picture blurred. I can't see it, he said. I can feel it moving toward the village but I can't tell them what it is. I need to know what it is or the warning won't work again. He pressed both hands against his eyes. His wings twitched and drooped. She let go of his hand and stood. You haven't slept in three days, she said. He started to argue. She cut him off. You told me yourself. Two days under the bridge, one night before that walking the falls. Your foresight isn't broken. You are. She crossed the tent and pulled a folded blanket from a chest. Then she took down a book from a shelf above the lamp, a heavy thing bound in dark blue with gold work on the cover. She set it beside the blanket. Lie down, she said. He didn't move. Mothette, he said. If I sleep and it comes tonight. She knelt in front of him. Then you'll see it clearly in the morning and you'll be able to say what it is, she said. Right now you can't. Right now you're guessing. Guessing is how we steer people wrong. He folded slowly onto the blanket. His wings sagged open across the tent floor. She sat beside him with the book on her lap and opened it to a blank page. What is that, he said. A dream diary, she said. I write down what I see when I sleep. Sometimes it helps me sort what's real from what I wanted. She uncapped a small pen. I'll write down whatever you say tonight. Even if it's nonsense. Especially if it's nonsense. He closed his red eyes. The shape at the back of his skull was still there, but softer now, waiting. Mothette, he said. If I say a word. Any word. She said, I'll write it. Sleep. He slept. Somewhere past midnight he stirred and said a single word she did not recognize. She wrote it down. She wrote the time beside it. Then she sat with the pen in her hand and watched him breathe, and the shape he could not name kept moving toward the village in the dark.