Flossmann put down his pencil and looked out of the window. «I tell ya, Mrs. James, this city's become a real bees' nest of crazies. When I first joined the force twelve years ago, you'd have some lunatic doing something like this maybe once every few months or so. Then you throw in a few horrors from the Mafia and you'd get – I don't know – maybe ten or twelve really bad murders in a year. But _now_, hell, it's like every night some bongo goes bananas and every night it's something else. Last week, down on 84th Street? Some woman got mad at her baby and crucified the poor thing on the bathroom door! I mean, can you imagine? That takes a big imagination, right? And you know what else? She must have had ten different crucifixes up in that apartment. Gold ones, ones that lit up. . . . How do they think these things up?»

Horribly, I couldn't stop my mind from flashing a picture of Mac crucified on a wall in our apartment. My heart started beating really hard in my chest. I closed my eyes and told myself to stop it. Taking very deep breaths, I squeezed my hands together and looked at Flossmann.

«What will happen to Alvin now?»

«He'll be arraigned and they'll get him a lawyer and then probably send him over to Bellevue for observation. Are you okay, Mrs. James? You're looking a little queasy.»

A week later Danny was watching a Formula One car race on television. I was puttering around the apartment accompanied by the too-loud snarl of car engines from the set.

Coming in from the kitchen, I had a direct view of the TV when one of the cars – driven by a Colombian named Pedro Lopez – flew off the road, hit a wall and exploded.

I froze in the doorway, unable to look away from the blaze or the burning pieces of racing car flying up and scattering all over the track.

«He's a goner.» Danny said it in his quietest, saddest voice.

There was great courage shown in those next few minutes. Men, some in fireproof suits and some just wearing shorts and T-shirts, came running toward the fire. They completely disregarded the soaring flames and the danger that was everywhere. Some of them had fire extinguishers, others nothing but their hands and hope. They fought the flames, fought through them to the hapless man still visible but completely motionless in what was left of the cockpit of his car.

The commentator tried to be calm, but the sight of the poor driver burning to death made even the professional's voice quaver and finally drop to almost a whisper.

After a few seconds, I realized I was standing there saying to myself, «Don't die. Don't die.»

They finally killed the fire with extinguishers that blew chemical smoke everywhere and coated everything a chalky, dead white. A helicopter landed on the track and attendants ran out with a stretcher and medical bags.

«Don't die. Don't die.» It was a litany; an incantation only I heard. I'm sure of that, because Danny never turned round the whole time I was saying it.

The announcer said that Lopez was twenty-four and this was his first season driving a Formula One car. They eased him out of the wreck, laid him on a blue stretcher and flew him away to the hospital.

Danny turned off the television and we waited there in its cooling, disappearing glow for something we knew was impossible: the man's life to continue.

On the news that night, the sports announcer talked about the race and showed replays of the accident too many times. They showed a smiling picture of Lopez and said he was still alive, although in very critical condition. It was a miracle he had survived that long and the doctors were not at all optimistic about his chances.

When I got into bed I prayed for him. I have said the Lord's Prayer every night for years before I go to sleep, but I rarely pray for anyone or anvthing in particular. I'm convinced God exists, but he doesn't need us to tell him how to run his show. He knows. But this time I asked that Lopez be allowed to live.

In the Rondua dream that followed, all of us stood at the base of a mountain, staring unbelievingly at a small dead-white thing that looked like a piece of driftwood. Mr. Tracy turned to me and spoke in a barely restrained, excited voice.

«You were right, Cullcn, there it is! Go and pick it up.»

«What is it, Mommy?» Pepsi's voice, behind me and suddenly very far away, sounded scared.

Without answering him I moved forward, stooped and picked it up. It was heavy and solid – not any kind of wood at all. I turned to the others and held it out toward them with both hands.

«It's a bone, sweetheart. One of the Bones of the Moon.»

I felt nothing special, nothing different. I knew what it represented, but I held and regarded it as something that made little difference .

Felina, surprising us all, let out a cry that was half-wolf snarl, half-jubilant bark. It echoed up across the mountain and sent a gigantic flock of metal birds racketing off their perches, out on to the plains we had just crossed.

Mr. Tracy and I looked at each other and he smiled and nodded his approval. This was why I had returned to Rondua – to help them find the first Bone of the Moon. I knewr that now, but I knew nothing else. I looked at the bone and had a terrible urge to throw it as far away from me as I could. The longer I held it, the more I realized what _it_ was and how strong it could be. It had taught me magical words, had once given me magical powers I neither wanted nor understood. It had almost killed me. I remembered that too. The Bones meant too much and I doubted again, after so many years, if anyone was capable of controlling them.

«What _is_ it, Mommy?» My son looked at me, uncomprehending and still very afraid. Only now his fear had moved from the puzzling thing in my hand to me. He was too young to understand what it all meant, and I was incapable of explaining it to him. I was also very afraid for all of us, but I didn't know why. I felt like an animal, like a bird which suddenly feels the violent urge to fly out to sea. An earthquake is coming, but birds don't have words like that in their vocabulary – only the mysterious good sense to know things are about to go wrong and it's time to leave.

Bees the size of coffee cans flew silently over the river. It was dusk and the water had abandoned the light. The color of brown leather, it moved sluggishly, as if something was holding back its flow.

I took Pepsi's hand and led him down to the shore.

«Look hard and you'll see the fish in there, Pepsi. Tonight we'll all swim together with them.»

It was too dark to see through the deep flow. I didn't want him to be frightened, but I had forgotten children's willingness to accept anything, so long as it is wonderful. The thought of a night swim with mysterious, unknown fish was heaven to him; his small features beamed.

I undressed and left my clothes where they fell. Pepsi was in such a hurry that in two seconds he was a tangle of sleeves and pants in an angry knot at his ankles.

The animals waited until I had freed him and we were ready. Then they walked first into the water. I held Pepsi's hand and followed Martio's high hump. The water was cold but not uncomfortable. I felt the first smooth mud beneath my feet, between my toes. Pepsi squeezed my hand tight when the first shock of cold ran through his body.

The fish rose as one to meet us. Their shapes and colors were impossible to describe. You could say that this one looked like a headlight with eyes, that one like a key with fins, but it would be pointless.

We dived deep and were able to stay under as long as we pleased – Pepsi too, who earlier had said he didn't know what «swimming» was.

The animals stayed near and let us ride on their backs for great long distances. We raced and dived and made fast, sharp turns back to where we'd started. I clung to the wolf's warm fur and watched fish slip and glide across each other's phosphorescent paths. Water comets, they grouped and fled and returned to us.