Shadows

. . . and at the same time it lengthened, as if it was made of something like an Ace bandage or crepe paper, and my pulling hand . . . disappeared.

I froze. My ordinary hand, clutching the tip of the torn-out paper page, was still there, in front of my kneeling knees, against a background of dirt and slightly crushed autumn grass. But I could feel the other hand, the one that had disappeared, also holding the tip of a torn-out page, which, by my feel of it, was almost a hand’s breadth farther out in that direction. What do I do? I thought in a panic. Are there now two of me? If I keep folding is all of me going to disappear—or double? Will there be some other me wandering around some other where? Where will I be?

I felt Hix unwind from my neck, slip lightly down the arm(s) that was (or were) holding the tip (or tips) of the page and . . . when she got to the place where there were two choices, chose the invisible hand holding the stretched-out corner. Against that hand she was suddenly solid, and, having been licked by more animals than I could remember over the years, I immediately recognized the sensation of a tongue on the back of my hand—scratchier than a dog’s, less scratchy than a cat’s—and kind of frilly, like it had extra edges. Is this the gruuaa home space? I thought confusedly. I could feel the pads of her tiny feet. They were warm and soft and, I thought, very slightly sticky, like a gecko’s feet. They pattered down the length of my forearm and stopped and clung. I was pretty sure there were at least ten of them.

But I still didn’t want to go there, or unravel brand-new bits of me there, even if some of the natives were friendly. What if I couldn’t breathe or something? If the other me can’t breathe, will I die?

I folded the corner over, and as I creased the edge, my other hand came back from wherever, and there was only one hand and one piece of paper again. I felt a little sick, but that could just be . . . everything. When I took hold of the opposite corner of the page with my other hand, I hesitated and then tugged it gently too. That hand too developed an identical twin, and an invisible corner of that page stretched into gruuaa space. I felt Hix move (in the dark, unreliably sort-of lit by my flashlight on my ordinary hands, I couldn’t see her, whatever space she was or was not occupying) and then I felt her ruffly tongue on the back of that hand too.

I kept folding. As I did, the other remaining gruuaa scrambled up higher, hooking themselves over my shoulders, and reached around with—what? Small slightly sticky feet?—to pat my face and forehead. One of them was humming: a much deeper note than Hix’s. There was a faint sweet smell like strawberry jam.

I turned the almost-paper figure over and kept folding. And folding. The figure was beginning to throw off little crinkly gleams along its creased edges—or maybe that was something to do with the narrow beam of the flashlight, and the shadows my fingers made. I turned it off and stuffed it into a knapsack pocket. I took a deep breath. This was better, even if I couldn’t see very well. Because I couldn’t see very well. Last fold went in with an almost-audible tap like the last bang of a hammer against a nail already flush with the wall. I picked the little thing up, pulled its two extended ends, and . . . it bloomed.

Both my hands disappeared as they pulled, and the figure boiled over where my hands and wrists ought to be—my heart was thundering like a stampede—let me tell you it is terrifying when a piece of you disappears—although I could feel the figure against my invisible skin the way I could feel Hix, and the invisibleness was solid enough to be a darker darkness.

Hix streamed back up one arm and around my neck; the other few gruuaa were holding onto my hair and tucking themselves down the back of my collar as if preparing for the worst. This was not helping my state of mind. At least yesterday in the park Casimir had been there too. I wondered, wildly and frantically, as if I was never going to see them again, what the others were doing. I was rapidly losing track of up and down and there and here and sound and silence—and me and not-me or extra-me or super-me. I saw my algebra book flopping, no, clapping its covers open and shut almost like it was applauding; briefly I saw my baku, still tucked in against the front cover. I’d only used one page, but there was a huge rent out of the middle.

I shifted my (invisible) grip on my new figure, which seemed to be still unrolling and unrolling and unrolling like an infinitely long reel of some thistledown fabric—a swell of it touched my face and blew back over my head—I clutched at it as if it was real fabric, yanked a billow of it forward, till it caught around my algebra book too—

—And then as the invisible, inaudible, intangible other thing began to lift me up out of the world there was a frantic flurry of feet, a thump, and a tiny anxious yelp as something only too my-world real slammed into me. “Mongo! I told you to—” But the other thing was pulling me away. No. No. I can’t—I heard the even-more-frantic scrabbling of those feet and a don’t-leave-me-behind whine, and I writhed, half in and half out of the world I knew and the world I didn’t, grabbed for his collar, wrapped an arm around as much of his body as I could reach—

—And dissolved into not-me. Mongo was gone with everything else. Mongo, I thought. If you’ve killed yourself because you’re too stupid to obey orders—

I was pretty sure I was crying, if not-me had tear ducts.

Maggie? said a shocked, familiar voice with a thicker-than-usual Orzaskan accent. Is that you? Don’t do it! Go back! It’s much too dangerous!

Shut up, I said. We’re rescuing you.

Mongo, I thought. Where are you? But there was no answer: no not-Mongo not-yelp or not-whine. No not-tail whumping against my not-legs.

I banged into something hard and found myself sprawling—on a rough cold cement floor. My knapsack slammed painfully into my back. Even through my jeans I lost some skin as I skidded across that floor. But at least they were my legs, my jeans, and a cement floor I could understand. There was a shout—a way-too-audible shout—and then confusion, and something big and silvery-grey seemed to bound over me and toward the shouting—and then there was a thud, like a heavy body hitting the floor, and silence.

But as I pushed myself painfully up to a sitting position there was a sense again of something blooming against my hands—no, in my arms—pressing against my bruised chest—something furry—“Mongo!” I wrapped my arms around him so tightly I managed to get nearly all of him on my lap as I sat with my legs bent under me on the cement floor of . . .

A tattered little paper thing that had somehow inserted itself under Mongo’s collar came loose, and floated to the floor.

Mongo was shivering and panting and making tiny frightened noises—even while he was licking my face he was whining, unhappy little anh anh anh noises, and I didn’t know what to do: I’d had a hard enough time being not-me, and I could guess that a dog, with no semi-comforting intellectual concept of a division between body and mind, would have found the experience of not-me even worse than I had. But here was Hix, pattering down my shoulder, onto Mongo, winding herself around his neck. She began to hum. Mongo put his head under my arm and I got an arm around his butt. This was about the most uncomfortable position I had ever been in in my life, and I was going to be able to stand it for about a second and a half. But I could feel him beginning to relax. In a weird way he seemed to get heavier, as if he was finishing the journey, bringing the rest of himself through to this place.