Hangme,Ohangme,andI’llbedeadandgone,

           Hangme,Ohangme,andI’llbedeadandgone,

           Iwouldn’tmindthehangin’,it’sbein’gonesolong,

           It’slyin’inthegravesolong.

           —OLDSONG

           ThefirstdaythatShadowhungfromthetreeheexperiencedonlydiscomfort,thatedgedslowlyintopainandfearand,occasionally,anemotionthatwassomewherebetweenboredomandapathy:agrayacceptance,awaiting.

           Hehung.

           Thewindwasstill.

           Afterseveralhoursfleetingburstsofcolorstartedtoexplodeacrosshisvisioninblossomsofcrimsonandgold,throbbingandpulsingwithalifeoftheirown.

           Thepaininhisarmsandlegsbecame,bydegrees,intolerable.Ifherelaxedthem,lethisbodygoslackanddangle,ifhefloppedforward,thentheropearoundhisneckwouldtakeuptheslackandtheworldwouldshimmerandswim.Sohepushedhimselfbackagainstthetrunkofthetree.Hecouldfeelhisheartlaboringinhischest,apoundingarrhythmictattooasitpumpedthebloodthroughhisbody…

           Emeraldsandsapphiresandrubiescrystallizedandburstinfrontofhiseyes.Hisbreathcameinshallowgulps.Thebarkofthetreewasroughagainsthisback.Thechilloftheafternoononhisnakedskinmadehimshiver,madehisfleshprickleandgoose.

           It’seasy,saidsomeoneinthebackofhishead.There’satricktoit.