Not very far from Barty by then, a lone spider dangled down from a thin silk thread, like the acrobat in a circus preparing to jump. Snow whirled and dashed across the window, leaving odd shadows on the spider's abdomen.
Nanna Swamp's warm blue eyes traced the thread, as she waited for the inevitable. Deep lines wrinkled her face, telling the story of her life in poems of a language long forgotten. She had seen a lot of good and a lot of bad, and her chest tightened at the knowledge that she would soon see more of both.
Lying next to her veined and wrinkled hand, resting on the grainy wood of the windowsill, were several cards, arranged in a haphazard cross shape. Their drawings and names had faded, and written over in neat capital letters to make their meanings clear. "FOOL," read one, "WHEEL," read another.
She had relied on these cards for many years, and had always seen their predictions come true: like dark clouds predicting rain.
Nanna Swamp was born Nanette Demergot, but even her parents called her Nanna. Some said it was because of her blue eyes, or her almost-white blonde hair, but deep down it came from her motherly attitude toward everything: from bugs to flowers, toys and clothes, she took loving care of everything she owned or met. So they called her Nanna.
Her misted breath came out strangled as she sighed. Decades ago she had sighed the same sigh in front of the same window, though back then her lungs were new...
It had been just as snowy, though particularly darker. The clouds had gathered thickly and little if any sunlight could penetrate the cotton blanket. Her sigh had been one of boredom, of loneliness. Back then she did not have her instruments or her pets to entertain herself.
Nanna smiled as she remembered the sound of the tiny footsteps on snow. A soft pit, pat that was beyond the window's limits. Little Nanna had tried to see, pressing her face against the icy glass. Her gasp had been drowned out by the cold wind when she saw the small man. The memory had faded a bit, blended with others, but one thing that kept with her was the faerie's coat. It had been made of a rich blue felt that trailed blue smoke, with golden embroidery that shifted in tune to a silent song. Her eyes had traced every bit of the coat, but it was the diamonds that held her gaze. They glowed a faint light blue, looking more like blue fireflies than diamonds.
Little Nanna had put on her own brown coat and run outside, wading through the snow and the wind and the vines to find the faerie and his brilliant diamonds. But he had left, leaving Nanna with an aching desire to uncover the secrets of the world, and keep them to herself the way she would have kept the blue diamonds.

In cold delirium, Barty wished he had a large painbrush, for all he could see was a huge white canvas.
His only hope of reaching Nanna Swamp's place was that some of the more familiar trees weren't entirely coated in snow. Here and there, he saw green smudges that faded and descended in the billowing snow.
In an effort to grasp his sanity with both hands, he looked at the ground, watching as his booted feet pit-patted in hypnotic rythm. He held on to that, fearful of what the locals called white-out: sometimes the whirling snow and white landscape would completely dissapear the horizon, leaving a victim feeling as if they were lost in white; all notion of up, down, left and right would be lost and eventually the victim would go into a delirious state, often staying like that until someone found them, babbling on an on about being lost.
Though strained from the constant white, Barty's eyes were still sharp enough to see the difference between the snow-covered gravel and the snow-covered ice. He kept his balance and looked up.
It was then that he noticed how silent everything had suddenly become. The snow seemed to blow around the frozen swamp.
He realized it was the same stillness that had invaded the town the night he and Valerie had wheeled Rigel to the river. It was a sort of isolation, like everything beyond that quiet place had stopped existing.
As the calm snowflakes fell down at a much more comfortable pace, Barty began to notice a figure at the other end of the swamp. For a few seconds, he wondered if he was having a religious experience: the figure looked like it was crucified. Shaking his head, he saw that it was just a scarecrow. A scarecrow that was following Barty's lazy movements, that, unhindered by friction and propelled by leftover momentum, carried him in a diagonal line towards Nanna Swamp's cottage.
Eventually he slid to a stop in front of the scarecrow, and he noticed that instead of a sack for a face, a large old crow sat on it's shoulders. It sat comfortably under a large brown hat.
"Wotcher, stranger." it called, in a shrill, worn voice.
Barty was surprised at himself. He should have at least jumped back and screamed at the sight of a talking bird, yet he merely frowned and raised a frozen eyebrow. "Hello."
"Watchoo here for, stranger?" it asked.
"I wanna sp-speak to Nanna S-s-swamp." his voice trembled with the cold. The crow regarded him with one tired eye, it's head tilting robotically. With a screetch that made Barty jump back, it flew off. The hat spun on the stick that jutted out from the scarecrow's shoulders. He vaguely recognized the irony of a crow being a scarecrow's head, but was too cold and nervous to care.
He got up, hearing his many jackets and pants go fsssp! As he looked at the mad crow and watched the black feathers contrast against the all-white canvas, he realized that there was no backing out now. He'd slipped into the rabbit hole and had nothing to hold onto anymore.

"I'd like to call you stupid for coming to me in this weather," said Nanna Swamp, holding out a chipped wooden cup towards Barty. Vapor rose from it, curling into vague shapes before fading. With numb hands that shook unsteadily, Barty took the cup, savouring the warmth it gave his cold hands.
"And why don't you?" he asked, his voice frighteningly low and weak.
"I'm afraid I already knew you were coming..." she said and, at Barty's unconvincingly surprised eyes, said "Dear, you can stop pretending that you don't believe the stories that I'm a witch."
"So you are a witch?"
"Of course not." she replied, pausuing, before adding, "I'm just an old lady... who knows some of nature's deepest secrets."
"Like talking birds?" he asked, grinning as he raised the cup to his mouth carefully.
"And how to make the best hot chocolate," she said, pouring herself a cup.
"Agreed," said Barty, feeling content and warm already. Although most people avoided her because she was said to be a witch, Barty had always liked her. She was the grandmother he'd never had. Or at least, never met. And though he'd never mentioned it, he'd seen more than enough while helping her with house or the garden to be suspicious that she was a witch: the crow that sometimes acted a bit too cleverly, the strangely labeled bottles, her bookcase full of odd books on faeries and alchemy, and how she always knew how he was feeling. So he wasn't entirely surprised now that he'd heard the bird speak and Nanna admit she was more than normal.
"You look nervous." she said, staring at his shaking hands, "Or is it just the cold?"
"A bit of both, actually."
"And why's that, dear boy?"
"Well... I need your help, Nanna."
He watched her, her eyes lingering aprehensively on a deck of cards, a sigh that ran out of her wrinkled mouth like a pale horse. And then, like a leaf turning in the wind, she was the usual wise, sure Nanna Swamp.
"My help with what?"
Thinking again of the rabbit hole and Wonderland, Barty pulled out the old journal from his jacket. Looking down like a guilty toddler, he gave her the withered notebook, it's pages turned to the last, and probably most important, entry.

Twigs snapped under Barty's now wet boots, small disturbances in the calm forest silence. The ground was only lightly dusted with snow, as the leaves and branches above caught most of it. He'd taken a warmer shortcut back, as Nanna wanted to be sure he was safe.
Barty sighed nervously. Now that his brain wasn't half frozen and his thoughts were comprised of more than three words each, he was able to see clearly how stupid he was being. Not only had he almost killed himself of cold, but he had done so because he was looking for a place that he wasn't even sure existed. True, he was heading back home now, but only to get on a bus later and go to Dommel's place in the city, where he might get shot and mugged. He shuddered at the thought.
And through this, he wasn't even completely sure what he was looking for.... Memories? Magic? Perhaps answers, but answers to what?
Like how my father died, he thought back at himself, why my mother won't even talk about it, why she even hid all his journals!
Barty knew his father was a great man. It was in the way his mother's eyes lit up, her smile warmed, whenever a relative would tell a story about his dad. It was in the silence that permeated a crowd several seconds, right after laughing joyously at one of the stories. It was in the little things that Barty learned to love the father he'd never met.
Tightening his scarf aroound his neck a bit more, he emerged from the trees into the snowy wind. He slipped and scrabbled up a small hill of gravel before finally stepping on firm pavement.
With cold hands he caught his breath, and resumed walking, eventually reaching a small playground. His spine tingled as, once again, he felt a strange isolation.
The sound of cars driving by faded. The wind seemed to still. The snow seemed to slow.
The playground itself was eerily empty: the swingset swung idly, the see-saws simply sat there, and everything else stood still and quiet. Barty walked quickly, his heart racing as he heard the swings creak and saw the shadows shift at the corners of his eyes.
Between the sandman fiasco and Nanna's talking crow, Barty had learned to associate the eerie stillness and silence with the coming of the odd creature, a thought that made him hurry at that moment across the soft, kid-proof ground. He didn't really want to make any new friends at that moment.
Hopping over a small fence and hurrying in between a couple of houses, Barty managed to reach his own in only half a minute.
One of the snowmen in front of the house had been knocked down into a heap of snow. It's relatives still smiled and waved for their picture, oblivious to their brother's demise, which unnerved Barty even more than the cold, empty silence.
His mood was not improved when his wet glove slipped repeatedly on the doorknob. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he peeled off his right glove, turning the knob brusquely. He winced: it's shiny metal was icy cold. His skin prickled at the sudden warmth inside. He smiled contently, the cold dripping off him quickly.
Walking forth, he heard the tinny voices and strange noises of the television in the living room. Walking by, he saw his mother snuggled up to Cal, sharing a duck-patterned blanket with him. He caught Barty's eye and wiggled his eyebrows. Barty forced a smile.
What would Cal think of his unsure quest for memories of his father? Barty wondered as he went up the stairs. More curiously, what would his mother and sister say if they knew he'd saved the sandman the other night?
The questions made him feel even more isolated than the strange stillness outside.
He needed to relax at his Spot, he decided as he left his wet coat, gloves, scarf and boots at his room. Dust clouds swam dreamily as he pulled down the stairs, and the wood creaked when he stepped up to the attic.
Though it was cold and drafty, Barty still felt a warmth of familiarity at his spot by the wide window. His eyes looked out over the pine trees, smothered in white snow. They glided over the hills and around the few houses he could see from that spot. But he wasn't really seeing it. Behind his eyes, his mind was a jumble of indecisions, debates, theories, nostalgic memories.
"Hey," said Becka, who had made no sound at all when she came up the stairs and crossed the attic to sit down next to him, "Saw you come inside and head right up here... you only do that when you're worried." She paused, looking at him, a note of curiosity and sisterly worry on her face, then she changed gears completely, "So wassup?"
Barty sighed, looking up and then back to her face, "Just stuff... Valerie's sick, the band's not being very cooperative..." he said, though his voice carried off, and Becka knew he'd left some things out.
There was a slight hesitant silence. Barty wished he could say more, and Becka wished he would say more. But neither was sure if pressing on was wise.
"Why do you always come up here?" Becka asked suddenly, changing her approach again, "The view's nice, but it's not that great."
Barty remained silent. The truth was, he didn't really have any good reason. He looked at Becka, noting instantly how much she looked like her mom. Same eyes, same mouth, same chin. And yet, she and Barty shared features that he knew were their dad's, though he couldn't be sure.
"Haven't you ever wondered what dad was like?" asked Barty, without thinking.
"Well... of course I have. I just... I try not to think about it too much, 'cause I know I'll make, like, in my mind this wonderful, charming dad and I'll miss that imaginary dad and... where's the sense in missing someone you've never known?"
Becka was only a year older than Barty, and her first memory was of their mom, sitting at the dinner table, pregnant tummy already swollen, crying. Their dad hadn't shown up in two weeks, and things looked grim.
They both sat there in silence, watching a V of ducks flying south. They were already late, and were hurrying along as fast as they could. Eventually, the phone rang and Becka hurried down, as silent and quick as ever.
Barty stayed there for a while, and it was already dark by the time he went down the wooden stairs, wincing as they creaked loudly.
Looking over the banister a craning his neck a bit, Barty could see that Becka was sitting next to their mom, a bowl of popcorn between them. Fake gunshots were punctuated by loud crunches of the movie snack.
Smirking, he walked to his room, emerging a few seconds later, chewing on a chocolate-and-granola bar he'd found between his sheets. The warm light of the hall nightlight reflected calmly off the bar's reflective wrapper.
Padding softly on gray socks and kicking away dvd cases, he walked down the hall to the last door. It was mostly dark inside, but the computer monitor's idle screen provided enough bluish light for Barty to reach the bed without knocking anything over. The dim light cast harsh shadows over everything, making the bed look like a barren, rocky landscape. His hands cast spidery shadows that danced over to the pillow, delivering a black rectangle that made a tower of shadow rise proudly over the blue rocks and dunes.
Barty walked out, smiling to himself as he stuffed the two pages he'd ripped out into his pajama pocket.