I perch on a branch near the top of an old oak tree, watching through the scope of my sniper rifle at the scene several hundred meters away.
Eli unwinds the rope from around Mikey’s shoulders, then his wrists. With his arms free, Mikey rubs his bruises and cowers in response to something Eli says. But he nods his head and Eli tosses a clean shirt at his chest. Mikey struggles to put it on and then limps off toward the camp entrance.
Eli insisted I stay back. And by ‘insist’ I mean he said less than three words and I didn’t argue. This could easily turn into a trap. I know that. He does too. Mikey could betray us or simply be found out and then we have a camp full of angry men descending upon us. All because I felt sentimental. I shift in my spot, getting comfortable for the long wait ahead. With the sunset, I ready myself for the night chill. If things go haywire I’ll jump on my horse I left tied off at the base of the tree and race away. Eli can fend for himself, besides I won’t be much help in a fight. If I shoot from this distance I’ll probably miss and only accomplish giving away my position.
With every passing hour, my eyelids grow heavier. My mind wanders to the mysterious man standing still as a statue below. Eli leans against a tree, arms crossed in a relaxed fashion as he waits. The mask has remained on the entire time Mikey traveled with us. Part of me wonders if I will ever see his face again. Surely he knows my excuse to keep Mikey alive is just that: an excuse. He barely said five words since that afternoon when I spoke up.
Is he mad at me for interfering? Maybe he will walk away if things go haywire. Or decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth and stop this good guy charade. Tie me up and do whatever he wants like the chief.
No.
He wouldn’t do that. Eli never once gave me a reason to think such a thing. The way he kills is monstrous but he remains the only monster in this world who held my freedom in his hand and offered it back to me.
The threads of my mind begin to fray and stretch and I feel myself drift when a sudden sharp, high-pitched whistle pierces the air, almost like an eagle’s shriek. My eyes shoot open and I look through the rifle’s scope. Eli is gone. The space is empty. But a second whistle draws my attention downward.
At the base of my tree stands Eli, my bag in hand. Did I fall asleep? The morning sun begins to peak over the horizon. Eli waits patiently, handing my bag over once I get on my horse. Inside I find my uncle’s journal and a few other things from my past life. Mikey did well.
We travel in silence for most of the day. When we stop to make camp Eli lowers the scarf and lifts his goggles. I let myself stare. There is no anger, at least none that I can see. But he avoids my gaze.
“Are you upset with me?” I ask.
“What?”
“I interfered earlier. With the boy, Mikey. I stopped you from killing him.”
He frowns but continues to stare into the fire. “I’m not upset with you.”
“But there is something.”
His lips press together as he fidgets with the stick of roasting meat. “Is he someone important to you?”
“No.”
He turns to me, brows knit. “Then… why?”
“You kill too easily, Eli,” I say quietly. “Sometimes it is necessary, I understand that. You saved my life twice and for that I am grateful. But watching a man die is not an easy thing for me.”
Silence stretches between us as he returns his gaze to the fire. It crackles and pops as fat drips from the roasting meat above. A strange calm passes over the forest as the sun dips below the horizon and crickets pick up their chorus. Eli seems lost in thought during dinner and I let him think. He is a part of this world but I am from the one that came before. In this one, I am lost but I think he becomes lost in mine too.
The next morning I catch him before he heads out to hunt. “Want some company?” I ask, holding up the compound bow he talked me into.
He stops, eyes jumping between me and the weapon, then gives a nod.
I never realized how much noise I make running through the woods until now, following behind Eli. His every movement is measured. Controlled. And yet, his steps are quick, he could race a deer and probably win. That is if the thing even knew he was there.
Maybe a mile in he pauses, crouching. He holds out his arm and I stop, joining him near the earth. His gaze leads to a young buck over one hundred feet off in a clearing. He pulls out his bow, gesturing for me to draw back on mine.
As I pull the string tight, Eli’s eyes sweep across my form. He touches my elbow, raising it, and the contact traps my mind in place. Moving behind me, the softest pressure appears on the small of my back and I straighten, my breath catching. He stands over my shoulder now, sending warm breath ghosting across my collarbone.
“Now, when you’re ready, relax your hand.”
Moments pass with him there behind me, waiting. I spare a glance back. Big mistake. He is close. Freckles dust the bridge of his nose and flecks of gold and white spark in his eyes. But his eyes aren’t on my bow or my form. They’re on me. For a moment time stops as my mind, my breath, my soul, gets snared in his steady gaze.
I suck in a shallow breath and tear my eyes free, turning my focus back to the deer. It hasn’t moved. It’s all or nothing. I look through the bow’s scope, lining the shot with the buck. I need to get a kill shot otherwise I risk wounding it only for it to escape and die slowly from its injuries.
The arrow flies free, whistling through the air and landing solidly in the bucks middle.
Yes!
Wait, no. It leaps forward, getting away. I reach for another arrow but as I do Eli shoots and the buck falls.
“You’re a natural.” He says.
I bite away frustration at myself. “It almost got away.”
“It won’t so long as I’m here. You did very well.”
Such a simple thing. A compliment. But a wave of warmth floods my body. We start toward the kill. His arrow went through its left eye, killing it instantly.
Wow. “You’re a really good shot.”
Now that is not a compliment, it’s a simple and scientific observation of reality. The precision needed for such a shot and the fact he took no time to line it up leaves me dumbfounded.
I sit a little ways away as Eli cleans and skins the kill. The man is nothing if not efficient, but also, beautiful. He manages to turn it into an art. Every stroke is confident and purposeful. My arrow ruined what would have been a wonderful piece of leather but with all the extra meat we will have food for a long time.
Together we place the meat to dry and I steal glances his way. He seems hyper-focused on the task at hand just like that first morning. What kind of thoughts race behind those keen eyes?
“You know, back at that bridge, when I cut the rope and you fell…” I rub my hands together, soothing the anxiety taking up sudden residence in my chest. “I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry—”
His gaze shoots up. “Don’t apologize. It helped me remember.”
“Remember?”
“To listen. I had started to become something I walked away from years ago.”
Cryptic as per usual. I steal a glance up as I reach for another strip of meat. “And what is that?”
“A man lost to his own fears.” He stirs glowing coals, sending embers swirling upward like fireflies in the night. “Some run towards their fears, and others run away. At that moment on the bridge, you showed me which direction I had been running.”
“Away?”
“Yes.” He crouches with his hands gripping the stick and lets his head rest against the wood. “I was afraid that if I did not follow, something horrible would happen to you. But in the process I imposed myself, unwelcome into your life.” His gaze turns distant, “I discovered long ago that running from your fears is the root of all kinds of misery. For yourself and for others.”
His eyes ache with regret in the firelight. I can only wonder what kind of history lies beneath that gaze. Even if he is older than me, he seems too young for such words. For such a look.
“How did you know to stay there and wait for me? Did you know I would come back?”
“I thought if you changed your mind, you might return to the last place you saw me.”
“So you just waited?”
He nods.
“How long before you would have turned back?”
He shrugs and the corners of his lips quirk up at the edges. “My schedule is usually pretty open.”
~~~
We follow a stream and I close my eyes against the sound of rushing water. Hot sun beats down through fluttering maple leaves overhead and sweat trickles along the back of my neck, tickling as it goes. I pass a swimming hole with a steep rock face rising up one side and a sandy shore along the other. Cool, crystal water beckons me but I press on.
When Eli’s horse drops back I glance behind. He stands beside his horse and I glimpse toned, solid muscle as he whips his shirt away and strips down to his boxers. I snap my head back around, stopping my horse, face like fire.
A splash from behind eases my nerves. I guess it’s bath time. I lead my horse back around, stealing glances at the man. He seems completely oblivious, moving freely in the water, disappearing occasionally under its surface only to reappear moments later.
Twenty minutes in and I slump in the saddle. This is no quick dip in the pool so I busy myself with the horses, brushing them down and giving them a few treats as I wait. Eli’s horse seems especially fond of the dried venison and I wonder how often the man sneaks it a bite or two of his dinner. I lean back on a tree, snacking on some leftovers when I hear him leave the pool. But instead of getting dressed, he climbs up the side of the rock face. The muscles in his back flex and bend with effort and water streams off his skin in rivulets.
At the top, he plops down in the sun. From this angle, all I see is a portion of one leg but it doesn’t move. Ten more minutes pass and I heave a sigh. Did he fall asleep up there?
His pile of clothes lay beside the beautiful crystal water. It would be nice to not smell like grime, sweat, and horse. But how stupid would I have to be to bathe with a man twenty feet away?
But it’s Eli.
And I guess it wouldn't even be the first time.
I glance at the rocks. He still hasn’t moved.
Quiet as a mouse I strip down to my underwear and slip into the water. Gooseflesh crawls up my arms as I wade in, stopping when the water reaches my waist. Tiny minnows dart around my ankles and crawdads lumber across smooth stones a few feet away. I scrub every last inch of my body with some ancient, peach-scented bars of soap from the last town while making regular glances up at Eli. Still unmoving. Maybe he did fall asleep.
After removing every last speck of filth from my skin and untangling my mess of hair, I turn my attention to my clothes. It would be a shame to have to put the same stinky, sweat-soaked things back on. I climb out of the water and toss on an oversized coat, gathering up all the clothes to scrub them down. When I pick up Eli’s pants something hard and shiny falls out, landing in the sandy dirt. A pocket watch.
I slowly turn it around in my hand. The simple gold finish is smooth beneath my fingertips. I pop it open, the clock has long since stopped but there in the wing sits a picture of a man and woman. Between them grins a little girl in a yellow dress with a missing front tooth. The man resembles Eli if you add ten years and the woman is at least seven months pregnant. I close it and glance up. How long has the man been out here by himself? When did he wake from the stone? I check the rest of his pockets to avoid accidentally dunking something valuable. When I finish hanging everything up to dry, I stare up at where Eli lays and fiddle with the gold watch in my pocket, my curiosity growing.
After some extensive exploring, I find a way up to Eli that does not involve any vertical rock climbing, only some bouldering. I pull myself over the last rock and see him still laying there in the sun.
It takes a lot of willpower to not stare. He's lean and well-muscled with a beautiful olive skin tone to boot. But scars mar every inch of his chest. Most are old and faded into white slivers but the sheer number is sobering. The shine of a chain around his neck catches my eye. It holds a simple gold ring fashioned with a diamond in the middle. I crouch down beside him, peering at the curious thing—a woman’s ring. Perhaps from a fiance? Or wife?
I glance at his face to see if he truly sleeps. He lies motionless, breathing silently. I wave a hand in front of his eyes. No response, his lids don’t flicker and his breathing remains steady. With a few more moments of intense staring, I feel satisfied and silently take a seat nearby.
My feet dangle over the rocky edge as he sleeps behind me. The wind rushes past, sending the sea of green treetops rippling. A few locks of my drying hair catch the breeze and tumble about my shoulders and back. My muscles ease, my mind, unwinding and for a moment I forget where I am. I forget this is the end of the world. The fears and constant anxiety settles into the cracks of my mind out of sight. I turn Eli’s watch over and over in my hand.
“I don’t know how long you’ve been out here but I’ve never met anyone as terrifying as you,” I whisper to the sleeping man behind me, my words swept away by the breeze. “You kill men as easily as you breathe air.”
It feels good to speak to someone, anyone, after all this time. Even if that person is unconscious. Like the flood of relief that comes when you finally stretch a muscle kept clenched tight so long you forgot it could move. So I continue.
“And yet…” I hug my leg, resting my chin on my knee. “Somehow I still think you are a good person.”
I hold out the watch and rub my thumb across the shiny gold, “the people here forget their old lives. They forget their families. Their humanity. But somehow you didn’t.”
My gaze wanders back to the sleeping, shirtless man behind me. I gasp, my body jerking and nearly sending me tumbling over the edge of the cliff. He lays there on his side, head propped up in his hand, watching me.
“When did you…I thought you were asleep.”
How much did he hear? I cover my burning face with a hand and shift to rub my neck anxiously. I hold out my hand, his pocket watch hanging by its chain at the end.
“I found this in your pants.”
In his pants.
My face burns hotter than the surface of the sun and I want to crawl into a hole and die.
“I mean, it fell out when I was cleaning the clothes.”
He takes the watch from me and sits up, cross-legged, seemingly oblivious to my plight of humiliation. The watch turns over in his hand before he pops it open and stares at the picture.
“I woke up from the stone sleep when I was twelve. Almost died that first day.”
He speaks quietly but I feel the forest around us hush. The breeze settles and the birds soften their voices. I inch around to face him.
“A bunch of raiders found me and wanted to see how tough a little kid could be. I should have died a thousand times.”
I imagine a mere twelve-year-old in that pit and my stomach churns. Then I remember the marks. Those countless white lines marring his skin, curving and twisting.
“No one should have to go through that,” I say quietly.
He looks up at me.
“I was not always the man I am now.” He glances down at the watch. “There was a time I forgot my humanity. My family.”
I remember the way he kills. The fluid movement of his blades through the air and the absolute lack of hesitation or remorse.
“What made you remember again?”
His finger traces the picture. “My sister.”
“Is she …?”
He shakes his head. “She passed away one year before everyone turned to stone. But before she died she left me letters.” He smiles. “Somehow they managed to survive a couple of hundred years.”
The sun disappears behind some clouds and a shadow envelops us. A line of ants march valiantly along the edge of a rock and cicadas sing their symphony in the trees all around.
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“I have a little brother,” I say.
He looks up.
“He’s just thirteen. I need to know what’s happened to him. That’s why I’m heading East. I have to hope Vanny is still out there.”
“Vanny? Is that his name?” His words come out quickly, strangely alert. His gaze—intense.
“A nickname. He was obsessed with magic so I called him Vanny the Great. He loved it.” I smile at the memory. “But his name is Ivan.”
Eli’s face pales and his eyes fall away. The watch disappears into his fist and when he looks back up at me, there is pain but he covers it with a small smile.
“I’m sure you’ll find him.”
My brows crease. What was that? I open my mouth to ask but quick as a gunshot he shoots up and starts down the cliff to where I left our clothes hanging on some branches by the horses.
He knows something.
I chase after him but by the time I reach the horses he is already fully dressed. He pulls his hood down, scarf up, goggles on, and grabs his bow and quiver, already turning for the woods.
“Do you know my brother?” I ask but he disappears behind the brush without so much as a glance back.
What the hell was that?
And what about that look earlier? Does he know my brother? Or maybe he used to?
My heart stops as another thought manifests, burying itself deep.
Did he kill my brother?
No. I shove it away with a shake of my head. I might not know Eli very well but I won't jump to such horrible conclusions. His behavior just now might be odd but this world is foreign to me. What is odd for me could be perfectly normal for everyone else.
The sun sinks low on the horizon and shadows stretch along the ground with long spidery fingers. He's never gone this long when he hunts. With each passing hour, suspicion rears its ugly head but I stomp it down every time.
Just as I begin doubting Eli will show up before dark, he walks in from the woods with two skinned rabbits in hand. The last glimpses of sunlight fade as he approaches the fire I made and sets his catches above it to cook.
He takes a seat far away, barely within the fires’ light, still wearing his goggles and scarf. Nothing but a crackling pop of pine sap fills the campsite, sending tiny sparks of light swirling upward into the deep blue night.
About an hour passes before the rabbits finish cooking and Eli hands me one on a spit.
“Thank you—and not just for dinner,” I say before he has a chance to escape to his spot across the fire. “But for everything. For stopping those raiders and saving me from the men on the bridge. And listening about Mikey.”
He just stands there, staring. Then, slowly, he reaches down and lowers the scarf. As he pushes the goggles away our eyes meet and I sense unease. So I offer a small smile.
The unease fades and he takes a seat closer.
We eat in silence.
Part of me itches to ask him about Ivan. But something about the moment warns me not to. So I stare at the flames, stuffing my face with roasted rabbit instead.
The next day things return to normal between us, at least, from the outside. We clean camp and set off down the old road. Eli is quiet. He's always quiet but for some reason this time feels different. I keep looking for the right moment to bring up Ivan but I can't. It's like something took up residence between us overnight.
We reach an old city. It's larger than the ones I saw further west, with skyscrapers towering on the left and right. The horses' hooves clip clop against old asphalt and a million finches sing a chirping greeting as we pass beneath the body of one skyscraper leaning against its neighbor. The glass and metal structure is now a skeleton of the past, covered in vines.
I keep my gaze skyward, staring hundreds of feet above to the bright, blue morning expanse beyond. A flock of birds flutter overhead, ebbing and swaying like a dancer across the sky. A chilly breeze kicks up and bites at my cheeks, sending my eyes watering.
When the road meets a four way stop, Eli's horse veers off to the right. I watch for a moment, curious, and nudge my horse to follow.
We take a few more turns through the streets before I notice them. Faded signs from the old world directing us toward the Denver Public Library.
A library. He's taking us to a library.
The large structure has a unique, modern architectural design made of glass, steel and stone. The building walls are a mishmash of shapes and angles. Flat edges meet rounded walls and pyramid roofs lined with windows.
He dismounts, stepping through broken glass doors. I hesitate to follow as his form disappears into darkness. A quick glance around confirms we're alone. I could wait here for him to come back out but the last detour he took by the swimming hole ended up lasting hours.
I step into the building.
“Eli?”
I blink at the darkness, letting my eyes adjust.
“Over here.”
I shuffle a bit toward the sound of his voice, disturbing small piles of leaf litter, dirt and gravel.
Soft beams of morning sunlight stream in from the broken windows all around the large, open space. The center holds a mine shaft-looking wooden structure with a geometric design, rising up at least three stories to the circular rooftop. Rows and rows of bookshelves encircle the area.
Eli rummages through a nearby shelf. I join him and pull out a dusty book. The old paperback falls apart in my hand and ruined binding sends the crispy, yellow pages spilling everywhere.
“What are you looking for?” I ask, shoving the remains of the book back onto the shelf.
Eli thumbs through the ancient collection pulling out one or two, examining them, and then sliding them back in again.
“The useful ones.” He mumbles as his eyes scan the old texts.
I wait for more but as usual, I am met with nothing except the soft flipping of pages.
Whatever this is, it’s going to take a while.
So I abandon Eli to his decrepit books and step down the aisle.
It feels like another world. A poor, faded, fragile imitation of my own. Yet still so similar. It's eerie. Except for the small piles of leaves and debris and thick coating of dust, you would never know the world ended, at least not at first glance. It's so different from everywhere else where nature invades and walls crumble. Outside this place, the old world exists as skeletons. But here, it's a fully preserved dead body.
I wander for quite some time, getting distracted with a book or two before heading toward the front desk in curiosity. A statue sits behind it. An older woman maybe in her forties with books piled high on either side. Her left hand is frozen, rubbing the bridge of her nose with a thumb and forefinger. Beneath her other hand rests a picture book. The sight of it sends an electric shock through my bones and catches my breath.
Little Mouse and Wolf.
I know this book. It was Ivan's favorite and instinctually, I reach out to touch the faded blue letters of the title. My fingers quiver and images flood my mind like a tornado.
“Ivan, I have your ice cream—” I pause in the doorway, a waffle cone in each hand.
His room is a mess. Papers scattered everywhere and stuffed animals littered among piles of clothes. He kneels beside the bookshelf, frantically tossing what few books remain upright onto the floor.
“What's going on in here?”
Concern colors my tone as I walk over to him. As I do he bolts upright, grabbing at the sides of his head, fists full of hair.
“I can't find it!” he bursts, eyes skittering across the room before landing on something across the way. He runs over to it, digging through toys and clothes.
I blink in surprise.
“Find what?”
“It! I can't find it!” Impatience and panic force his words out all at once. Then he stops and adds, “The book! I need to find the book.”
I frown and follow before crouching beside him, holding out the ice cream cone.
“Can it wait until after ice—”
As I say the word ‘cream’ he whips around—arms flailing—and knocks the sugary treat from my hand, sending it flying. It smashes into the floor leaving a wet, creamy, sticky blob in its wake.
He stops in shock, blinks, and then tears swell in his eyes.
I sigh and hold out my remaining cone.
“It's fine. Here, you can have mine.”
“I don't want your stupid ice cream!” he shouts before running and crashing onto his bed, burying his face into his pillow and crying.
Now it's my turn to stop and stare in shock. Who is this kid? Ivan never shouts and rarely cries. And he certainly never destroys his room in pursuit of something as simple as a book.
Coldness invades the edges of my hand. A long spidery, pale, green finger of ice cream creeps down from the cone. I lick it away and enjoy a momentary burst of mint chip.
That's the other thing. Ivan loves mint chip. He always has. I can't remember the last time he asked for anything that wasn't mint chip. But the melting blob on the floor is rocky road. A flavor always in the house but only because of mom and dad. They used to eat it together.
Mom and dad.
Then it hits me. This isn't about ice cream or a book.
I take a seat on the bed beside him. He cries into the pillow and I reach out to gently rub his back. After a moment, the crying subsides and he lifts red puffy eyes accompanied by a tear stained face in my direction.
“I'm sorry.” he mumbles miserably.
“It's okay. I miss them too.”
Just saying the words, they get caught in my throat and my eyes mist. Which is all Ivan needs to burst into tears all over again. Only instead of the pillow this time, he rams his face into my side and starts to bawl.
I hold him the best I can with one hand, petting his head and back. The funeral was a week ago. I guess I should expect this kind of thing. He's only ten. There's probably a lot more acting out in the coming months. Fights at school maybe. Calls from the principal.
But he'll make it. We both will. We have Uncle. Still, nothing will ever be the same. I swallow a knot in my throat and resist a tear slipping down my cheek. When Ivan looks up I give him a smile and quickly wipe the escapee away.
His gaze wanders to my remaining ice cream cone and a sudden coldness registers on my fingers. Minty, dessert crawls all over my hand, threatening to send sticky, green drips everywhere.
“I made a mess.” He looks upset at the melting blob of rocky road.
I shrug, “It's fine. I don't really feel like eating ice cream either. In fact…”
I chuck the dripping mess of mint chip at the floor and it lands right next to the rocky road. The cone sticks upright as the gooey pile slowly spreads out.
Ivan gasps in shock and then bursts out laughing. I grin back at him, wiping my sticky fingers on my pants.
“But what about the floor?”
I shrug. “It's just carpet. You—” I bop his nose with a still-sticky finger. “–are far more important than any carpet.”
He giggles, rubbing his nose where I left a pale green sticky spot.
After a while I ask, “You wanna tell me what's going on?”
His smile slowly fades into nothing. When he speaks, it's in a small voice.
“I'm scared.”
I wrap my arms around his shoulders and give him a squeeze.
“It's okay, Uncle will take care of–”
“No—” his lips form a thin, tight line. “I'm scared of forgetting mom and dad. What if I forget what they look like?” His voice quivers as a hiccup cry escapes his chest. “Or sound like?”
That first night after the funeral I had a dream or maybe it was a nightmare. I still don't know. But it was a warm, summer day. Mom pushed me on the old swing tied up to the giant oak in the backyard as Dad chased Ivan with the hose. I can still hear Ivan's squeals of panicked, playful delight through the morning air. There was a small, yellow flower tucked neatly behind moms ear. Her soft, gentle smile. Everything was perfect.
Then I woke up. And they were gone.
I'll never forget the way the world shattered all over again. The way I shattered all over again.
When I was little, I used to have nightmares where mom and dad died. The all-consuming terror made me burst into tears and run crying to their room. But as awful as that was, at the end of the day they were still alive and well. It was just a nightmare.
Only now, the nightmare is real. There is no waking up.
“You won't forget mom and dad.” I brush Ivans bangs to the side. “Because I'm here. I'll help you remember.”
Fresh tears well up and his voice chokes. “You promise?”
I pull him into a hug and kiss the top of his head. “I promise, Vanny. I'm not going anywhere.”
He squeezes me tighter when I spy a familiar yellow book jacket peeking out from the space between the bed and nightstand. I reach over and pull it out.
Little Mouse and Wolf.
Ivan snatches it with an excited shout, “You found it!” He looks up at me with amazement then back down at the book. “Mom promised to read it before…”
His voice fades as his face falls. I gently pull the book from his hands and cozy up on the bed, folding my legs and patting the spot beside me. He squishes up under my arm.
“Little mouse and wolf.” I read, turning the cover. Inside is a beautiful watercolor painting of a forest with a stream running through. I read the words, “One day deep inside the forest there lived a wolf…”
The memory fades as my fingers brush across the ancient yellow cover. Somewhere in my chest it hurts. Ivan.
I slide the book out from beneath the stone woman's hand and hug it close. The hurt in my chest churns around and around like a sinkhole growing larger with every passing second. I feel myself emptying into it and somewhere in that void, anger rises up. It starts as a spark but quickly grows into a flame.
I step down rows and rows of books. With every step I feel my body grow tense, my fingers wrap tighter and tighter around the book at my chest. My gaze flicks past the aisles.
Late afternoon sun shows through the skylights overhead. The morning chill in the air is gone, replaced with a warm, humid undertone. A thin sheen of sweat clings to my neck. Somewhere in the rafters, sits a nest of crying baby birds.
When I see a pile of books on a table, I stop. Their covers are cleaned of dust. They seem in excellent condition. Eli stands down the aisle, reading. I walk up to him.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
His eyes continue to scan the pages. “Yes, some.”
“I found another for your collection.” I hold out Ivan's book.
He looks at it and stops. It has some water damage and the binding is held on by a hair. It's a far cry from the specimens sitting on the table back there.
“Sometimes it's not the condition but the quality that matters.” I hold the book out closer, prompting him to take it. “It was Ivan's favorite.”
He hesitates, frozen for just a moment. When he takes the book, it's slow and careful. But his mind is somewhere else. Glazed over with thoughts all his own.
“Our parents used to read it to us but after they died, I started reading it to him.”
He turns to go, returning to the pile of books. I follow. Overhead, the baby birds are screaming their lungs out.
“There was this time after school when…” I start but my thought dies as I notice Eli collecting up his books into a leather satchel. Then he heads for the exit, leaving Ivans book on the table. My jaw tenses.
I snatch it up and follow.
“Do you have something against me talking about Ivan?” I ask with a bite to my words, following him back outside.
He places the satchel into the pack on one of his horses and mounts it. As he kicks the horse forward I ask, “Do you know something about Ivan?”
And nothing. He doesn't so much as glance back. Shock, fear and fury coil inside me. I stand and watch him ride back down the way we came, heart pumping wildly in my chest.
Could he have killed Ivan? Would Eli kill a child? Then again, what if Ivan wasn’t a child at the time? He could have woken up years ago and grown into an adult. And I know how easily Eli ends a life.
My chest hurts and the air feels thin. I stumble to my horse and lean against it, trying to catch my breath.
Please no. Don’t let it be true.
But I need to know. If my brother is dead because Eli killed him then I can't forgive him. Ivan is my reason for living and right now, I need him as much as he needs me.
Tears wet my cheeks and angry fingers follow them, wiping the stains from existence. I must know the truth.
I mount my ride and follow Eli. But every time I try to lead my horse up beside him, he pushes on ahead. After several attempts I give up and spend the next several hours staring at his back—or rather, glaring at it.
When the sun grows low on the horizon he stops to make camp. The moment his foot touches earth I'm jumping off mine to meet him.
“Hey, I have some questions for–”
But he's already running off into the woods to hunt. This time I chase him, pushing past long, scratchy brush.
“Are you really going to ignore me?”
No response.
“Hey!” I have to run to keep up with his long strides. “Tell me what you know about Ivan. I deserve to know.”
He stops, “What makes you think I know anything?”
“Because you do. I know you do.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why are you acting this way?”
He masks up and disappears into the thick brush leaving me standing there trembling, with rage or fear, I'm not sure which. I should come out and ask him the question that sits at the tip of my tongue.
Did you kill a man named Ivan?
Did you kill my little brother?
But I can’t voice the words. It’s bad enough to just think them. If I say them out loud it feels as if they could be real. As if maybe Eli did do such a thing. And maybe Ivan is already long gone.
It never takes Eli this long to catch something.
He is avoiding me. He knows I have questions.
I start a fire as the sun sets with Eli missing. After finishing the leftover meat I have to open two cans of beans before finding one that isn’t moldy. It tastes disgusting. After dinner, I warm my fingers and stare dully at their silhouette against the flames. Maybe he got into trouble. Or maybe he ditched me.
The next morning instead of Eli I find a freshly caught bird roasting over a dying fire. So we’re back to this again.
I eat the food he left but every bite fuels my anger. I would tell him to get lost and never come back except I need answers only he can give. Mostly, I feel betrayed. If he knows something about my brother he should tell me. After all, it is my brother.
I have the campsite clean and canteens filled before he shows up, walking out of the woods toward his horse. He still wears that infuriating scarf and goggles.
When I approach him he heads the other way. Anything I say is met by silence or disappearance. Eventually it takes everything I have to not scream the question burning in the forefront of my mind.
Is Ivan already dead?
Something twists painfully in my chest and I bite down on my lip to keep tears from popping up. On top of losing everything else, I can’t lose this too. I always knew Ivan might have never made it. Or he woke up hundreds of years ago and is long gone like Uncle but I never let those thoughts blossom in my mind. Now, they grow like weeds and I can’t stomp them out.
No.
I won’t go there. Let me have this one thing. My brother is alive. Or he is a statue and I’ll protect him as Uncle did with me. I’ll write to him every day and when he wakes, he will know how to survive this horrible world.
With every passing day, the weed between Eli and me grows, and my frustration with it. Neither of us bends, between my insistence and his avoidance soon a wicked, thorny wall stands between us. It is a cold war. I cannot bear to be in his presence and it seems the same goes for him. It drives me insane.
In our brief encounters between setting up or cleaning camp, I find myself glaring at the back of his masked head. My thoughts wind toward the pistol on my hip. No, I won’t actually use it. Even as a threat. Besides, even under threat of death, I doubt the stubborn man would bend. So instead, my anger festers.
One morning, I try hunting on my own. Eli still catches us food but taking anything from that man is like dragging my hand through a bowl of glass shards. I don’t want anything from him except one thing which he refuses to give.
I whap at the tall grasses with my arrow, marching across the open field maybe half a mile from camp. The grass's fuzzy tops sway back and forth, tickling my elbows as I go. The ruckus will scare away any game but I don’t care. Movement catches the corner of my eye and I stop. A fox sweeps across the field maybe ten yards ahead. Did I scare it out of hiding? The bushy white-tipped tail stops for a moment at the edge of the clearing.
I ready my arrow and repeat the stance Eli showed me. One foot forward, elbow up and back straight. I let the arrow fly.
A soft, barking yelp fills the meadow. I got it? The white-tipped tail jumps away. Cursing, I chase after the small creature, following a trail of red. Climbing over rocks and around fallen logs I stop at a cliff’s edge. A deep gorge lay ahead, the roaring of rushing waters reaching my ears. I explore the precarious edge with caution. Where is that fox?
When I see it I am perched on a boulder jutting from the edge. A fallen tree bridges the narrow gorge. The fox stares at me in the middle, an arrow protruding from its hindquarters. I’m sorry little guy. I prepare my stance and pull back on my bowstring.
But the arrow never flies. A crack from below sends the world rising up around me. I leap for the cliff’s edge but it crumbles away. Grasping for anything, at everything, my fingers find the loop of a tree root. I cling to it as my feet scramble to get a foothold. But with every furious kick, the earth falls away like softened clay.
Sharp black rocks jut out of frothing white water below. It must be at least a three-story drop. I feel my grip loosening and panic sets in.
“Help!” I scream. “Eli!”
But he’s not there. And then my root snaps free.