Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(30)

He drinks the tea in silence, drawing what warmth he can from the cup. He always seems to be cold these days. Wasn’t it always summer on the island before the Change? Or perhaps it’s only the summers he remembers – sun bright in the lupins and on the waves, and Anne toddling on chubby legs, holding Marilla’s hand and laughing as the water drew near her toes.

No. He knows the memory is wrong, confused. Anne wasn’t a toddler when he first met her. She didn’t have dark hair like the girl he almost remembers, dark hair like the woman holding her hand and smiling back over her shoulder at him. It must be another story, one someone else told. He never lived that life. Never.

He squeezes his eyes closed. Maybe the Gilbert touches his shoulder and says something else before walking away. He doesn’t hear. There are low voices, a murmured conversation. He is the subject. They are worried about him. If he keeps his eyes closed, maybe they’ll think he’s asleep and leave him alone.

It’s not for them, not anymore. At first he stayed for them, the Annes, the Dianas, even the Gilberts. Someone had to take care of them, someone who remembered enough of the way things were Before to get them somewhere safe, keep them fed, keep them warm. Now it’s only her he’s waiting for, so he can sleep.

The voices move off, grow a bit louder. They’re telling stories now. Not the stories he remembers, not the stories from the old days. They’re stories of the future; they’re so full of hope it breaks his heart. They all start, “When things get better I’ll…”

He drifts off to the murmur of those voices, the fanciful tales of impossible future. So like his Anne, he thinks. Head always full of dreams. Don’t ever change.

He wakes in the silent kitchen by the cold fire. They’ve forgotten to stoke it again, now it’s only ash. It takes him three tries to push out of his chair, his old bones complaining the whole way. His fingers tremble and slip on the poker only meant for decoration. He stirs the ashes, but nothing. There’s no spark.

A scouting trip to gather more wood; the very thought of it sends a spike of pain through his lower back. His pulse thumps double time. How long does he stand that way, hand pressed to his back before one of the Gilberts – the same Gilbert? – comes through the door with an armload of firewood? He can smell the rot even from here, the dark, mossy scent. The wood is bug-riddled, but it will still burn.

“Let me take care of that.” The Gilbert takes the poker from his hand, urges him back into a chair. The fire is going soon enough and, soon after that, the kitchen fills with Dianas and Annes again.

By listening to the swirl of talk throughout the room, he learns two of the Annes left during the night. Not Annes then, something else he doesn’t have a name for. He doesn’t see the Anne that spoke to him yesterday, the one who was kind. She must have been one of the two who left, or maybe she was never here and he only imagined her.

There are only two Annes left now, and they are both quiet this morning, subdued with their heads bowed, speaking in low whispers. Perhaps they are thinking about running away, too. He watches them. Their features are drawn, pale. There are bruise-coloured shadows under their eyes. They’re afraid.

His bones settle and creak. He wills the joints to loosen. Come on, old bones, he thinks , just one more trip. I need you.

While the Annes and Gilberts and Dianas are busy, not paying him any mind, he slips out. The sun is bright and the air is fresh. It stirs the long grasses that try to tangle around his legs and for a moment he can almost pretend it’s Before, and nothing has Changed.

There’s a long, straight piece of wood beside the door, smoothed by time and his hands. It looks almost clean; he’s saved it and kept it this way, protected it. He takes it to lean on and it makes the walk a little easier. Once upon a time he would have done this in a cart. He had a good horse, didn’t he? Running to and fro to the station where the Gilberts and Dianas and Annes washed up. He gathered them in and brought them here, protected them. He even asked once, how they knew where to go so he would find them.

“Stories,” an Anne told him. “You’re a legend.”

On foot, it’s much longer. He can barely see the road through the tall grass, because who is there to travel the road anymore and keep it smooth? But it’s there, faint, a ghost of itself, and he walks it like a ghost – driving the stick in firm, buried in the red dust, using it as an anchor to pull himself along. It feels slow, unbearably slow, but he’ll get there. He can’t leave the Annes waiting. That would never do.

The sun is almost white in its brightness. He raises a hand to shield his eyes. Through his fingers, the road disappears to a vanishing point, a trick of the light and the red dust stirred up by the wind. Is that the station there already? Or is it a mirage? It wavers in the heat; he blinks stinging eyes, but it does nothing to clear his vision.

“Come on, old bones,” he says aloud. “Just a little farther.”

He ignores the ache in his joints as best he can. Ignores the erratic beating of his heart, the tightness in his chest. He ignores the sensation of falling, his knees striking the ground and the long grasses whispering over him, hushing against his cheeks and ears like voices telling an old tale. It’s only an illusion, like the pain. He’s still walking, and that is the station ahead of him.

And there, through the haze, he can just make out the girl sitting on the platform. She’s clutching a battered case in both hands, straining her eyes to look either way. There’s hope on her face, so much hope; it’s fragile, almost-but-not-quite gone. She should know better than to give up on him. He always comes for her, like he’s come for her again now. Her hair hangs in two red plaits, one on either side of her face, framing the pale skin and the freckles. Not the boy they asked for, but something better. A girl. His girl. His Anne.