A History of Wild Places(38)

A few members whisper softly under their breath, but each word is careful, easily lost to the night air—there are no more arguments of dissent—we understand why Levi has made his decision; we know the burden he bears.

“If you have questions you want to discuss about the safety of our community,” Levi continues, nodding slowly while he surveys the crowd of faces, as if assessing who agrees with him, and who still might not. “I ask that you come speak to me in private, so as not to upset the group.” He lowers his hand from his heart. “For now,” he adds, “let’s keep Colette’s baby in our thoughts and hope that she strengthens in these next few days.”

I feel Theo turn to look at me, but I keep my gaze leveled ahead.

“Now, let us talk of the crops and the summer harvest,” Levi continues, his shoulders dropping, eyebrows lifted. “Henry has some thoughts on the construction of the new drying shed he would like to discuss with everyone.”

How swiftly the topic has shifted: We’ve moved on to other things, the daily workings of life within the community, the changing seasons, the harvest, the effort just to stay alive.

But my heart is beating a hole through my rib cage. A knowing rising like bile, a ticking in my eardrums: My husband could be immune. And if he is, he could save Colette’s child.

But first, he’d have to confess to what he’s done.

And face the ritual.





THEO


The sky turns dark, a mantle of clouds swallowing up the evening stars and laying its weight over the trees. We are still seated around the gathering circle when the first snap of lightning tears apart the horizon and turns everything briefly white-blue.

Someone shrieks; a baby starts to cry.

“Move quickly,” Levi says, his voice booming over the thunder. “We need to get indoors.”

The gathering has not yet ended—there was still talk of the harvest and a new drying shed to be discussed—but the weather has descended over us without warning, air shivering with electricity, wind gusting through the crop fields, and the group scatters.

The rain imminent now.

I grab Calla’s hand, and I pull her toward the trees.

“No, Theo,” she shouts at me. “It’s too far to the house. We need to find shelter here, closer.” I ignore her and lead her on, to the path that winds along the stream, back to the farmhouse. “Theo!” she cries, tugging against my hand, her eyes flashing to the sky. “The rain is almost here.”

But still I don’t answer, my gaze is focused on the route through the dark, listening as the sky cracks and splinters—a summer storm upon us. I know my wife is afraid, but I feel an almost mechanical need to get back to the house, to flee the heart of Pastoral and the others. To get my wife safely inside.

We’re nearly to the back porch of the house when the first raindrops fall. And they’re not light, half-hearted droplets—it’s a full downpour. A deluge of water from the sky.

Rain explodes against our skin, absorbing into our scalps, our cheekbones, and our too-thin clothing. Calla lets out a small, terrified sound, and I yank her up the porch and through the back door. I only release her hand once we’re inside, and she stands in the doorway, arms hanging like wet sacks of corn flour, hair dripping over her face, a puddle collecting at her feet.

Her eyes lift to mine, the whites taking up too much space.

“Theo—” her voice trembles, “the rain. I’m—” She looks down at her arms, her hands, like she’s afraid to wipe away the water, to rub the sickness into her skin. Her jaw begins to tremble.

I move toward her. “We have to get you out of those clothes.”

She nods mutely and strips her shirt over her head, followed by her jean shorts. We leave them in a heap beside the back door and climb the stairs. Naked, she steps into the bathtub, and I turn on the tap, cupping my hands beneath the cold well-water and pouring it quickly over my wife’s shoulders, her hair, her pale, pale face. She wipes at her skin with her hands, the panic rising inside her—rubbing at her flesh, clawing at it, turning it red.

“Calla,” I say, when her skin is the color of a cardinal’s wings, and I grab her left hand, holding it in place. “You’re okay. There’s no rot on your skin. You don’t have it.”

“You can’t be sure. We shouldn’t have tried to outrun it.” She shakes her head and I can see the tears cresting her eyelids now, the panic in her breathing like she’s going into shock. “Why did you do that?” she asks now. “Why did you drag me through the rain?”

I release her hand. “It’s okay,” I assure her again, but I have no reason to believe this—it’s a certainty I feel without real merit, without proof. “You’re not sick.”

“You don’t know that,” she spits. “You’ve been over the border, you’ve been down the road, but I haven’t. You might not be able to catch it, but I could. We should have stayed in Pastoral.”

I rock back onto my heels, the rainwater on my own clothes dripping onto the aquamarine tiles of the bathroom floor.

“You pulled me through the rain,” she repeats, every part of her body shaking. “The rot might already be inside me.”

Her words land like a club against my skull.

“Calla.” I reach out to touch her, but she winces back so violently that I drop my hand.