A History of Wild Places(40)

He exhales through his nostrils and walks across the room to the old fireplace, black, half-burnt logs resting at the bottom, leftovers from the last fire that warmed the house—months ago now. “You would risk your life for that child?” he asks, placing a hand on the mantel.

“Yes.”

He takes another drink and stares down at the dark fireplace, candlelight throwing strange, dancing shapes along the back of his head. “Because I don’t think you’d be doing it for the child,” he says. “You’d be doing it for yourself.” He nods but doesn’t lift his gaze. “You want to know what’s at the end of that road, don’t you? It’s your curiosity that begs you to volunteer your life.”

“No,” I answer, but there is a tightness in my voice, because in truth, it’s a little of both. If Levi gave his permission, I could travel farther down the road than I ever have, and I might find more clues about Travis Wren. I could also go to the nearest town and bring back medicine to save the child. And then, maybe, I’d know for sure if I’m really immune.

Levi raises his eyes, brows sloped together, but his gaze is not angry, it’s edged in worry. “I understand why you might feel this way,” he continues, like he hadn’t heard my response. “Staring out at that road every night, questions stirring inside you. I’ve thought the same things from time to time.” He raises an eyebrow. “It’s the question we all have, the need to know what’s out there.”

A river of tension slips along my jaw. A truck, I want to answer.

“We’re friends, Theo. I want you to be honest with me.” He takes another drink of the whiskey, finishing it. “Have you ever gone past the boundary?” He’s circling around a truth he’s getting closer to. His eyes cut over to me, narrowed, but I can see fear in him—not just fear for me, but for the whole community. He worries about us more than we know. He worries we are always on the brink of extinction—our entire community could be wiped out by a single spore set loose from the trees, a disease that could kill us all within weeks. Or maybe all but one: all but me.

“No,” I croak in response, and finally, I take a sip of the whiskey, letting the amber warmth slide down my throat. I could tell him the truth—admit to what I’ve done. Perhaps my admission will help him to see that I can travel safely beyond our boundaries, that I could go for help. But the look in his eyes, the terrified, feral glint of a man who is weighted by too much responsibility, who worries his own friend has betrayed him by going past the boundary, forces my mouth shut.

He taps a finger against the edge of his empty glass and I find my eyes staring at it, unable to look away.

“My job is to protect the border,” I add, keeping my voice level. “Not go past it.”

He nods approvingly, jaw softening. “This is a difficult time,” he says, walking across the room to the table, where he pours himself another half-glass of whiskey. He swirls the glass in his hand and the brown liquid rises up along the sides in a cyclone. “But we have faced difficulties before, harsh winters and deaths we weren’t expecting. It’s part of our sacrifice in living here. I know you understand this better than most.” He brings the glass to his mouth but doesn’t drink, his mind stirring against a thought. “Did you know that when Cooper bought this land, and all these buildings, he used to walk the border at night, listening into the trees, to see if the rumors were true.” His eyes blink slowly, the alcohol settling into his joints and muscles—mechanical eyes controlled by a lever. On the count of three, the eyes will lift. “He thought the stories about the early farmers who feared the woods were just that: stories. But he was wrong.” He drinks all the whiskey in his glass in one gulp. “This land has always been unforgiving, cruel. But it wasn’t until after Cooper died that we saw the disease for ourselves, and how bad it could be.”

I finish my own whiskey but I don’t dare ask for more, even though the soft buzzing in my ears relaxes me, makes me want to sink onto the couch and fade into an alcohol-induced sleep. I know the story of the wheat farmer’s daughter, of course, but he’s never spoken about what Cooper knew before he died, or if he suspected the woods held a sickness that might trap us within its boundary.

“There are too many risks in allowing you, or anyone, to go beyond our community. I hope you understand that.” He clears his throat. “Your leaving would only make things worse.”

My mind flicks back to the truck. To the photograph. Did Travis Wren make it to the community, as Bee said, or did he die out in those woods, illness rotting his body from the inside? His corpse somewhere in those trees, his grave unmarked, becoming part of the land.

Levi reaches out and takes the empty glass from my hand, placing it beside the bottle of whiskey. For a moment I think he’s going to refill both our glasses, and I watch intently. But then he speaks without turning around. “Cooper used to say that people on the outside crave something they can’t describe, a thing they have no words for: a forgotten taste at the back of the throat, the feel of a westerly breeze without the grit of pollution. They long for something they don’t know how to find. But we have found it here, within these walls. We pay a price for it certainly, we sacrifice something, but it’s worth it… don’t you think?” He turns around, leaving the glasses on the table. “This way of life gives us more than it takes. And we’d be stupid to give it up.”