A History of Wild Places(57)

I think of all the nights I’ve slipped down the road, a few paces farther each night—I’ve breathed in the air beyond our borders, and not gotten sick. I think of Bee, who has gone over the boundary and touched a sick, rotted tree. And my wife, soaked by the rain. They might not be as lucky as I am, they might not be immune.

And now we face two men who also might be sick. We might be bringing illness into the community if we let them back across. This might be a mistake.

But Levi nods at the two men. “Come back to this side,” he coaxes. “We’ll look at Turk’s ankle. You don’t want to die out there, in the cold, in the trees. You don’t want to die like that. Rotting from the inside out.”

Without a word, Turk releases his hold on Ash and staggers toward Levi, passing over the boundary. Calla tries to pull her hand away from mine, like she wants to reach out for Turk, to help him, but I tighten my hold on her and refuse to let her go.

Ash raises his gaze, unwilling to look Levi in the eyes, then he too passes back over the border into the safety of Pastoral.

I feel a shallow breath escape my chest. Ash wraps an arm back around Turk and they start up the road to Pastoral, Henry following behind. Parker stands fidgety beside me, his hand on his holster, as if he might reach for the gun. He’s waiting for the men to turn and bolt for the trees—he wants an excuse to fire his weapon, to finally use it for something other than shooting old cans behind the crop fields.

“We need to get Turk to Faye’s house so she can take a look at his leg,” I say.

“We’re not taking him to Faye’s,” Levi answers coolly.

Calla squeezes my hand tighter.

“Why not?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

Levi glances down the road, into the dark where the men were trying to escape. “They’ll stay in Henry’s barn,” he answers, eyes unreadable.

“Why?”

“Just to be sure.” He gives me a quick look like I should understand his intent: I should know why we need to do this. “We must be certain our boys aren’t sick.”

In silence, our small group heads up the road, and when we reach the parking area, filled with dead, abandoned cars, we turn onto the path that winds through the trees to Henry’s place. His dogs begin barking when we stop in front of the old barn, yapping from the back of the house, but Henry’s wife, Lily Mae, calls out to them and they fall quiet.

Henry pushes open one of the massive barn doors, where inside, half a dozen goats are bedded down for the night. Several lift their heads but none stand up—they must sense that this midnight intrusion has nothing to do with them, there will be no fresh hay or grain tossed their way. Just to the left of the door is a small, metal wagon, a handmade doll propped up inside wearing a tiny blue dress. One of the community children likely stowed it away in the barn for the night.

Henry unfolds a ladder from the ceiling and it drops to the floor with a soft thud, a cloud of dust coming away with it. Henry coughs.

“It’s only until morning,” Levi assures, giving the two men a trusting nod. As if they have his word.

Ash helps Turk up the ladder, but he still winces and groans with each heave of his leg up into the loft. Once they’re settled, Henry pushes the ladder up into the ceiling and secures it shut with a lock.

“Do we really need to lock them in?” Calla asks.

“Can’t be too careful,” Henry answers, but his tone sounds far away, and he slides the barn door closed, slapping his hands against his legs to shake off the dust.

“They weren’t in the woods for long,” Levi adds. “But long enough. We need to be sure.”

I realize now that everything Levi told them at the border was only to coax them back across, to convince them to come with us. And they did, willingly, as if they didn’t have a choice. But Levi has no intention of letting them back into Pastoral so easily—he needs to be certain they aren’t sick, that they won’t infect the others. Or us.

“What will you do with them?” I ask.

Levi brushes a hand through his hair, smoothing down the sides. “We have to see if they’re infected.”

“We’ll know in a few days,” Calla says, flashing me a quick look. “We’ll see it in their eyes first.”

“It might be too late by then,” Levi answers.

Calla frowns, like she’s unsure what he means. But I know what Levi plans to do, what he’s going to say.

“If they have the pox, we have to treat it quickly,” Levi answers. “We have to rid it from their bodies.”

“How?” Calla asks, but the way her mouth pinches down, she’s starting to understand.

It’s been years since anyone was treated for the pox, treated in the old way. Most in Pastoral believe the ritual is cruel, a barbaric method for leeching illness from the flesh. But the first settlers who built this small town thought it was the only sure way to cure the sick for good.

“We will bury them,” Levi says matter-of-factly.





CALLA


The rain finally breaks open from the clouds and descends over the house, beating against the roof.

“We have to get them out of that barn.” My head thumps wildly, and in my hand I hold the small silver book I found in the garden, crushing it in my fist. It soothes me somehow. A thing that now feels like mine.