Be Not Far from Me(14)

A downed tree, a slippery ledge, a scree that could go out from under me with no warning. If I see these things I’ll avoid them, which means going off one way or another, never quite sticking to true west. I know how to make a shadow stick—a nifty trick involving the morning sun and a decent-size stick jammed in the ground sundial-style. You mark the end of the shadow, wait a bit, then mark where the shadow has moved to and bisect those two lines, and your new line is pointing east-west. I can course correct every morning if I need to, but a shadow stick only works if the sun is out, and I’ll be adding miles every time I go around any obstacle that points me anywhere other than west. Miles mean time, and that’s something I don’t have.

I also don’t have water, something that’s more of a problem than I want to admit. It’s there, for sure, in all the little ravines and low places where the water goes. I know better than to touch still water—anything placid can get warm, cooking all kinds of bacteria and who knows what else in its depths. Moving water I will drink, and one of those would lead me to a stream, and I could follow that to something bigger, which would eventually take me to civilization.

If I had food and wasn’t hurt it might be the smart choice. But those little trickles of water will take their time getting to where they’re going, leading me through switchbacks and big, looping curves that will drain all my energy.

It’s what Dad would call the scenic route, and I don’t have time to appreciate nature when it’s trying to kill me. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, so I’m going to make one as best I can and find water along the way.

It’s late spring so it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. The rain that I was cursing last night will be my saving grace today, so I hobble down to running water when my path crosses with it, but I don’t follow the siren call of its bubbling voice.

I’ve been moving for about three hours when I decide it’s time to go down to the water I can hear on the other side of the ridge I’m climbing. It’s slow moving, my hopping forward and grabbing for trees while trying not to lose the walking stick. I go down twice, once onto my stomach, knocking out my wind and sending the bitter taste of bile into the back of my mouth.

The second time I go backward, arms wheeling on both sides of me as I fall. I let out a scream that’s nothing compared to what comes out when I land, flattening my foot between my ass and the ground. It’s a primitive sound, all rage and pain, one that stills the forest around me. Everything knows that something big just got hurt, and like most small animals, they know their best bet is to keep quiet and lie low.

There’s a wetness spreading on my rear end, and it’s not cold groundwater. It’s warm, and the full, heavy scent of blood reaches me a moment later.

“Shit,” I say up to the sky, as black circles start forming in my vision. I can’t pass out, so instead I pick one and name the shapes it becomes as it travels.

Fish.

Bear.

Buzzard.

Screw that. I’ll call it an eagle.

I can’t look at my foot, not yet. For one thing I’m pretty sure my head isn’t ready for me to sit up. For another, the silence has swallowed me, the self-protective quiet of the woods reminding me of Duke’s house.

My house was more welcoming, but also smaller, and the two of us couldn’t hope for a lick of privacy even if Dad was sleeping. Duke was too terrified to touch me at home, which I can’t really blame him for, since his older brother reportedly has an ass full of buckshot from the first—and last—time he got into Kate Fullerton’s pants.

I can’t imagine how Dad would’ve reacted if he’d caught me and Duke going at it, but I can say it wouldn’t have been pretty, or kind. So we went to his place most of the time instead. There was a higher chance of a kid wandering in on us, sure, but he also had a basement and a mom that slapped his ass and told him to wear a condom every time we went down there.

We didn’t have to worry about being quiet, because upstairs was nothing short of a zoo. Duke had five younger siblings, and every one of them had an opinion about what the others should or should not be doing at any given time. There was constant shouting, chasing, and fighting over toys, occasionally overshadowed by the youngest screaming that she needed her diaper changed.

She always yelled “Shit” real loud, no matter what was actually in it.

But I heard lots of good things too, like one brother offering to fix his sister’s doll when her head popped off, or the older girl changing the little one’s pants because their mom had gone out in the yard to talk on the phone. Noise wasn’t always a bad thing there, just a constant.

So when it stopped we always knew his dad had come home.

He wasn’t a big guy, so we never heard his footsteps. It was the silence that spread out around him, like all the words floating around the kids had been sucked into him, leaving nothing behind.

Duke would tense beside me, and I’d hear the younger ones go to their rooms, doors closing behind them until dinnertime, which would be soon, because their mom didn’t dare bring it to the table a minute late. It’s like that now, here in the woods. I just scared the daylights out of every living thing, and it’s the rage that they heard in me that’s making them stay hid.

“Sorry,” I say quietly, then lick my lips.

The truth is I got no business being out here. I’m way off-trail and in their territory, breaking brush and leaving blood and swear words behind me. I’m the scary thing in their house whose arrival brings quiet and hiding, hoping that they’re not the one to catch its eye.