Be Not Far from Me(20)

There’s a bit of purslane clinging to the rocky bank, and some tendrils of wild grapevine hang down from the maple they’ve climbed. It’s too early for them to have fruit, but the leaves are edible, as is the purslane. The rule with plants is everything tastes better boiled, but while I have water and I can make fire, I don’t have anything to boil in.

I make another fire, burning a hole next to the first one in my fireboard, hoping I don’t have to make too many more before all this is said and done. I can’t even raise my arms by the time I get a flame, so I just sit, using my good foot to scoot dead leaves toward the little fire I’ve got going while I wait for some strength to return. Enough to gather some wood. Enough to keep me from shivering tonight, which is nothing but a waste of energy.

I lie down before full dark, curled around the little bit of fire I managed to make, my head in my arms. I’ve scooted out past the edge of the overhang so I can see the stars, and there among them, a red, blinking dot.

It’s a plane, three miles above me and moving fast, everyone on board fed and warm, healthy and safe. They’re thinking about where they’re going or where they’ve come from, the people they’ve left or are going to. It’s the closest I’ve been to another human being in days, and they have no idea I’m down here.

Dying.





Day Four




In the morning my foot is so bad I can smell it without bringing it to my nose, which means anything else can too. I didn’t wake to anything chewing on me, but there was a rustling in the brush when I slid out from under the overhang in the morning to take a piss. I try to be careful, but I’m weak as a kitten and manage to pee on myself a little. I’d rather smell like urine than death though. One will keep the critters away. The other will bring them in for a meal.

I strip off my clothes and slip into the creek. I smell like old blood and dried sweat, layered on top of death and piss. I wash as best I can, checking the line of mud I drew on my leg last night. The red streaks have marched past it as I slept, the spread of infection reaching up my calf. The swelling follows, leaving skin swollen and tight.

This is how I measure time, with no clock and the sun perpetually hidden. There is no such thing as minutes or hours, only the freckle on my leg, the scar beneath it, and how long it will take for the red fingers of inflammation to reach them.

The answer is not long.

And the follow-up is even less if I get a fever that weakens me.

Yesterday I was thinking that if I’d been treating this whole thing like a test of my abilities, I needed to pass it real soon. After looking at my foot, I put the deadline a little closer, edging up on me just like the red on my leg.

Urgency leads me to head off in clothes still wet from the creek, adding to the weight I bear and chafing against my legs. I cannot wait for them to dry. Cannot wait for the sun and wind to do me favors. Cannot stop to try to catch a fish, because infinite patience is required to snatch one from the water with only your hands, and I have neither infinity nor patience.

What I have is a bomb on the end of my leg. Not one that will explode but rather expand, licking its poison into my healthy tissue until I am no longer well enough to walk. And once that happens, I’m done.

I’ve given myself until the swelling hits the scar on my calf, the remnant of a deep cut from the steel siding of a neighbor’s trailer that opened me down to the muscle when I was trick-or-treating, my Wonder Woman cape getting stuck in between the stacked cinder blocks they used for steps.

I pulled my sock up and told them I was fine, because they were a nice old couple that gave out whole candy bars instead of bite-size, and I’d never had a whole candy bar to myself in my life. I limped home, shoe full of blood, and ate the candy bar in the back of the truck while Dad took me to the urgent care where they charge only half what the ER does and do stitches as good as anybody else.

I’m searching the sky for a break in the trees.

I’m listening for the sound of a car.

And God help me, I’m looking for flint.

Because I can’t take my foot off without it.

Trees are thieves.

They take things from you quietly, swiping a bandanna from your ponytail or a hair tie from your wrist. I’ve seen hundred-dollar sunglasses hanging off maples, and water bottles snagged on low-hanging willows, their wispy fingers pulling things from hikers’ packs without them knowing they lost something until they need it.

I spot the hat while I’m looking for a break in the canopy, hoping to see an open area that means there’s a road ahead. The hat is just out of my reach, which means the tree stole it years ago, and it’s been hanging there waiting for its owner to come back. Meanwhile it travels higher, the tree claiming it forever.

But not from me.

I want that hat, so I’m going to get it.

I whack at the branch it’s stuck on with my walking stick, taking a few inexpert swings. I miss the first time and land on my front the next, grinding my own curled fist into my stomach and sending the dandelions I ate earlier back up into my throat. I swallow fast because I’m not in a position to be wasting anything. Then I get back up and try again.

It’s the fifth swing, my ninth swear, and a good gust of wind that does it. The hat lands at my feet, and I follow it down to the ground, happy to finally win at something, and happier yet to rest. I’m sweating and exhausted, cursing myself for a fool to have wasted so much strength on something stupid.