by Hagen, Layla
The minute Tristan turns his back to me and starts climbing the tree, I drop the fruit I’m carrying, rest against a tree, and draw deep breaths. I close my eyes. I can't go on like this. My insomnia is worse. Between Tristan's nightmares and my consuming guilt, I never manage to sleep more than an hour a night. I can’t concentrate, and I'm paying for it. Yesterday I stumbled over some roots and cut my left foot, so now I'm limping. Tristan insisted he put antibiotics on it so that wiped out half of our meagre supply. If something worse happens, we have next to nothing to treat ourselves with. I need to sleep more, or I'll become a liability soon. What with a fresh set of jaguar prints we discovered yesterday inside our fence, I can't afford that. The good part is that we are almost sure it's just that one jaguar. The bad part is that since he keeps coming back, he must have found the place interesting. Tristan still insists we should do all tasks together, and I'm not against the idea anymore. Whenever he disappears from my eyesight, even for just a few seconds, I'm terrified that something might have happened to him.
We haven't yet found a strong enough poison. Tristan tried countless plants that looked poisonous last week, taking their leaves and making concoctions out of them. He tested the poisoned arrows on a few poor, unsuspecting birds. The results weren't great. In fact, not even good.
"Aimee."
I startle, opening my eyes. I dozed off.
"Are you okay?" Tristan asks.
"Yeah, unless an army of ants crept up my arms again." This is a lesson I've learned the hard way: never sit on the forest floor or rest against a tree for more than a few seconds. Insects and reptiles hide on tree bark, ready to strike when they get the chance.
"Gather your fruit, I'll carry everything else. We should go back."
I unhitch myself from the tree, inspecting my arms. Not one insect or sign of a sting. Whew. "This must be some kind of miracle." I bend down to gather the fruit I dropped at my feet, when the tree bark catches my attention. It's white, as if someone painted it. And there are no insects on it. I take out my pocket knife and make a long cut into the bark. It's superficial, but a dark brown liquid starts coming out of the crack, as if the tree were bleeding.
"Tristan, come look at this."
He narrows his eyes as he inspects it. "No insects on it," he murmurs.
"Exactly."
In unison, we both look at the ground. There are some plants growing around the tree, but not nearly as many as usual. The sap of the tree must be poisonous. Very.
"Let's collect this. It might just be what we need.” Watching me, he adds, “I'll take you back to the plane and then come back to do it."
"Don't be ridiculous. It’ll be quicker with the two of us. Let's just get it over with."
I dig my knife into the tree before Tristan starts protesting. His overprotectiveness is moving but also worrying. He's putting himself at risk by being preoccupied looking after me instead of looking where he steps. The best thing I could do is stay inside the plane and let him come back to the forest alone. I wouldn’t be of any use in case of an attack, quite the contrary. But I can't bring myself to leave him out of my sight.
We spend the next hour cutting into the bark and collecting the sap in two small baskets I weave together on the spot. I make sure to keep my distance from Tristan while we do it. Touching him, even by accident, still sets my skin ablaze. Worse, it makes me tingle in places I have no business tingling. Since I don't know what to make of that, I concentrate on the guilt; which follows me permanently. It's strongest at night when I sleep next to him, and there is no escape from his touch. The guilt isn't from the tingling I feel at his touch. It's from craving it.
As much as I dread it, I'm also looking forward to the moment when he asks me to spend the night next to him. Last night was the first time I stayed at his side without him asking me first. He recounted his nightmare numerous times, each time adding more gruesome details, until his words painted images so real they terrified me almost as much as they terrified him. I came to understand why this particular event, of all the horrors he witnessed, marked him. He made it out alive, but none of the civilians he was supposed to protect did. Survivor guilt. Talking about it seems to help. He's making progress. Real progress. His nightmares are shorter, and it's easier to wake him up. That's why I have to stay by his side. To help him.
Or so I'm telling myself.
When we're back at the plane, Tristan dips the points of two arrows in the liquid we collected and starts looking for a victim to try it on. He finds a bird sitting on a lower branch, picking around at its plumage. Tristan sets the arrow inside the bow and positions himself for a shot. My stomach pulls together until I'm positive it's the size of a nut when he releases the arrow. In less than a fraction of a second the poor bird drops dead. I swing forward, puking.
"Aimee!"
"I'm fine. Go away."
I usually turn away when he shoots something, but I wasn't quick enough. I go sit at our makeshift eating place. Tristan sits in front of me a while later, handing me a can of heated water. I rinse my mouth until it's clean.
"Well, we've found our poison," he says.
"I kind of got that." I hope we won’t have to use it. We’ve been here for two months and one week and haven’t needed it so far.
"I’ll make us some small pouches so we can carry the poison with us in case we need it."
I frown. "Why not just dip the arrows in the poison and carry them around like that?" My shot is still lame, but I'd feel safer if we did that.
"It's dangerous. If we were to accidentally stab ourselves…"
"Oh, yeah. You're right."
"I’ll make us dinner from the fruit we gathered."
"I’m not sure I can manage to eat tonight, but you can make something for yourself. I still want to finish washing the pile of clothes we were washing before we headed into the forest."
We wash our clothes with a regularity that is almost maniacal, but they still have an unpleasant smell. Not sweat. Tristan and I shower three or four times a day, because of the heat and humidity. I suspect the clothes smell because we're washing them with nothing more than water since the shower gel is gone. I almost fall asleep twice while washing, so I give up before I finish the pile, telling Tristan that I'm going to bed early. It's almost dark anyway. Tristan enters the cabin just after I finish changing. He changes in the cockpit, returning when I'm about lie down.
Tristan sits on the edge of his seat. "Aimee?" There is a hesitancy in his voice that unsettles me.
"Yes."
"Umm, what would you say to sleeping next to me right from the start?"
"Huh?"
"You come over here afterward anyway. Maybe I won't have nightmares at all if you're here when I fall asleep."
Logically, his suggestion makes sense. I always end up spending the entire night beside him anyway. But even though I agree, something tells me it's not okay. I just can't pinpoint what isn't right about it.
I slide next to him. It's impossible to avoid skin-to-skin contact, and his touch burns me as intensely as ever. Neither of us says anything; we just face the ceiling. In this silence, it clicks. It feels wrong because it's so intimate.
"It's your turn to tell a story," he says.
"I'm too tired to come up with one."
I feel him shift next to me and then he turns on one side, looking at me. That doesn't help the feeling of wrongness at all.
"You don't sleep well at all, do you?"
"No," I admit.
"I'm sorry." He pushes himself up in a sitting position. "I'll go back to the cockpit."
"No, Tristan!" I grab his arm. "Don't. I'll fall asleep eventually. I shouldn't have told you."
He leans back on his elbows, and without looking in my direction says, "I noticed you weren't sleeping well a few days ago, but I didn't say anything. I wanted to be selfish and keep you here. But I don't want to harm you. It's just that it's so much better when you are next to me. "
His confession tugs at m
y heartstrings. "You're not harming me, Tristan. I've been battling insomnia forever. It's gotten worse here. I can handle it. Come on, lie down and try to sleep. I'm glad it's getting better for you." He does lie down, but he doesn't seem too keen on sleeping.
"I don't want you to resent me. If you start down that path, you'll want to avoid me, but there is nowhere to run away here."
"Neither of those things will happen."
"If I could find a way for them to forgive me for not saving them, maybe I could live with myself," he whispers.
"You wouldn’t. Even if every single one of them could tell you it's not your fault. You have to forgive yourself, Tristan, if you want peace. It's all on you."
He smiles softly. "Tell me a secret."
"What?"
"You know mine. It's only fair that I know one of yours."
"I'll pass, thanks."
"Tell me," he beckons. "It weighs less on you after you share it with someone, I promise. You just proved that to me."
His words erase any chance for sleep, so I turn on my side, too, facing him. The thought of a shared secret weighing less is too tempting. I give in. "Well, remember how I told you I used to want to be like my parents, and do what they were doing before they passed away?"
"Yes."
"The truth is, the prospect of being like them frightened me. I felt I’d never have the strength to leave those I love behind for months at a time and travel to foreign places. I admired them; they were my heroes, and I wanted to do something good like they did, but I didn't feel strong enough for that lifestyle. So I suppose my decision to change careers wasn't entirely driven by pain."
Tristan doesn't reply so I check to see whether he's fallen asleep, but his eyes are open. Maybe he thinks I'm a coward. I squirm in shame. I was better off keeping my secret.
"You were looking at it from a wrong perspective," Tristan says.
"What?"
"You were looking up to your parents because you thought what they did was noble, right? Helping others?"
"Yeah…" I confirm, not sure where he's heading.
"You didn't have to literally step into their shoes to do that. Each person has unique strengths. You could have achieved what you wanted by using your unique strength."
"And what is my strength?" I challenge.
"Listening to people," he says in a surprised tone. "And not just that. Empathizing with them."
"Tristan, you're overestimating me a bit. Just because we've been talking—"
"It's not just me. Kyra talked about you a lot, after her husband dumped her. She said you were very kind, listened to her. Gave her good advice."
I remember that time in Kyra's life. Her husband left her about a year ago, and she transformed from her bubbly self to a moping mess. I tried to help her the best I could, but never had the impression I’d succeeded.
"You have an inner strength that few people have. And you know how to give it to others. You could help people in your own way. Taking care of them one by one. Like you do with me. I've told you things I haven't told anyone. Not even the counsellor. In a way, I've given you a part of my past—of me—that I have never given to anyone. I'm not used to making myself vulnerable."
I've never heard anyone talk so openly about their feelings. I have no idea how to respond, and it seems that he's expecting me to. I rack my tired brain to come up with something else to talk about.
"What did the natives use to tattoo themselves in the marriage ceremony? Did it hurt more than getting a regular tattoo?" I blurt out, remembering what he told me a week ago. Smooth, Aimee. Really smooth way to change the subject.
"I have no idea," Tristan answers, confusion dripping from his voice.
"But doing something like that if it hurts is barbaric. Well, I always kind of thought getting a tattoo was barbaric. And what if you want to get rid of it?"
"They don't plan to remove it at all. That's the whole point of it. I think it’s beautiful to give yourself to someone so utterly and completely."
My breath catches. Maybe if he hadn't told me a few minutes ago that he's given a part of himself to me that he had never given to anyone else, I'd think nothing of this. As it is… I can't help thinking that this… whatever this is… means so much more to him than I thought. But I'm not sure I'm ready to find out what it means. His eyes have an intense glint to them that ripples through me. When I can't hold his gaze any longer, I turn around and say, "Good night."
Tristan falls asleep before me, his even breathing filling the cabin. I manage to convince myself I'm overreacting and almost fall asleep too. Then he slings an arm around my waist, moving close to me. Too close. Feeling every inch of his body pegged to mine is excruciating.
His breath feathers on my nape, his strong chest muscles press against my back. And his lower body—no, I won't go there. But my body doesn't need my permission to torture me. A strong, almost painful need awakens deep inside my core. I can't quench it, hard as I try. Not even guilt can quench it. Tomorrow I will tell Tristan I can't do this anymore. I will sleep in my place and only come to him if he needs me. We are both confused enough as it is. Me—unable to control my body, and he… that look in Tristan's eyes spoke of feelings he shouldn't have for me. I've let this go too far. But it's not like sleeping next to him will make any difference.
But it does make a difference. Tristan sleeps the entire night without waking up once. It's me who has a nightmare this time. I wake up panting, with tears in my eyes. In my nightmare, we were attacked by a pack of wild beasts, and Tristan helped me up a tree that had no lower branches so the animals couldn't climb it. Then he got torn apart by the beasts. When I realize he's next to me, unharmed, I snuggle up in his arms and weep again, this time with joy. I wonder, why the sudden dream? Tristan has gone to great lengths to protect me these past weeks.
As I drift off to sleep again, a frightening awareness wedges its way into my mind. I thought the bond between us here in the rainforest was one of friendship. But maybe it’s more. Maybe I feel more than I think for this man who's not only the strongest person I've met, but who also seems more determined to keep me alive than himself.
The next days we sink into the deepest hell there must be, because we find fresh paw prints inside the fence each morning. And then a second set of prints, which is just as large as the first ones. Tristan was right. It's a female jaguar with at least one cub. And the cub is no longer the size of a cute kitten, but a deadly size. There is no sight of the beasts during the day, but they roam around at night. They knock over our wood supply and drink our water. Tristan suggests leaving once or twice, but neither of us thinks it's a very good idea. We climb down the hill regularly; the water level is still very high. We'd be advancing at a slow pace, and it'd be hard to build a shelter during the night. Then, on the morning marking two months and two weeks since we crashed, the paw prints vanish. Another week has passed since then, and we still look for them every morning and check the fence for holes, but there are no fresh holes or paw prints. Maybe the jaguar female and her cub (I refuse to think plural—cubs) were just passing by this area.
Tristan still checks the fence every morning, but I've stopped going with him. He also does one last round in the evening after we eat, carrying a torch, and that's where he is right now; whereas I'm curled in my seat, chewing my lip. Tonight I'm trying to muster the courage to tell him what I couldn't say this past week: I don't want to sleep so close to him anymore. Jaguars aside, I've been through my own personal hell. While I've been sleeping longer than one hour a night, sleeping next to him is becoming more torturous night by night. He's better now, his nightmares few and far between. There's no reason to continue this.
"No traces," Tristan announces, entering the plane. "I'll go change and be back in a minute." He disappears in the cockpit without glancing at me. He hasn't seen that I'm not lying in his seat, but in my own.
But he does see five minutes later when he returns. He stops in front of the seats. I had all this speech
prepared how it's best if I sleep here, but under his hurtful gaze, the words I manage to get out are, "I want to sleep in my spot tonight, Tristan. It's just so warm in here. It's even warmer when we're so close together."
He reads right through my excuse. "I see. All right. Sleep tight, then." Without another word, he’s off to sleep. I try to do the same, without success. I start my old technique of imagining a waterfall—I haven't had to use it since I've slept by Tristan's side. I start painting the image behind my eyelids when his nightmare begins. Wild. Loud. Desperate. In a heartbeat, I’m right next to him.
"Tristan," I whisper. His nails graze the leather chair in his relentless thrashing, and I can't seem to be able to wake him. I pin my knees on the chair at his sides, trapping him beneath me, restricting his ability to move. Then I put my palms on each of his cheeks, and call his name louder. When he opens his eyes, the moonlight shines over the terror and pain in his eyes. It tears at me, guilt branching out from deep inside my chest. I shouldn't have left his side tonight.
"Just stay with for a little while, please. I need you so much, Aimee." The sound of my name from his mouth awakens something in me that has me writhing in a blazing torture. It’s doing things to me it shouldn't do.
"Shh, okay. I'll stay. I know it helps having someone."
"Not someone. You. You make the memories bearable, the present better. You have an unbelievably strong will to keep going, even if you don't know where you're heading, hoping you'll find something worthy at the end of the road. You have an inherent ability to pick up the good on the way—those that give you strength, the happy things, like your poems—and you go on. You pass that strength onto others, even if it costs you sleep and peace.
“I used to hate waking up every morning. Now I look forward to every day, even though we're stuck in this place. Because it means one more day with you." He caresses my lips with his thumb. I open my mouth, but he shakes his head. "Don't say anything, please."
