by Mia Frances
The girl didn't say anything, her gaze and thoughts were focused on the blanket-draped corpses on the road. She didn't move a muscle, just stood staring. Even the shivering stopped.
Charles grabbed her arm, "Come on. We're going home," he announced, forcing her to look away. She resisted.
"What about Aunt Alex?" she choked out.
"She's probably on her way there now," he told her, trying to sound convincing; but the truth was she might be anywhere, gone off in 20 different directions, to do God knows what.
He bent to pick up the pot and began walking toward the trail. Deana meekly followed. Charles looked back over his shoulder. Alex was the glue that held their family together. Now she was out there somewhere, grief-stricken and alone.
Chapter 15
Alex watched as morning cast a glow over the eastern hills. In a little while the darkness would recede. The morning fog was thick, clinging to the ground like a smothering blanket. She sat in silence, her muscles aching from hours of labor. The kerosene lanterns had been lit last night, bouncing dots of yellow punctuating the gloom. She turned her attention to the pile of pine cones, brush, and branches mounded high in front of her. There was a faint odor of charcoal lighter in the air. She'd used the last of it on them. It had taken her hours to prepare, but now it was ready. In the dim light of dawn, with the mist hanging heavy, no one would see, no one would know.
She'd only been to this barren patch of rock nestled below the cliffs once before. It was a fitting place to bring them. Devoid of life, no plant or tree took root here. Rocks formed a bleak semicircle several hundred feet across at the base of the cliff. She'd happened on it last year with Matt. Or was it the year before? She couldn't remember. It was all a blur now, as though she'd dreamed it. Alex could barely see the outline of the trees in the fog. They were in no danger, the shooting sparks and flying cinders would die out before reaching them.
Her gaze shifted to the pile of branches, at the top was a bed of pine boughs. That's where her sisters lay, eyes closed as if sleeping. She'd dragged them through the woods on her sled, then laid them to rest atop the pyre, surrounding them with a ring of crudely fashioned crucifixes. Cat would have liked that. Alex spent the night remembering. Three little girls holding hands as they walked to mass on Sunday. Summer evenings spent playing hide and seek and catching fireflies. Girlish giggles and shared secrets. She remembered the proms, the weddings, the first babies, her mom's wake, and her dad's funeral. All her life, they'd been there, sharing the pain and the joy; now they were gone. Despite the turmoil of their separate lives, they'd remained a family, the Macri girls against the world. In times of trouble, they'd been each other's strength and refuge. They'd left no mark on the world, remembered only by those who loved them. Their only legacies were their children, their babies. Children they cared so little about that they'd abandoned them. Not once, but twice! Alex couldn't fathom why they made the choices they had. She seethed with rage at their selfishness and stupidity. It didn't have to be this way. Every action her sisters had taken since the bombs fell only made things worse for Alex and the kids. It was as though the two of them had conspired to put their children's survival in peril. They'd done everything in their power to traumatize their kids. Alex couldn't forgive them for that. Especially Cat. She didn't give two shits if the woman was crazy. She'd orchestrated yesterday's bloodbath, playing her role of tortured soul for the greatest effect. Then after sweeping in like some diva from a Shakespearean tragedy and flipping the children's world on its head, she takes the coward's way out! Forgive them? Not a chance! It would have been better for the kids if they'd never come back!
The sky was lightening, a thin strip of pink visible through the dark clouds on the far horizon. It was time. It had to be done before the morning fog dissipated. The mist would choke the smoke, sending the billows back down to their source. There'd be nothing visible, no sign of the morning's rite.
Alex rose slowly and moved toward the torch she'd fashioned out of wood and the rags Matt had used to clean and oil the chainsaw. An aching filled her chest as she picked it up. This is how it ended, her memories consumed in a burst of flame. She leaned the torch against a rock and took the matches from her pocket. Her hands were shaking so violently she was unable to strike them. Once, twice, she failed, the wood breaking in her fingers. Finally the tip flared. She touched the match to the oil-soaked rag and watched as it ignited. She blinked back tears as she gazed at her sisters for the last time. Their features were obscured in the fog, only an outline of two small figures could be seen, lying close together on the pine boughs. Alex took three hesitant steps forward and threw the torch on the pile. There was a loud whoosh, followed quickly by crackling, snapping, and popping as it caught fire.
It didn't take long for the pyre to be engulfed in flames, pine cones and pine needles exploding into the air, showers of sparks rising and falling. The heat singed her skin, but Alex didn't move, crying out only when the fiery tongues reached out to embrace and incinerate her sisters. She could smell their flesh and hair burning. Acrid black smoke filled her lungs, choking off the air, forcing her back. She couldn't see them anymore. They'd been swallowed up by the fire. Her hand clutched her chest, as she backed away. There was a rumble as branches came loose and crashed to the ground in an eruption of embers.
The air was hot and thick with ash, forcing Alex to retreat to the safety of the trees, coughing and gasping for breath. She could barely see as she stumbled and fell, then rose again, trying to make her way to the canopy of green. Behind her the fire was doing its work, the flames intense, consuming everything in their path. Pieces of burning cloth were carried aloft by the wind, like tiny glowing kites, rising higher and higher. They burned brightly for a moment, then extinguished, turned black, and slowly floated back to earth.
Alex grabbed a tree trunk for support, everything was spinning, the earth shifting beneath her feet. Tears streaked her dirty face as she pressed her cheek against the rough bark. She wanted to pray, but words escaped her. There'd be no hymns, hallelujahs, or promises of everlasting life, only anger and regret. She stared into the flames, nothing of the wood was visible now, everything glowed with a red-hot incandescence. A second later, the top of the pyre collapsed into the center of the mound, shooting out thick clouds of smoke in all directions. It was like a heavy black curtain, drawing to a close that chapter of her life. They were gone for good now, consumed by the fire. Every vestige of what they once were, reduced, like the world, to embers and ash.
Chapter 16
She worked her knife around the base of the plant, trying to extricate the root from the near-frozen earth. It had been bitterly cold last night, the wind howling and raging. This morning the pond was a solid sheet of ice nearly two feet thick. The holes they'd used for fishing had all but disappeared except for the stakes marking where they'd once been. Nearly every hook they owned had been in the water these last few weeks. They were trying to catch as many fish as possible before the ice got so thick that only a very few holes could be kept open. They'd dug storage pits in the ground and had built a primitive smokehouse too. It was probably just wishful thinking, but as their larder grew, so did her optimism about weathering the hardships of winter. Every fish, every root, every seed, brought them that much closer to spring.
She gave a mighty tug, smiling in satisfaction as the root finally came loose. It was a big fat one. She quickly cut it away from the rest of the plant and dropped it in her basket. There wasn't much room left; it was nearly full. She'd happened on a wild crab apple and a couple of cranberry bushes, picking as much of the frozen fruit as she could. Though sour and unpalatable raw, when boiled up with something else, they were at least tolerable, if not tasty. She'd gotten some arrowhead and cattails roots too; but after chopping the ice near shore, the water and mud beneath it was so bitterly cold it numbed her fingers, making it almost impossible to dig them. She'd collected a little bit of maple bark. One of her books said that when the whitish inner l
ayer was boiled, it tasted like noodles. She thought the kids better get used to eating it now, before it became a staple of their diet. Some of the plants they consumed played havoc with their digestive systems at first. It was better that their bodies grew accustomed to it little by little, rather than have them sick with nausea and diarrhea when it became the daily fare.
She'd have given anything for a piece of red meat. Unfortunately, their hunting skills hadn't progressed much beyond snaring an occasional bird or rodent. All they were good for was flavoring soup. What she really wanted was a deer! Their tracks crisscrossed the woods, so she knew they were around, their beanlike droppings littering the trails; but somehow the animals always managed to avoid being seen. They'd dug three shallow pit traps on the most frequented trails, but a deer had yet to stumble into one. Barely a week until Christmas, she remained hopeful though; optimistic about their chances of having venison for their holiday meal. That was the least she could do for the children. There was little else she could give them.
She felt bad for the youngest ones. They badgered her night and day, demanding to know whether Santa Claus had survived the war? If the toy factory at the North Pole had been destroyed by bombs? Were the reindeer dead? Had the elves succumbed to the fallout? Jasmine and Derek thought of little else. They were sure that the old man in the red suit had made it through unscathed and were equally sure that he would find them on Christmas Eve, showering them with gifts. They weren't so much interested in toys as they were in food: turkey, roasts, pork chops, candy, and soda. Though she'd come up with hundreds of excuses as to why he wouldn't be coming this year, they were steadfast in their belief that he would make it through.
She'd agreed to let them put up a Christmas tree in the cabin, a small spruce that Justin located not far from the camp. The children had been busy collecting pine cones, birch bark, and bits of paper and yarn to make decorations for it. It surprised her how resilient the children were in the face of adversity. She fretted that there'd be nothing under the tree. But there was little she could do to remedy the situation. It wasn't that she hadn't thought about it. She had! Many times! Weighing the dangers of going out in search of trinkets and books, toys and candy. But every time she worked up her courage, she'd think back to that day at the museum and end up crying.
The thought of him made her cringe. His face haunted her nightmares. What he did to her was bad enough, but what terrified her more was what he could have done. He could have kidnapped or killed her, leaving the children to starve. He hadn't though. Had he taken pity on her because of the kids? A kindhearted rapist? She hardly thought so. Nevertheless, knowing the brutality, savagery, and carnage that existed now, it was amazing he hadn't done worse. Give him time, she thought. It wouldn't be long before he graduated from rape to murder!
It wouldn't be much of a Christmas this year: no presents, no feast.
She felt guilty even contemplating a celebration after everything that happened. The first Christmas after Grandma died, no one dared put up a tree. They'd attended midnight mass, but that was the extent of their Christmas celebration. Her parents insisted that the trappings of the holiday remain in the attic out of respect for the dead. It had seemed so unfair. Grandma wouldn't have wanted her grandchildren to suffer on her account; to sit around on Christmas morning in a barren living room with no tree or presents.
When her mom died the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Alex and her sisters had dressed in black and spent the entire month of December mourning their loss. Cat and Tori had some presents for the kids, but nobody put up a tree or decorations. Her father would have had a fit. But when he died 11 months later, Alex decided screw it! This was America, not Italy! She invited all the relatives over for Christmas dinner in a house replete with a tree and presents and every decoration imaginable. Her Aunts Angela and Marie, her father's widowed sisters, were appalled. They'd barely spoken to her since. Cat, always worried what the relatives would think, had come; but made it a point not to smile or appear as if she was having a good time. Tori, in a scene oft repeated through the years, had sat quietly in a corner, drowning herself in scotch.
Their husbands were relieved. They weren't Italian and couldn't understand why you had to spend an entire year with no celebrations just to show respect for the dead. In Matt's family they had Irish wakes where everyone laughed, cried, and got drunk! The really grateful ones though were the children. They'd circled the tree gathering up candy canes, then attacked their presents like a horde of pint-sized Huns, giggling and laughing as they sang Christmas carols. She'd done it for them. Childhood was so short and fleeting. It seemed a sin to deny them whatever happiness she could. Christmas was their day. A time of wonder.
Her eyes began to water as she recalled last year's holiday. That was the worst of it…the memories. She tried to cast her melancholy aside, but the memories remained, tormenting her. They waited in ambush around every bend in the trail, behind every tree.
Alex looked around for the withered stem of another Queen Anne's lace. Work was the only remedy for the pain. The busier her hands were, the less she had time to think of the past, of Matt.
Her hands moved back and forth over the dried stalks, trying to find something familiar, something edible. She straightened up, deciding she'd already found everything there was here. Time to move on. She grabbed up the basket, lifting it onto one shoulder, and began making her way back toward the trail. She searched the ground, looking for the trampled grass and brush that would show her the way home. She was in unfamiliar territory, over two miles from the camp. As the nearby food supply dwindled, Alex had been forced to go further and further into the woods to forage for food. She was no more than a mile away from the main highway now.
She stopped to examine a bush, its branches heavy with dark purple berries. They resembled wrinkled blueberries. They looked appetizing, but she didn't dare pick them. Poisonous plants abounded in the woods and she was taking no chances. Next time she'd take along her books and find out, for sure, what they were.
The basket weighed heavy on her shoulders. She couldn't wait to get back to the trail where the sled waited. She'd already gathered a half bushel of assorted nuts: acorns, butternuts, and what she thought were hickories. It had taken a long time to find them, digging under fallen leaves, searching for ones the animals hadn't already sampled. There were a few wild raisins, but no more than a pinch or so for each of the children. Not what you'd call bounty.
Alex couldn't help thinking about the empty space under the tree. The table with its meager rations. What she wouldn't give to remedy that. Blue Mountain Lake wasn't exactly a center of commerce; it had only two stores, both of them groceries. The selection was poor even at the height of tourist season: a few cans of this, a few cans of that. Whatever was there had long since been carted off'.
There were other places though. She couldn't get the Raquette Lake General Store out of her mind. The village was at the western end of the lake, at least a mile off the main road. It boasted a marina, a gift shop, a rustic bar and grill, and a tiny library. There were several camps on the northern shore, but few year-round residences. Only those familiar with the area knew the village existed. The sign on the highway said "Raquette Lake." To the unenlightened that was the name of the body of water. There was no mention of a town. She kept thinking about the general store with its toys, sweatshirts, fishing rods, and food. They could sure use the clothes and the food. Alex was almost tempted to take the chance. It was a good six-hour walk from the camp, but if she did it at night and was careful, very careful, it might be worth her while. She shook her head. It was risky! If only she had a gun! Then she wouldn't be so afraid.
Eagle Bay and Inlet, further to the west, were bigger, having several stores each, but they were over a day's walk away and more populated. She'd chance going there only when her desperation got the better of her, when there was no food and it was either do or die.
Alex kept thinking about Raquette Lake. The more she thought about it
, the more possible the whole thing seemed. The only inkling that there might be a town nearby was the old schoolhouse on the highway. The small, three-room structure now served as a community center. A big smile lit her face. The center sponsored lectures and ran arts and crafts and yoga programs in the summertime. More importantly, they had a playroom for kids whose parents attended the programs. There were probably blocks, books, puzzles, toy trucks, dolls, crayons, and colored paper there. Even if the building had been ransacked, the toys were probably still there. Colored pencils and reading books were not the type of thing looters took. If she traveled through the woods, the risk would be negligible. She could make it almost all the way there without ever setting foot on the road, or at least she thought she could. It seemed easy. Maybe too easy. She'd have to think on it some more.
Alex looked around, blinking in confusion. Which way should she go? There was trampled ground all around her. It looked as though a herd of deer had come this way. She grinned, envisioning sizzling chunks of roasting meat. If she remembered right, the main trail was no more than 100 feet away. She held tightly to the basket as she did a slow turn, trying to find her way. Straight ahead. That was probably best. She was sure the tracks hadn't been there before. She would have noticed them. They were new; the animals had passed this way no more than a half-hour ago. Up ahead, she could see something short and squat outlined against the trees. She hurried toward it. It was the basket she'd left there. She placed the one she carried in the sled, wondering how she could bag a deer with the weapons she'd brought. She had her axes and a hunting knife, but that was it. Why hadn't she brought the bow and arrows or a spear at least? That wouldn't make a difference; she wasn't good with either. Deer were wary creatures, the trick was to get close enough without being seen or heard. Alex could throw an ax well enough to hit a deer, providing she was right on top of it. No more than 15 feet away, 20 tops. Problem was, she wasn't sure one throw would bring it down. Alex had brought three axes with her. Would that be enough? She'd seen movies where Indians tracked wounded game, following a trail of blood spatters. But that required skill, something she didn't have. She'd have to get the first ax either in its head or chest, because once the animal bolted, if it wasn't gravely wounded, she wasn't going to get another chance. Alex was great with stationary targets, but a moving one was an entirely different matter. And deer were fast! Her mouth was watering. All she could think about was fresh meat. Venison cooking on a spit. She turned, heading back to the place where the animals' tracks intersected with her own.
