The boy struggled to his feet. He had fallen into a shallow burrow. His weight and the little scraping he had done had collapsed the roof. It was then that he noticed the tunnel.
He cleared away the debris of earth and pine needles. The air was thick with the fox's scent. That, and something else. He wriggled forward into the tunnel. He sneezed and sand sifted down. The other smell was familiar. It reminded him of cooking somehow. His stomach stirred. He crawled forward into darkness. The sand hardened to stone and gripped his shoulders. He could not breathe. Sobbing, he scrabbled at the sides. Rocks shifted uneasily overhead, as if they wearied of holding up the Wall.
He twisted and suddenly found himself free, sliding down an incline into dazzling light. He squinted out of the tunnel mouth. Blue sky stretched on forever, above and below him. He shut his eyes, whimpering, and retreated back into the tunnel.
Later, he wandered back into camp. His uncle looked up from the fire.
"Where've you been?"
"I don't know," said the boy. His uncle scowled and clouted him on his ear.
"Firewood," he said. "Don't come back without an armful."
The tribe was camped in a valley. Mountains loomed to the north and east. To the west was the Wall. The tribe always wintered in the valley. They pitched their tents on the outskirts of the ruined city. Some crumbled walls still stood. Flat gray stone covered the ground in places.
Once, the boy had found a metal stick growing from the ground. On top sat a square of flat wood with faded white letters. He had puzzled the sounds out, struggling to remember what his father had taught him. Santa. Santa Monica.
He gathered some sticks. The wood of the valley trees burned with purple flame. It gave meat a strange flavor that brought twilight visions and dreams at night.
"Jos."
The boy turned to see a girl. They had once been playmates. These days he found nothing to say to her.
"Mari," he stammered.
"May I have some wood, please?"
"Wood?"
"Please," she said. "It’s getting dark. Just a few pieces."
"No," he said. "Find your own." Her face fell and she turned away.
"Took your time with that wood," grunted his uncle.
Stew bubbled in a pot. Jos fished in it with the cooking knife and speared some meat. Squirrel. Maybe rat.
"Gathering tonight."
Jos chewed and said nothing.
"Fox ran through camp. Shaman 'bout had a fit."
The boy did not move for a moment. Then he asked, "Red fox?"
"Yep. Big 'un. Running quicker'n rain."
They went to the gathering. The bonfire flickered light on faces. People were silent mostly, though a whisper laced the crowd together, neighbor to neighbor. A sigh rose up. A shadow appeared in front of the purple flames. Firelight gleamed on the shaman’s oak staff.
"A sign!" declared the shaman. "A red fox running."
The crowd waited silently. The boy stared down at his hands.
"The spirits call. The red fox cries out."
The shaman poked the embers with his staff. Sparks shot up.
"A messenger must go west!" he cried. "West, beyond the Wall. Who'll go?!"
Everyone was silent. Then, past the crowd, footsteps pattered. The shaman swung around. The crowd parted to reveal Mari clutching an armful of kindling.
"I, I," she began, confused.
"The spirits speak!" roared the shaman. The crowd roared with him, roaring in relief. Jos jumped up, his voice shrill in horror. No one heard him.
They hobbled her to a stake inside a tent. Once, Jos wandered by and glanced inside. She stared at him dully through her tangled hair. He had to look away.
It was always the same. A day of purification and fasting followed by a night of feasting. And then the morning. People were sent west in several ways, but in the valley there was only one way: the tar pits in the ruined city.
Jos sat against an old wall outside the camp. He remembered another purification day. He had been too small to do anything except cry and scream, not understanding what was happening to his father. His uncle had been kind enough to beat him senseless. His mother had fallen asleep on her blanket, with her face like stone. She had never woken up.
The moon rose. Voices keened from the bonfire. Jos saw a thin figure dressed in white, being spun from dancer to dancer, each tribe member touching her. The figure staggered. Jos closed his eyes.
The sky was paling in the east when he awoke. The camp was silent. He lay for a moment, thinking, and then crept to his uncle's tent. He fished through the cold muck in the cooking pot. His fingers found the cooking knife. He wiped grease off the blade.
The flaps of the purification tent were tied shut. Bodies lay sleeping before it. Jos crept around behind the tent. The seam threads broke under his knife with a slight popping sound. He peered within. The shaman lay snoring across the tent door. Mari slumped by the stake in the ground. He slipped inside and knelt down. Her eyes flicked open. Jos laid his hand on her mouth and cut her bonds.
He helped her up, but she stumbled. The shaman rolled over, smacked his gums, and opened his eyes. He howled. The two children fled through the gash in the tent. They ran past the tents and the blank faces rising from sleep. Then they were out of the camp. Cries shrilled behind them.
Jos' mind overflowed with the memory of a little boy, himself, years ago. I could not! he thought. I was too young. I was too small. But now I can run.
"Where can we go?!" screamed Mari.
The pine trees loomed up against the side of the Wall. The sun climbed over the eastern mountains and light dazzled on the Wall. They plunged into the cool shade of the trees.
"I can't run anymore," gasped Mari. “I can’t!”
"You must," said Jos. The pursuing shouts grew louder.
And then there was the burrow, the raw sand and the roots and the darkness beneath. The boy jumped down and pointed at the tunnel.
"Come on!" he urged. She stared down at him, exhausted and not understanding.
The cries swelled. Someone yelled in triumph.
“Come on!” he shouted, wanting to suddenly cry.
Mari tumbled down and hurled herself into the tunnel. He followed her into the dark. There was sand in his mouth and eyes. Shouting filled the burrow behind him. A hand grabbed his ankle with fingers like pincers. He thrashed and kicked, screaming. Sand cascaded down. Stone groaned overhead, and suddenly there was a crash from somewhere above and behind him. A damp weight fell on his legs, so heavy that he could barely move. The hand was gone. Jos strained forward and, in a shower of sand, broke free. Silence filled the tunnel. He crawled forward and crept into the light.
"It goes on forever," said Mari quietly. She was perched on a rock. "Turns into water halfway. I think."
He sat down beside her and stared. Her hand closed over his. He could feel them trembling.
Behind them, the Wall rose up into the air. Before them, the ground fell away into a cliff. Below, water rolled on a stretch of sand. The water stretched away forever, west, and blurred into blue and sky. The sky curved up until it soared over their heads.
"Think it'll ever fall down?" he asked.
"No."
"It smells like salt."
A path zigzagged down the cliff. They clambered down and found an old man sitting on the sand. He was stitching together a weaving that had more holes in it than fabric.
He looked up and then looked back down.
"Net's worn out," he said.
They stared at him silently.
"Come far?" he asked.
Jos gestured back up at the Wall.
"Ah," nodded the old man. "Always figured somebody lived behind all that. Most folks say the world ends on the other side of the wall. Drops off into sky. Foolishness, mostly."
Jos and Mari stepped closer. Her hand clutched again at his, settled, their fingers interlaced.
"Want to go fishing?" asked the old man.
Th
ey looked at him, confused.
"Out there," said the old man, pointing at the water.
“Fishing?”
“Yah. Might try for some bluegill. Tastes fine grilled. Not a bad way to start off the day.”
"Yes," said the boy, nodding. It sounded like a fine way to start off the day.
THE OCEAN WON’T BURN
I found the postcard in an old suitcase when I was going through Dad’s things after the funeral. It was tucked in a battered copy of Robert Frost’s poetry. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and all that sort of thing. The postcard was worn and creased. The postmark was stamped July 1995. Twenty-four years ago. Twelve months after I was born. The same month my mother had disappeared.
I sat down on the dusty attic floor with that postcard in my hands. The writing was slanted cursive. Dear Tom, it began. Tom, my dad’s name.
Dear Tom,
I’m grateful for the years we’ve had, but I couldn’t stay any longer. I think you understand. Please don’t try to follow me. Take care of Jackie. I love you. Forgive me.
Sanna
Sanna. My mom’s name.
I turned the postcard over. The photo on the front was of a pier. Boats were tied up. A seagull sat on a piling. I turned it back over. The postmark was faded, but there was enough ink to make out more than just the date.
Nanituck, Maine.
I quit my job at the newspaper. It was a dead-end anyway. Chasing the police scanner, local scandals blurring one after another into each other. Regurgitating the same old news pulled off the wire. Peace talks collapsing. Peace talks resuming. Crazed dictator threatening to blow up the world. Sabers rattling. Other sabers rattling back.
“You’ll regret this,” said the editor. “World going to hell in a handbasket. Pakistan and India about to go to war. Russian nukes in Venezuela. Turkey invading Greece. Did you know every single animal escaped from the Brooklyn Zoo yesterday? Now that’s a helluva story. Even better than the bombing in London. Great time for news. You’ll be back.”
I collected my last paycheck, three hundred bucks and change, got into my car and drove east. The bank had already started foreclosure. They could have the house, as far as I cared, along with all of Dad’s old sadness that had seeped into the timbers over the years. It wasn’t home anymore.
Two thousand, five hundred and fifty-two miles, five tanks of gas, three sunrises and two sunsets. I arrived in Nanituck on the evening of the third day. Nanituck didn’t even show up on most maps and, driving over the ridge above the town, I saw why. It was a tiny place. A one stop sign town. The road was potholed and cracked. A single pier reached out into the ocean, guarded by a breakwater. Some fishing boats swung at anchor.
I parked my car down by the pier and got out. The view was older and shabbier, but it was the same pier from the postcard. The ocean crashed gray and cold against the breakwater. I turned and walked up the street. A handful of houses and a grocery store, that’s all it was. And then I was standing on the edge of a field yellow with dead grass. I walked back to the grocery store. I opened the door and a bell jangled. Inside, a few rows of mostly bare shelves stretched back to some freezers and refrigerators. An old man slowly pushed a broom across the floor.
“Evening,” he said, startled. “I was just locking up.”
“Evening,” I said. “I’m looking for a restaurant.”
He hesitated and then shrugged. “Right around the corner. Only place in town.”
I paused in the door. “You happen to know a woman named Sanna? She’d be in her mid forties. Black hair, grey eyes.”
He shook his head. “Never heard of her.”
Rain was beginning to fall outside. I walked down the street. The wind blew past me, heading back out into the evening. Around the corner, a few more houses stood huddled together in weathered stone. The street ended in a muddy track that climbed up toward the headland. Waves surged under the pier. A sign hung over one door advertising Fish. Inside, warmth and good smells and conversation washed over me. For a second, while I stood there in the doorway, all the sound in that place ceased. I couldn’t see, but surely every single person there was staring at me. But then the rumble of conversation resumed. My eyes adjusted to the shadows. No one even bothered glancing my way. I found an empty seat at the counter. The rest of the tables looked full. By the looks of it, the whole town was crammed in that little room. A tough-looking lot. They all probably lived off the sea. The place smelled of the sea.
“We’re just about to close the kitchen.”
I looked up. Grey eyes met mine. She tucked a wing of black hair behind her ear.
“Fish and chips, please.”
The waitress brought me in quick succession, a glass of water, a cup of clam chowder and bottles of ketchup and vinegar. The chowder burned my tongue but tasted delicious. She flitted in and out of my sight, ducking through swinging doors into the kitchen and then whisking past, loaded down with plates. A TV muttered down at the end of the counter. Some reporter babbling to camera in Red Square. The sound blurred together with the rumble of conversations behind me. She slid a plate in front of me. I sprinkled vinegar on the fish and dug in.
An older couple sat on my right, the woman and then the man beyond her. I smiled at them.
“Great fish,” I said.
“Yes,” said the woman. The man nodded.
“I’m looking for an old friend,” I said. “Her name’s Sanna.”
The woman did not answer.
“She’s probably about forty-five or so –”
“Look, pal,” said the man. “Maybe you should just enjoy your dinner, alright?”
They left soon after that. The back of my neck felt hot. I was sure the whole room was staring at me. But, when I worked up the nerve to glance around, no one was paying me any attention. I finished my fish. The waitress brought the check and waited, silent, while I counted some dollars out.
“Is there a motel in town?” I said. “A bed-and-breakfast, anything?”
“No,” she said. “You’ll have to drive back to Everton.”
It was still raining when I went outside. Raining and dark. I could hear the waves crashing against the breakwater. It was a loud sound. Loud enough to drown out the footsteps behind me.
“You shouldn’t have stopped here, boy,” said a voice.
And then something hard crashed against my head. Red light bloomed behind my eyes. The pavement leapt off the ground to smash me. I could taste salt in my mouth. Someone kicked me in the back. Again. I felt concrete against my face.
“That’s enough,” someone else said, but it was already more than enough, and I drifted down into darkness with that salt wet in my mouth. Salt like the sea.
I woke with the rain on my face. I groaned. Footsteps hurried toward me. Someone knelt down. A hand touched my cheek and I flinched away.
“Wonderful,” muttered a voice. There was a pause, and then a sigh. “Can you get up?”
I mumbled something unintelligible. Hands grabbed me under my arms and heaved up, hauled me to my feet. One arm went around my waist and we went stumbling away. Down the street, leaned against a wall while the person fumbled with some keys. Then, a door creaked open and we were inside. I must have fainted then, because the next thing I knew I was flat on my back on something soft. A couch. Light gleamed from a lamp. Someone sat on the edge of the couch. A wet cloth touched my face. My eyes focused.
The waitress.
She frowned down at me. She looked tired. The cloth moved gently across my skin.
“Of all the nights,” she said. “Why’d you pick this night?”
“What?” I said, wincing as a loose tooth twinged in my jaw.
“This night, of all nights.” She seemed to be talking more to herself than me. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter.” She sighed. “Look, the bathroom’s through there. Help yourself to anything you want in the fridge. I have to go out for a while. Feel free to sleep on the couch. There’re blankets in the bathroom closet.�
�
She stood up, but I grabbed her wrist. She pulled away.
“Wait. You’re going to leave a complete stranger in your house?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, pausing in the doorway.
“Does the name Sanna mean anything to you?” I said. My head ached.
She did not move. I couldn’t see her face in the shadows.
“Never mind,” I said. I closed my eyes.
She was silent for a while, then, “Why do you ask?”
“She was my mother,” I said. The light blurred red through my eyelids. “I think she came from this town. I was trying to find her. It doesn’t matter.”
“Your mother?”
I opened my eyes and the waitress was standing again beside the couch, staring down at me. The clock ticked on the wall. Three minutes until midnight. She looked at the clock, her face worried, and then back at me.
“Can you stand up?” she said.
“I think so.”
I managed it, dizzy and sick to my stomach. She pushed me toward the door.
“Where are we going?”
She didn’t answer. The rain had stopped and the moon was out. The town was silent. Every single window was dark. The waves slapped against the pier pilings. Moonlight gleamed on the water. She hurried down the street, tennis shoes whispering on the wet pavement. I had to stretch my legs to keep up with her. We were almost running by that time, onto the pier, past the dark hulks of the fishing boats nodding on their moorings. I caught up with her only when she stopped. At the end of the pier. The sea was an unending darkness below us.
“Sanna,” she said to me, her voice fierce. “You’re sure about that name? A woman about my height, long, straight black hair and grey eyes?”
“Yes,” I said. “She’d probably be about forty-five years old now. But she left along time ago. Twenty-four years ago.”
“You’re right,” said the waitress, nodding. “Twenty-four years ago. I remember her when I was a very little girl.”
And with that, she shoved me off the edge. I hit the water without even time to draw a breath. I went down deep into the darkness. My arms and legs thrashed, trying to propel me back to the surface, but then I felt fingers close on my wrist. Her face wavered in front of mine. The waitress. Her black hair rippled around her head like the rays of some kind of midnight sun. She pulled me down. I struggled, feeling the breath strangling in my lungs. She came close and her lips moved, mouthing some words.
The Model Universe And Other Stories Page 7
