The Only Ones

by Aaron Starmer

  Instinctively, Martin reached his hand down to pet the animal at his feet. Its fur was thick and course, like slightly damp hay. He had petted dogs on the island but had never felt one like this. As he pulled his hand away, the nose followed his fingers. Martin got a closer look. It had a snout like a dog’s, but its head was rounder and its ears were stiffer. It raised a paw and placed it in the bend of Martin’s elbow. Its claws were as thick as Martin’s fingers. The pads of its feet were as big as his hands.

  “Hello,” Martin said softly.

  The creature let out a low rumbling sound—soothing at first, then more anxious.

  “I’m Martin Maple. From the island. I’m here for a visit. To have a look around.”

  The creature answered by pulling its head away from Martin. It opened its mouth in what looked like a yawn. Small daggers for teeth, hot breath. It lifted itself until it was standing on two feet. Even standing straight up, it was shorter than Martin by a good foot and a half, but Martin’s body still tensed in recognition.

  “You’re a bear.”

  The bear blinked.

  “I’ve read about you. You’re smaller than I expected. You don’t seem so mean.”

  Martin eased his hand back toward the bear, planning to calm it by petting its head. But just as his hand reached the snout, he felt a warm, damp breeze blow onto the top of his neck.

  Then he heard a rumble.

  It was similar to the rumble the bear had made, but it was coming from behind Martin. It was also deeper and louder. Vibrations crept across Martin’s scalp.

  He turned around in time to see another bear moving slowly toward him. It was three times as big as the first and had a fox dangling from its jaws. The fox was jerking violently, but the bear didn’t seem to notice. Its eyes were locked on Martin.

  All at once came a flash of teeth and nostrils as the bigger bear tossed the fox into the darkness and lunged at Martin. Martin threw himself against the bookshelf. A cascade of hardcovers raged out, and the entire thing crashed to the ground.

  Martin looked up from the pile of wood and paper. The smaller bear was smiling down at him, and the larger one was rising to its feet, recovering from its failed lunge. Martin’s legs flew into a fit of kicking. Books launched into the faces of both bears. They turned their heads, but their backs still blocked the entrance to the library. Martin scrambled to his feet and began to run. Weaving in and out of the aisles, he searched for any sign of sunlight. He would kick and claw a hole in the wall if need be. He had to get out of there.

  Then he saw an orange dot in front of him. He zeroed in on it. He didn’t dare slow down or turn his head and look back. The dot was moving. It was going somewhere. He was going to follow it.

  The orange dot darted purposefully across the floor, at a speed Martin could match but couldn’t beat. He followed it through aisles of books, down a hallway, through a wide-open room, all the way to a staircase. Then, without any warning, it stopped. Martin closed in.

  At the foot of the staircase sat the fox that had been dangling from the bear’s mouth. Its orange fur was shifting to red as blood plotted a slow and insidious takeover. One of the fox’s legs was bent, and stuck out uselessly to the side. Exhausted, the animal looked up at Martin. It looked at the stairs it had to climb. It curled into a ball.

  Without thinking, Martin snatched the fox, tucked it under his arm, and raced up the stairs. At the top, he saw a pane of glass as big as a door. It was damp with the fog but also glowing with the small bit of sunlight that had found its way through. He lowered his shoulder, held the fox behind his back, and plowed into the glass.

  Instead of breaking, the glass heaved. Then it popped from the wall like a head off a dandelion and fluttered down into the grass. Martin’s body swayed in the hole for a moment, and his canvas bag dangled and tried to pull his shoulder down with its weight. Behind him was the sound of the bears thundering up the stairway. Below him was the mist-soaked backyard of the library. He looked out to a tight line of trees where a forest began. Gravity and momentum finally took over and Martin closed his eyes as he and the fox tumbled down into a patch of hardy bushes below.

  It had been dark for hours. The forest beyond the library was thick, and for now, that was where Martin planned to stay, shielded by the protective glow of a fire. Cradling the dying fox in one hand, he stoked the fire with a stick he held in the other. He wasn’t ready, not by a long shot. Towns and cars and library beasts? He knew nothing of these things. What he knew was how to survive in the forest.

  His heart was still pounding. His hunger had retreated, but his mind was now a riot of worry. Instead of sleeping, he would tend the fire. When the sun came up, he would hurry back to the rowboat and return to the island.

  The fox was breathing, but barely. With his hand on its chest, Martin spoke to it. “Sleep. The pain will go away if you sleep.”

  The fire was cracking and popping, so Martin didn’t hear the footsteps in the pine needles. He heard the voice, though, throaty and high-pitched as it floated out from the darkness.

  “Share it with me?”

  —— 2 ——

  The Boy

  A bone-thin boy stepped into the glow of the fire. He wore a T-shirt and jeans and a tattered red cloak that hung over his shoulders and reached down to his knees and was attached around his chest with a silver bird-shaped medallion. His face was all cheekbones and eyeballs. When he smiled, he revealed a mouth of crooked and brown teeth.

  “Would you share?” the boy asked. “Half of it?”

  “Wha …?” was the only sound Martin could muster.

  “The fox,” the boy said. “Or are you just singing it lullabies?”

  “It’s not dead yet,” Martin whispered.

  “Seems dead.”

  Martin looked down at the lump of fur in his hand. His father had always stressed the rules about killing animals: Only when you’re hungry. Only if you don’t let them suffer.

  Martin set the stick down, then placed one hand on the fox’s torso and the other on its head. With a swift motion he turned the head and broke the animal’s neck.

  “Yikes,” the boy said. “Either you’ve done that before, or you’re into horror movies.”

  “I’ve never seen a movie,” Martin said.

  “Sure you haven’t,” the boy said as he eased himself down onto a rock near the fire. “Can you cook it too?”

  “Yes,” Martin said, resting the fox in his lap. “I have to skin it first, though.”

  “Of course,” the boy said. “Henry always did the skinning. He had a talent for it. Not my idea of fun.”

  Martin bent over and unearthed a half-buried piece of limestone. He struck it against a larger rock, chipping away layers until he had a sharp tool. The boy watched with fascination as Martin fastidiously took to the task.

  “I don’t recognize you from Xibalba,” the boy said.

  “What’s Xibalba?” Martin asked. “Is it a place?”

  “It’s the place. You know that.”

  “I don’t know much,” Martin confessed. “I should apologize. I have limited experience talking … to people …”

  “To foxes, then?” the boy asked. “Oh God, don’t tell me you’re like him.”

  “Like who?”

  “Never mind,” the boy said, shaking his head. “So if you never made it to Xibalba, then whatcha been doing since the Day?”

  “Which day?”

  “Which day? Very funny. The Day!”

  Martin shrugged sheepishly.

  “The day they all left us?” the boy said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Who left us?” Martin asked.

  “What island you from, buddy?”

  Martin pointed east. “You can’t see it from here.”

  “Priceless.” The boy shook his head. “Glad there’s someone left with a sense of humor.”

  “I’m not being humorous,” Martin stated. “I do come from an island, and everything I know
is on that island. I’ve read some books … but when you talk about the people who left us, I’m being honest when I say I don’t know who that is. Do you mean my dad? George and his family?”

  As the boy considered this, Martin noticed how dark the shadows were on his neck. It was like there were ridges in it. This boy was starving.

  “Sorry, kid,” the boy said. “I’m also not so good at talking … to people. Grandpa was a miner, and Marjorie thinks he left a bit of coal in our hearts. It’s been a while since I’ve even seen anyone. I thought they’d all made it to Xibalba.”

  “I’ve made it this far,” Martin said as he examined the sharp edge on his hunk of limestone.

  “Others came from a lot farther, that’s for sure.”

  “So who left us?” Martin wedged the fox between his knees and ran the stone carefully along its belly.

  “Our … our moms,” the boy said, turning away from the gore. “Our teachers. Our … classmates. Everyone. You knew other people on your island, didn’t you?”

  “I knew my father. I knew George.”

  “No mom?”

  “She doesn’t exist.”

  “Like she’s dead?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure if she ever existed. I guess that makes me an immaculate conception,” Martin said as he peeled the fox’s skin up and over its head. He’d read the term but was a little foggy on the definition.

  The boy turned back and flashed his piano-tooth smile. “You—are—astounding. You do know what that means, I assume? Man, they’ll have a field day with you in Xibalba. Tell ’em you walk on water, they’ll dig you a pond and throw you in.”

  “Where’d everyone else go, everyone who left us?”

  “That’s the question, right?” the boy sighed. “Tons of theories, of course. When I saw the smoke from your fire, I thought maybe you were the kid with the answers.”

  Martin shrugged and gave the skin a last tug until it detached from the body in one solid piece.

  “But you’re just a fox-skinning messiah from the sea, now, aren’t you?” the boy went on.

  “My name is Martin.”

  The boy chuckled. “Good to know you, Marty. I’m Kelvin.”

  Martin and Kelvin roasted the fox and they ate it together. Martin insisted that Kelvin eat the lion’s share, but the boy could hardly finish his half. “My stomach’s gotten too small,” Kelvin sighed.

  After they ate, they sat in silence by the fire. Martin wanted to learn more from him, but Kelvin looked exhausted. His eyes were glazed over and all he did was stare at the flames. So Martin let him stare.

  When Kelvin finally wrapped himself up in his cloak and fell asleep, Martin found a perch on a nearby rock and watched him. It felt odd to be so close to another person. Kelvin looked a bit like George with his sharp blond eyebrows and his dimpled chin, but George had never seemed so desperate. After several minutes, Martin walked a few paces away, laid himself down on a bed of pine needles, and closed his eyes. It took a while, but eventually, he fell asleep.

  Morning came and Martin felt a tap on his shoulder. He rolled over to see Kelvin hovering above him.

  “I’m leaving,” Kelvin said.

  “Where are you going?”

  Kelvin made a visor with his hand to his forehead. “Looking for something.”

  “I can go with you.”

  “I’m not made for pals, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I’m better without you.” Kelvin’s tone was unapologetic.

  George never would have said such a thing, or at least not in such a way. It seemed that not all other people were going to be like George, even the ones who looked like him. Kelvin had been nice enough to provide some information. Maybe that was the most Martin could ask for. Still, he had to try.

  “How do I find it?” Martin asked. “Shi …?”

  “Xibalba?” Kelvin said. “You know it’s actually spelled with an ‘X,’ but sounds like an ‘Sh,’ as in ‘Who gives a Xibalba?’ You just find it. Like the rest of them did. You’ll know you’re close when you smell the nuts.”

  “Yes, but for me—”

  “You’ll do fine,” Kelvin assured him. “They’ll help you, as much as they help anyone, anyway. ’Cause you’re the kinda kid they like. Capable. Honest.”

  Martin nodded. He could tell that his time with Kelvin was up. He reached down, picked the fox skin off the ground, and held it out.

  “In case you get cold.”

  Kelvin took it, held it against his chest. “Ain’t exactly Sunday’s best,” he said, handing it back. “Keep it. A memento. And keep this too.” From within his cloak, Kelvin pulled a tiny glass bottle, about the size of his pinkie finger.

  Martin took it. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “It’ll bring you luck with the ladies,” Kelvin joked.

  “Okay.”

  “When you get there,” Kelvin went on, “tell ’em you saw me and tell ’em I looked fantastic.”

  “I can do that,” Martin said.

  Kelvin placed his bony hand on Martin’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. He paused, looked Martin up and down, nodded, and withdrew. Then he turned toward town and set off into the forest. His cloak caught the breeze and trembled gently behind him.

  “Watch out for the library bears,” Martin called out.

  “Should be all right,” Kelvin called back. “I don’t have anything overdue.”

  As Martin watched the boy disappear into the maze of firs, he wondered if this had all been a put-on, if Kelvin was like some of the people he had read about in books. Were his tales a game he played with the green and gullible? Maybe. Then again, Kelvin’s skinny body didn’t seem a big enough place for lies.

  So Martin chose to trust him, and he decided, right there in the forest, that he wasn’t going back to the island. He was going forward. He would find this Xibalba place. He would meet these other people. He would trust them too. Maybe that would make him a bit too curious, a bit too much a fool. It was better than being suspicious and alone.

  —— 3 ——

  The Trail

  Rain christened Martin’s new journey. Trapping was infinitely harder in the rain, so he scavenged in cars for his breakfast and lunch: candy, soda, chips—anything with enough packaging and preservatives to keep it edible. He had no idea which way to go, but he figured if he followed the roads away from the ocean, he’d end up somewhere. Kelvin’s confidence in him was hard to believe, but it kept him moving.

  That night he slept in a van, where he could stretch out his entire body. He noticed that almost all the vehicles he came across had keys in the ignition, but even if Martin had known how to drive, it wouldn’t have been worth the effort to steer around all the other cars that were on the pavement, in the grass, or wrapped around and crushed under trees. It was easier to walk.

  Over the next few days, he passed through several towns with vacant, dust-frosted stores and weather-beaten homes. In each place, animals came and went as they pleased, but once Martin saw that there were no people, he never bothered to stay long. He felt safer away from buildings. The road offered a clear future and a clear past, so he followed it forward.

  For eight days he walked. He hadn’t given up hope, but he was beginning to wonder how he would ever know if he was headed in the right direction. Signs told him it was ten miles to this place, and twenty miles to that place, two hundred miles to some other place. But not a single sign mentioned Xibalba.

  The closest he found was the sign he ultimately chose to follow. It marked a trail. It was small, rectangular, and brown and decorated with a simple silhouette of two people, both carrying walking sticks and wearing backpacks. In the bottom corner of the sign, someone had placed a sticker. It was the same picture as on George’s Jolly Roger: a skull, crisscrossing bones, a background of black.

  “It can’t be a coincidence,” Martin whispered to the skull as he stepped off the road and onto the dirt.

&n
bsp; It was rougher going. The trail carved its way through damp, mossy forests, over thickly wooded mountains, and along the shores of dark, still lakes. There were plants and animals Martin had never seen, and he would sit next to his campfire at night imagining what else might be out there. Were things like dragons and horses and duck-billed platypuses real, or were they just fanciful embellishments in the books he had read? Could he hike this trail for years, around the entire circumference of the earth? Would it ever lead to Xibalba?

  Martin spent his thirteenth birthday at a campsite in the forest. Memories of other birthdays consumed him. His eleventh birthday still haunted. The sight of the skiff, appearing like a ghost on the sea, was something he would never shake. He had seen inside. He knew his father wasn’t there. All he could make out was that branch. Yet the reason he swam after it was to check if something else might be there too, hidden in the crook of the bow. A gift. Another birthday memory.

  It was from when Martin had turned eight.

  There had been no celebration, only a simple dinner and an evening spent by the fire. Just before heading off to bed, his father had handed Martin a small round alarm clock with two bells that stuck up from the top like ears.

  “It doesn’t work, but I want you to have it,” his father said.

  “It’s a clock,” Martin said, and held it in his lap and stared at the two hands. The big hand was stuck just past the four, the small hand just past the twelve.

  “It’s the moment I learned you were born,” his father told him. “I received a call. In my excitement, I knocked the clock off a nightstand, and it stopped. It was the happiest moment of my life.”

  His father rarely said things like that, so Martin cherished the gift, and he took extra-special care of it. He wrapped it in a piece of silk and kept it in the dresser next to his bed. On most days, he would take it out and clean its glass face and shine its bells. His father told him that he must never fix it. He wanted it frozen on that moment.

  On the day his father set out to find the final piece to the machine, Martin pulled the alarm clock from the drawer. He wasn’t worried that his father wouldn’t come back, but in the book of stories about men traveling to other planets, there were always scenes in which the space travelers were presented gifts. Martin had never given his father a gift. Then again, Martin’s father had never left on a journey.