The World Without Crows

by Ben Lyle Bedard

  They hadn't made it yet. It wasn't over.

  _

  Four days they remained in camp. Lucia wouldn't allow Eric to move. She changed and washed his wounds several times a day. She could tell it caused Eric a great deal of pain, but she was worried. It would be easy for the wounds to become infected. He could die. Lucia had enough ghosts haunting her. She couldn't take another.

  When she wasn't cleaning Eric's wounds, she was fishing and gathering food with Birdie. It was late summer and Birdie found blueberries to pick. Lucia stood at the edge of a stream with a fishing pole she found in the farmhouse in Bethel. She wasn't as good at fishing as Sergio had been. It was impossible not to think of him, peaceful, thoughtful, gentle, pulling the fish from the water with grace.

  One day, perhaps the third day of their stay, Birdie came and sat down on the moss beside the stream where Lucia was fishing. She wrapped her arms around her legs. "You know what?" she asked.

  Lucia turned to her. Birdie spoke so infrequently that when she did, she commanded attention.

  "What, Birdie?"

  "My Daddy had to kill Mommy because she was sick."

  Lucia felt her heart drop. She went to Birdie and sat down next her, putting her arm around her. "I'm sorry, Birdie," she said.

  "She had the worm," Birdie said. "Then Daddy had it. He told me to go to my granma's house in Grafton. He made me write it down. He said I had to leave, but he would meet me later." Birdie looked up at Lucia. "Daddy shot himself, didn't he Lucia?"

  Lucia shook her head. "I don't know, Birdie."

  "He did," Birdie said. "He isn't ever going to meet me, is he?"

  "I don't think so," Lucia said.

  Birdie put her head down on her knees and cried. Lucia held her and tried to think of something to say. There was nothing to say.

  _

  Lucia brought out some extra clothes and took Birdie down to the stream. There, the stream curved around a corner and left a small, eddying pool, shaded by pine trees. They crept in the cold water with bars of soap and shampoo. Birdie let Lucia scrub her, though Lucia could tell she didn't like it. They washed for a long time. Lucia had never felt so filthy, or so clean when they were finished.

  Birdie had to wear a pair of jeans and an oversized t-shirt while Lucia scrubbed their clothes and put them out to dry.

  It was a beautiful day.

  They stretched out under the sun to dry. A blue jay squawked in a tree while little black and tan chickadees flitted restlessly from branch to branch.

  Birdie reached out and held her hand.

  It was the closest thing to perfect Lucia ever remembered feeling.

  _

  After four days, Eric insisted on leaving. He was anxious and irritable, jumping at the slightest noise. Lucia tried to argue with him, tried to tell him that there was no rush, they should stay a week, time enough for his wounds to heal well. But his face darkened.

  "There is a rush," he argued. "It's late, Lucia. We need to get ready for winter. We need food. We need to build a house. We need supplies, food, maybe a generator, portable heaters, medication in case we get sick. We need coats and mittens, maybe a snowmobile." He said none of this gently. "There is a rush, Lucia."

  "Don't lecture me, Eric," she said.

  "Someone has to."

  They didn't talk again. She couldn't stop him from packing his material. Birdie helped him, after giving Lucia a shrug. Annoyed, she could do nothing but begin to pack herself.

  Suddenly, it seemed, Lucia found herself hiking behind Eric and Birdie. They were on their way, the last miles on their journey.

  _

  At first they tried to hike in the woods, to keep away from the roads. But Eric wasn't capable of it. It was too strenuous. Even he had to admit he was risking ripping open his wounds. When they came to Bemis Road, they stood silent, breathing hard in the hot, late summer sun. Then, instead of crossing into the forest, Eric stepped on the road. They would have to risk it.

  _

  Eric remembered the sweet smell of pine needles. He remembered the sound of wind through the tall pines and the chirping of chickadees as they flew down to investigate the newcomers. He remembered the moist wind, with its promise of cool waters. They were so close.

  But Eric no longer cared to remember his father. That was in a different world, long ago and unreal. Now when he thought of it, he saw himself as if from a height, sitting in an aluminum boat, a child, frightened by the thought that his father did not love him, and a spiteful, shallow man who wanted nothing to do with his own son. He saw little connection to himself in that child or that man. They were phantoms. It was as if he had lived fifty years time since the Vaca B began. Life was not the same. He was not the same. Neither was the world.

  Crows were the proof of it. There were no more crows. It was something that struck Eric suddenly, a silence he suddenly noticed. He had not seen crows since, well, he couldn't remember when. The crows, unlike most birds, fed on corpses. Perhaps they too suffered from the Vaca B. It had wiped them out.

  Some things would not survive. Parts of his past, whole regions of his heart, all were gone now. They still had to discover what kind of people lived afterward, in this new land, in his new skin.

  In a world without crows.

  _

  When it happened, it was sudden. There was no warning. One moment the three of them were walking along the curving road, forests on both sides. Then, as they came to a winding curve, the forest dropped away, and they saw it below them. Mooselookmeguntic Lake.

  And in the middle of it, an island, shining emerald green in the sun. Breathless, stunned, the three of them stared down soundlessly. It was Birdie who spoke first.

  "The island," she said, pointing. She looked up at Eric. "It looks like an eye."

  It did. The island seemed the pupil of a great eye staring up at the sky.

  They were silent. There were no words for the sight. It was the end. Their hearts grew and spilled over. Lucia trembled. Eric took a numb step forward to the edge of the road.

  The island.

  How far he had come. Over hills and bridges, through death and fear, down a long road of grief and suffering. He thought he would be ecstatic when he saw it. He thought they would cheer and embrace each other. He thought there would be some revelation, some feeling of wholeness, security. Righteousness. But the island was silent, unseemly in its reality. And instead of the people standing next to him, the people he would have died to save, Eric thought of the people who had not made it.

  Poor Brad, angry and foolish, but loyal and strong. Burned to smoking bones on the shore of a lake. Sarah who had taught them how to fish and cook, who had held them together through disaster until she too was burnt to ashes, the first woman he had ever kissed. John Martin, tall and steadfast as rock, who had saved Lucia and Sergio, who had shown him it was no sign of manhood to kill. Shot down for no reason but his strength and the fear Doyle had in his heart. Sergio, poor Sergio, fearful but gentle, killed for nothing. Charlie who died at his feet. The men and women of the Slow Society, so brave and kind, dead only because they had dared to be hopeful. His mother in her burning bed and Jessica in her ditch. His friends. The herds of men and women, minds eaten by the Vaca B, shambling toward water, drowning, dying, or living on, meaningless and vacant. The cracked ones, furious to continue in the world of beauty and pleasure, minds bent and broken by their proximity to the cold darkness of death, killing and dying with equal ferocity.

  And for what?

  Eric's eyes fluttered with tears.

  For this.

  A green island set in the blue of a lake, staring up at the azure sky. The brilliance of living. The beauty of it standing against the darkness. The wonder.

  Eric covered his face with his hands. As the sobs came to him, he felt Lucia and Birdie grasp him. The three survivors cried in each other's arms and could not let go.

  They were the ones who lived and they did not know why.

  _

&nbs
p; From the shore of Mooselookmeguntic, the island looked flat, like a green plate floating upon the water. The sun was setting and turned the lake to fiery gold. They had already set up camp and Lucia had set a pan of water on the fire to boil. Eric's heart felt tight in his chest, like cold stone. Birdie, tired from the day's hike, had crawled underneath the ragged canvas tent they found in the Bethel farmhouse.

  Eric stood at the shore.

  They had made it. It was impossible to believe. The wind coming off the lake seemed as soft as cotton. There was no sign of humans. No smoke from another fire. No floating corpses. There was only the lake, waving gently against the shore. Standing there, he heard the ghostly call of a loon. It echoed off the lake with mysterious poignancy.

  "It's hard to believe, isn't it?" Lucia asked, suddenly next to him.

  Eric turned to her. "I'm sorry about Sergio," he said. "I haven't said so yet. I'm sorry."

  Lucia looked away, over the lake, then down at her feet, then back at him. Tears swelled in her eyes. She looked about to say something, but the look just hung there until she shook her head and swallowed.

  "You know," said Eric, "I didn't think I'd make it here. I was sure of it sometimes. Now that I'm here, I don't understand. I don't understand why we made it. How are we here when so many other people aren't?" Eric choked up, but continued. "It was all so random. Brad was just trying to protect us, Sarah died cooking for us. I don't know why John Martin had to die. It was so. . ." Eric struggled for the words. "Meaningless," he finished. "Meaningless." He looked out over the lake.

  "Don't say that," Lucia answered. She took his arm and jerked it until he looked at her again. "Don't say that again, Eric." Her eyes were fierce. "Sergio died for us to get here. So did John. They died for us. They died so we could be here and live in peace." She felt suddenly enraged. "What did you think you would find? The meaning of life?" She gave out a painful laugh. "Why do you have to think like that? From that distance? Life is here. It's there. It's all around us. It's not in here!" She stabbed at her head ferociously. "You don't find meaning in there. It's out there!" She started to cry, but when Eric touched her arm, she calmed.

  "I didn't mean it," he said to her softly. "I'm sorry. I won't say it again. I won't think it. You're right." Eric pulled her into his arms. "You're right," he repeated, smelling her hair. "I won't say it again."

  They were both quiet then, absorbed in each other's embrace. They had never been so intimate with each other, so close. Eric closed his eyes, smelling her hair. He found the coldness of his heart loosening, easing, like a knot slowly being undone. With it came a softness that was almost painful. Eric squeezed his eyes shut against the violence of the feeling. But he could escape it no longer. He loved her. He loved her with all that remained in him to love.

  "Eric, my boy!" a voice boomed, causing Eric and Lucia to leap away from each other. "We made it!"

  _

  The top of Carl Doyle's head was entirely gone. There was only bone left. A flap of scalp and hair hung off to one side of his head like a toupee that had blown off. His eyes were filled with dark blood so that they were dark as ebony. His putrid leg was stank like death and a cloud of flies buzzed around him. A new gunshot wound in his shoulder oozed black blood. His clothes, once neat and perfect, were now torn, ripped, and stained with blood. His upper lip was half-chewed away. When he opened his mouth to speak, Eric could see white specks of worms writhing inside his mouth and gums. The smell from him was sickening and sweet.

  "Eric, my boy!" Doyle laughed. "I thought you'd survive. I could see it in you, you understand. You weren't just some bloody native. No sir! You had good sturdy bones. Tough, you know. Right to your bones. A good Englishman, I could tell." He limped forward. In his right hand was his samurai sword, its once glistening blade, dark with filth. "It's like Churchill once said, my boy. If you're going through hell, keep going!" Doyle lifted up the sword and gave it a little flourish in the air. "You and I," he said, leveling the sword at Eric. "You and I. Through all those bloody savages! Imagine that, will you? Cut a bloody swathe right through them, didn't we, boy?"

  "Yes," said Eric. He pushed Lucia away from him, hoping she would go to Birdie and get her away from him. When she moved, however, Doyle flashed his dark eyes over her.

  "What'd you bring her for?" he asked, his accent dropping. "Fucking savage. You're not thinking of ruining the island for us, are you, Eric?" He lumbered forward again, his sword pointed at him. "You thinking of bringing this fucking spick slut to the island? You going to raise a goddamn family of half spick mongrels on our island!" A white worm wriggled out of the corner of his mouth and stuck there, its little head tasting the outside.

  "Calm down, Doyle," Eric said.

  "Remember," Doyle said, picking up his accent again. "Remember, this island is our new beginning. It's time to get everything right. A new order. From the island, it all begins. This time we do it right, Eric. There's no room for savages. This time we won't try to save them. There will be no burden, not any longer. It's just us, my boy. You understand, right?" Doyle's sword wavered and then dipped down. His bloody eyes pleaded with him. "You understand it can't happen again, right? It's got to be the last time. It has to be." His voice was small and pathetic. Then he drew in a great breath, groaned, and stood upright, straight, tall and thick as a bear. "We must have order," he stated forcefully. His eyes focused on Lucia, who was staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.

  Just then Birdie came out of the tent. She had the shotgun in her hands.

  "You leave us alone," she said, her voice low and ominous. The shotgun looked like a cannon in her hands. Her tiny finger was on the trigger.

  Doyle turned to her. His face contorted with hatred and rage. Raising his sword, he yelled, "Traitor!"

  Birdie shot. The gun flew out of her hand, and she fell to the ground.

  Doyle hardly moved, but he was hit in the side. Doyle's face burned with fury. "Traitor!" he boomed again, and lunged forward.

  Eric dove toward him and hit his side. Both of them fell to the ground. Eric felt sick from the smell of him as he struggled to get the sword from his hand. Grasping with both his hands at Doyle's meaty fist, he still couldn't loosen his grip on the deadly sword. Doyle’s strength was unstoppable. Doyle reached back his other hand and clubbed him once on the shoulder. Pain rushed through him, but Eric clung to the sword hand. If he let go, Doyle would cut them all down. Doyle picked up his fist to hit him again, when he saw Lucia grab it with both hands. For a moment, he seemed subdued, with Lucia on one hand and Eric on the other.

  But he was far too strong. He jerked up to a sitting position, and then, with a cry of anger, he pulled Lucia forward with violence, sending her flying through the air. Watching her hit the ground, Eric felt wild with rage. With all his strength, he punched Doyle in the face with his left hand. Eric felt bone crack and flesh tear. But Doyle did not seem to be hurt. Instead his own left hand crashed down into Eric's chest, and, helplessly, Eric let go of Doyle's sword arm to clutch at his chest for breath.

  Doyle pushed himself to his feet, using his sword as a crutch. It bent under his weight, and, once he stood again, to his full height, he now flourished a sword shaped like a capital C.

  Regaining his breath, Eric pounced to his feet and then moved to stand between Doyle and Birdie. Doyle lunged forward with a gurgling call, swinging his bent sword. Eric stepped back, away from the sword, and then he dove again at Doyle.

  This time Doyle's bulk held steady. Eric felt great arms lift him from his feet. Doyle had dropped the sword, and was now crushing him in a terrible embrace. His strength was massive and horrifying. Eric cried out in pain as Doyle's grip ripped open his back again. He nearly blacked out, but he struggled back to the light, feeling sick and weak. If he lost consciousness, he would either never wake again or he would awake to find both Lucia and Birdie killed. He fought to keep the darkness from consuming him. It was like drowning in an immense inky water, in which he thrashed to keep from th
e darkness.

  He heard a splashing sound and realized that Doyle had carried him into the lake. Suddenly his body was lifted and shoved brutally under the water. Eric saw only one glimpse of Doyle's dark face before it dissolved into water and waves. Eric held his breath. He could feel Doyle's iron grip now around his neck.

  In a panic, he kicked out with his legs. He kicked at Doyle's bad leg. He thrashed in the water like a fish. But Doyle was as immovable as rock. There was the pain in his chest and the swelling in his head. The soundless darkness approaching. And the final thought: I was right, I'm going to die in the lake without ever setting foot on the island.

  Then the light came to him.

  _

  Eric gasped for breath at the shore of the lake. Doyle had let him go. Air pushed in his lungs and his eyes focused away from the darkness.

  Doyle stood in the water up to his thighs, looking toward the island. His hands were in the air.

  "So much water!" he called as if he had never noticed it before. "I never saw it so beautiful before." He staggered forward into the lake.

  Watching Doyle, Eric suddenly heard the click of a gun. He turned to see Lucia standing near him, at the shore, with the shotgun pointed toward Doyle. Eric shot to his feet and pulled the gun up toward the sky. Lucia looked at him with fury in her eyes.

  "Look at him," he told her. "It's over."

  Doyle waded further in the water. "The island," he said. "The island."

  "We should shoot him just to be safe," Lucia said.

  Eric shook his head. "We shouldn't shoot anyone," he said. They watched as Doyle began swimming in great, flapping strokes toward the island. The strokes began to slap at the water. Then they came less often until they stopped altogether. Doyle floated face down in the water. Eric looked down as Birdie joined them.