Diwera held out the stone, coaxing from Zan the repetition of the sound she had made. Then, “Eno!” and Zan knew she was being praised. In the numbness that still pinched her mind, she couldn’t help feeling a little stir of pleasure. But what did it matter? What did any of this matter? She was here, trapped, and all she cared about was getting away. Do you know the words for that, Diwera? Getting away. Escaping. Going back. Returning. Teach me those words, teach me how to do that, and I’ll say Eno! to you.
Diwera picked up a charred stick. “M’nup.” A strange sound with a tongue thump in it. Grudgingly, Zan repeated it, unable to manage the tongue thump. Prodded by Diwera, she repeated it again and again, till she managed a fair approximation of the sound. But when, after this, Diwera picked up the stone and looked questioningly at her, Zan had forgotten that word and had to start all over again. Annoyed, humiliated, she repeated in a hard, furious voice every word Diwera said. Then, under her breath, she repeated it for herself. In this way she learned the words for stone, fire, stick, hands, mouth, feet, and earth.
But she was tired, her mind dull, her legs and back aching from sitting so long. Her head sank down and she refused to say anything else. Diwera called out to Burrum, who went away and returned a moment later holding a large bony-white fruit. Laying the fruit on a flat stone, Diwera tapped it sharply with another stone, lopping off one end as Zan might have removed the top of a boiled egg.
Clasping Zan’s hands around the fruit, Diwera brought it up to her mouth, forcing her to swallow. A small amount of the thick, murky liquid dribbled down her throat. It was unlike anything she’d ever tasted, dark, acid, earthy. A violent fit of trembling seized her, a spasm of hunger and thirst. She seized the fruit and drank the contents without stopping.
Chapter 12
Zan, who had never been a follower, followed Burrum around for the rest of that day, still in something of a daze, still trying to absorb her new situation. She washed her hands and face in a stream and combed her hair roughly with her hands. Cautiously, she ate a few small greenish fruits that Burrum had shaken down from a tree. Wherever she went, people eyed and touched her curiously. Once, she spotted the boy who had been with Burrum in the meadow. Seeing his slanting eyes and thick eyebrows, Zan felt something strange happen: it was as if she had come upon an old friend. “Hello!” she shouted, and gave a smile that for a moment washed through her misery like a stream of clear water. But mostly she still felt wobbly, tired, hungry, and her head whirled with protest. This is crazy. What am I doing here? Then, remembering the dizzying intensity with which she had wished herself someplace else, she knew she had brought this on herself.
Toward evening, as the sun was setting, Burrum, carrying an armful of dead wood, led her back up the mountain. Zan was exhausted. Her legs ached. She had to stop often to rest. Mountains! Up and up and up, and up some more. No comfort now in looking back down on the green, spreading valley.
When she saw again the cave with the overhanging shelf of rock and the fire blazing in the middle of a ring of stones, it seemed to her a very long time ago that she had built herself into the glass dome. She sank down on the ground, stretching her legs out and slumping against a tree for support. People were gathering around the fire. The sun was sinking, and the light of other fires flickered on the side of the mountain. In the clear air, sound carried—laughter, snatches of song, bird-like whistles. At Burrum’s fire there were men, women, and a cluster of little children. They were all eating with satisfied grunts, shoving stuff into their mouths, licking their fingers.
Between bites Burrum talked and talked, as if Zan could understand. She could hardly keep her eyes open. The fire, the talk, her empty belly, the attempts to figure out who was who and what was going on, the need to be on guard, all of this exhausted her. And then, she had slept very little the night before. And half the day she had been in that crazy state behind the glass dome. She dozed off and was dreaming at once. I’m sorry, Ivan said. I’m sorry, I never meant . . . He was so agreeable, so sweet. She smiled at him, loving him. Her brother. She wanted to hug him. But the phone rang, short and sharp-shrill, and she thought, Gotta hurry! and woke up, still smiling about Ivan. But it was Burrum laughing into her face. In the darkness the girl’s teeth shone, sharp, feral. The dazed feeling came over Zan again. She trembled with fatigue.
Standing up, Burrum stretched out her hand to lead Zan toward the cave. Remembering the lonely tenor of the night before, Zan had no will to resist. She passed under the broad ledge and into the cave. For the first moments she saw nothing but their own gigantic shadows cast on the walls by the light of the fire burning near the entrance. Gradually, her heart slowed down and her eyes adjusted. She was in a large irregular room with curving, chunky walls. The fire threw a feeble glow back into the darkness. People drifted in, talking and laughing. A man wrestled with two small children, taking on one with each hand. A woman braided another woman’s hair, and a mother suckled her baby. Not far from the entrance hearth, in one corner of a mass of leaves and branches, the old woman with the bad eye was curled up, looking like nothing so much as a giant, wrinkled insect in a nest. A nest it was—a nest for all of them.
Lying down near the old woman, Burrum patted and smoothed the place next to herself, calling Zan. Other people were settling themselves, leaning back on their elbows, or curling up with one another. “Meezzan!” Burrum called again. But never, never could Zan lie down among them and sleep with an easy heart! She had slept on the ground the night before, she could do it again.
She lay down on her side near the fire, tucking her hands between her drawn-up knees. “Aii, Meezzan!” Burrum called, getting up and coming over to her. She lay down by the fire, too, but in a moment, poking Zan to make sure she was watching, Burrum began to grunt loudly, as if very unhappy. She turned and twisted on the ground as if it were impossible to find a comfortable position. Finally she jumped up, climbed onto the mass of branches and leaves, lay down and sighed deeply with exaggerated satisfaction.
“Terrific performance,” Zan said, clapping her hands. This amused everyone, and the baby, who’d been concentrating on her mother’s breast, looked up and clapped her hands, too. A babble of talk broke out.
Zan closed her eyes. She was tired enough to fall asleep instantly, but instead she became more and more wakeful. Her hand went to her pocket and she fingered the odd things there, her knife, the key, the safety pin, the button. An odd, silly collection, but comforting. She brought out the shred of tissue and wiped her nose. They were all watching intently. A feeling of unreality seized her. Here she was, lying on the floor of a firelit cave, her every move observed by half-naked savages. What could they make of a yellow tissue that had come from a gold-stamped box purchased in a supermarket with a dollar bill? What could she make of it? What was real? What unreal?
Zan tried to take firm hold of her thoughts. Floor under me is real. Fire is real. Cave. Tissue in my hand real. Old woman snoring, that’s real. And the safety pin, the knife. My world. This world. Both real. River of time . . . everything going on at the same time. I’m here . . . am I there, too?
Stop thinking. No use! Be quiet, sleep. But the floor beneath her was hard and the fire on her face was hot, while the rest of her was chilled and aching. She moved, shifted, tried to get comfortable. She really needed to sleep. Everytime she moved, they laughed. She was a whole circus by herself. Furiously, she turned onto her back, staring up into the darkness above her. A half dozen bats, hairy little monsters, hung upside down from a ledge, their wings folded around their bodies like capes, their eyes open, reflecting tiny points of firelight.
Panic threatened. Her stomach rolled.
Don’t! Want them all to see you’re scared?
She pitched over onto her belly, laying her head on her folded arms. Pebbles, bits of debris, poked into her legs and arms. Overhead, the bats squeaked.
What if they fly down, attack me, tangle in my hair . . . Something, an animal, whipped past her into the darkn
ess beyond the fire. Zan squeaked like a bat. The laughter swelled. She had to laugh herself. Idiot, if you’re afraid of the bats, get away from them.
Zan got up, brushed herself off, and went over to lie next to Burrum on the common bed. She would never sleep, though. The smells, the sounds, the very thought of all the bodies around her . . . She stared, open-eyed, into the flickering darkness. Burrum snuggled next to her, her arm over Zan’s waist, whispering in her ear. Soon, though, Burrum was quiet, breathing deeply, and the others, unbothered by their own groans, snores, and mutterings, slept like healthy animals.
The night slowly wore on. Zan dozed, only to wake and stare again into the darkness. I’ll find that meadow again . . . try to make it come again, that storm, or whatever . . . must be something to do with the boulder . . . find the same spot . . . see what happens . . . try, all I can do is try . . .
A spasm of fear shook her. Try. What a little word. How insignificant compared to what had happened to her. She hadn’t tried to make that storm happen: how could she try to undo it? She pressed her fingers to her mouth. Yet, what else could she do except believe that somehow, someway, she would restore herself to her own time? I am going to get away from here. Back where I belong. I’ll cross that time bend again.
Chapter 13
Zan was dreaming. Her feet on the blade of an upright shovel, hands lightly gripping the handle, she bounced as if on a pogo stick, across a street, over a car, higher and higher, over a building, leaping and bouncing. A wonderful feeling! She was as light as air, flying. She was air. My balance is perfect, she thought with satisfaction. This is a marvelous invention, I must show it to the class. Smiling, she woke up and saw where she was. All around her people were sleeping, curled up with each other, snoring, or sighing and muttering softly. A feeling of incredulity gripped her and she became aware of a desperate need to urinate, to empty her bowels. She felt filthy. Despair threatened, a dry bleakness forcing itself into her throat and behind her eyes.
Fighting it, she scrambled to her feet. The cave was dim, the fire smoldered, sending up thin wisps of smoke. She stumbled toward the entrance, seeing the green of trees, and far away the glint of water. Outside, the sun was rising, the air rang with strange birdsongs that sounded like chimes and bells and guitar strings. It was an incredibly fresh, lovely morning. She had never before been present at such a morning.
“Meezzan—” Burrum was at her elbow, eyes smallish with sleep. She yawned and took Zan’s hand, led her across the plateau into a wooded area. What time was it? Zan wondered. How long had she slept? What day was it? Sunday. No, Monday. “Monday,” she said out loud. “It’s Monday morning.” Burrum smiled. The words hovered in the air like foreign sounds, meaningless. Monday morning.
Burrum stopped at a fallen log and, sitting over it, relieved herself. Zan followed her example. Afterward, Burrum covered what she had done with leaves and dirt thrown up with a stick and, wordlessly, Zan did the same. They left the grove, moved down a hill, through more trees. The river came into view below them, morning mists still on its surface. Zan scrambled down the bank after Burrum and dipped cold clear water to wash herself and to drink. Then she was really awake and feeling better, able to smile in response to Burrum’s chatter. She walked along beside the girl, putting in a comment now and then, simply to hear the sound of her own voice. “You don’t say.” “Fan-tas-tic!” As Burrum spoke, her hands made shapes in the air—sign language —but Zan understood no more of this than the spoken language.
They entered a boggy field full of tangled, lush green grasses and tall, thick ferns. “Her” meadow? Zan wondered, but no, this meadow was flatter, wetter, and there were no boulders anywhere. On hands and knees, Burrum crawled slowly through the tall grass.
Carefully, she showed Zan a bird’s nest deep in the grass, filled to bursting with four green speckled eggs. Burrum’s eyes sparkled. Taking an egg, she tapped it across the top with a little stone, cracking it, then tipped back her head and sucked out the contents. She threw aside the shell, and seeing that Zan hadn’t taken an egg she made a face of astonishment and put Zan’s hand firmly into the nest.
Eat one, Zan’s stomach ordered. Raw? her head protested. But she was hungry. The egg, warm and smooth, filled her hand. She tapped at it with Burrum’s little stone, and knocked the top right off. The white began to spill out. Quickly before she had time to think what she was doing, she brought the egg to her mouth. It tasted more delicious than almost anything she could ever remember eating. She reached for another egg, but Burrum grabbed her hand, bursting into a flood of words. When she had found another nest, she permitted Zan a second egg, while sliding one behind her into the net bag she wore from her head.
With food in her stomach, Zan felt slightly more confident of what the day might bring. She was alert again, and as they moved on she saw no reason not to think that they might come upon the meadow with the boulder. Then—well—she would see. Something would happen, surely!
Burrum stopped in front of some tall bushes loaded with tiny blue fruit. She motioned to Zan to start picking. The berries were tart, but Zan was ready to pick and eat till her stomach was full. Burrum moved on a short distance, until she found a dead stump blanketed with closely packed white mushrooms. She broke several open, exposing firm pinkish flesh. Sitting down to eat them, she gestured to Zan to join her. But Zan’s belly was now beginning to ache a little, possibly from the berries, and raw mushrooms didn’t appeal to her at all.
By now, she had no idea where they were. Her sense of direction was obliterated. Stones, grass, hills, trees, swamps—all looked the same. How did Burrum know where they were? Where to turn? Which way to go? Zan’s stomach pitched crazily. If Burrum walked away from her now, she would be hopelessly lost. As lost as if she’d been abandoned in the middle of the forest.
When Burrum had eaten all she wanted of the mushrooms and gathered some for her net bag, they moved on again. In this way, eating, throwing things into her bag, Burrum gradually led Zan back to the caves. There the net bag was raided by a swarm of children. The eggs, however, she took to the old woman, squatting next to her to watch as she drank them.
Later, when the sun was high and hot they went back to the river. Zan dipped her face into the water and, taking off her sneakers, waded around in the shallows. Other people were there, men, women, and children, some swimming, some sunning, or playing on the banks. Burrum joined a group of boys and girls who were leaping off a high rock into the deep water. Zan was astonished to see a baby tossed into the water, where it bobbed, laughing, to the surface and paddled like a sleek little seal.
The heat, the voices of the people, the sun reflecting off the water made Zan sleepy. She lay down under a tree. Above her, a child sat on a limb and sang. Zan thought of Buddy, of Kim, of her family. Were they grieving over her disappearance? She imagined them sitting around the kitchen table, heads sunk into hands.
Two days since I ate breakfast at home and fought with Ivan. Two nights since I slept in my own bed. It seemed longer. It seemed forever, as if everything she had known existed on another plane, in another dimension that might not even be real. Madness! In her own life these people around her were shadows, shades of shades, dust. “They are dead,” she whispered, but without belief. No, they were real; living, breathing human beings. And her home, her family, did they truly exist anymore? Or was their reality only in her mind? She knew she was dangerously close to numbing self-pity. She couldn’t allow it. She couldn’t withdraw again into that crazy little world of the glass dome.
Jumping up, she slapped her hands over her head, remembering second grade and Mrs. Marks with the purple hair who used to regularly lead the class in Simon Says exercises. “There’s nothing like a little exercise to clear the head and get the blood working,” she would say.
Simon says, do this. Jump, feet apart, hands clapping overhead. One. Two. Three. Four. Five . . . In moments, Zan had several small imitators, including the little boy with silvery fish eyes whom
she thought was Burrum’s brother. Having an audience cheered her. “Okay, kids, Simon says, do this!” She galloped in place, lifting her knees high, pumping her arms up and down. Giggling, the children followed. She jumped faster, higher, clapping her hands swiftly, calling out her Simon Says commands in a loud voice, a manic energy infecting her.
Abruptly she stopped. What was she doing? How stupid. How meaningless! The “class” hopped around expectantly. “Forget it!” she said disgustedly and sat down with her back to them all. The misery she’d been dodging all morning swept over her, and this time she let it come, waves of fear and self-pity, knocking her groggy, drowning her, leaving her gasping for breath. When the storm subsided, she was exhausted and slept on the ground.
Much later, when she was with Burrum and some other young people in the forest, Zan suddenly walked away from them. Why put it off any longer? She had to find the meadow. Within moments she was out of sight of the group. Sounds all around her, but none human. Whistles . . . hoarse trumpeting . . . creaking of branches . . . rustling leaves. Mammoth trees everywhere. Two, three, or four trunks, each one enormous, twisted into the air from a single base. Dead trees stood like knotted gray giants or, fallen across other trees, seemed to be held up by their living companions. Humility and terror touched Zan. She felt that the trees were looking at her. Or was it the eyes of hidden animals, dangerous and full of anger at her crashing progress through their territory?
She ran, breathless. From the trees there was a constant stirring of leaves and bits of wood falling, sifting through the branches. Surely, Burrum and Sonte had passed this way from the meadow? Or, was it through that little grove . . .?
She was lost. She turned back the way she thought she had come, looking for something she recognized. But now every tree looked like every other tree. She brushed ants and insects off her arms and neck. Her heart pounded. She began to sing loudly, off key, “John Brown’s body lies a-moulderin’ in his grave, John Brown’s body lies a-moulderin’ in his grave, John BROWN’S BODY lies A-MOULDERIN’ IN HIS GRAVE!” She paused, catching her breath, her hand to her chest. Someone giggled. “Who’s there?” she cried. “Burrum?” Above her, she saw two children sitting in a tree, looking down at her. Behind their hands, they laughed softly.
Saturday, the Twelfth of October Page 8
