by Morgan Rice
Chapter Twelve
The four of us are still in a daze as we walk north, through the woods, alongside the Hudson. We walk beside the river, on snow-covered train tracks, and I watch the water as we go. A part of me refuses to believe our boat has been stolen.
But it's been hours, and it's starting to sink in that it's gone for good. That we are stranded, on foot. And our boat, our only means of transportation, is gone.
After we discovered the boat was gone, we all spent time brushing the snow off the shells of vehicles that lined the streets, some of them on their side, twisted, burnt out. It was a desperate move, and a waste of time. Of course, none of them had any keys, and most of them didn't even have engines - just gobs of metal, vestiges of cars. None of them remotely worked.
We knew we couldn't stay in that town. We figured our safest shelter might be somewhere in the woods, close to the river. So we walked.
Now here we are, completely on our own. I can't believe how stupid we were to leave the boat unguarded. But then again, who would've imagined that something like that would happen? We were too lax. We should have anticipated it.
But as I think about it, I realize that even if we did stay with the boat, there was probably not much we could have done. That was a large group of armed, professional pirates. Survivors. They probably would've just mowed us down with their guns. And with our boat basically out of fuel, it's not like we could've taken it anywhere else. Maybe we got lucky that they took it while we were away. Maybe if we had put up a fight, we'd all be dead right now.
The grim reality of not having any transportation or shelter starts to sink in, to weigh heavily on all of us. We all walk slowly, our feet crunching in the snow, which is hardening. The temperature has dropped at least ten degrees and the wind has picked up; the snow is now freezing and turning to ice. A deep cold is starting to settle in my bones, to pierce right through me. I look at the others and see it is piercing through all of us. We are all huddled over, rubbing our hands, desperate for warmth.
Making matters worse - much worse - is Logan. He was hurt bad, and Ben and I have to help him walk, his arms slung over our shoulders. It is slowing us down, and I am very concerned for him. Up until now, he was always our backbone, our strength; now, he is a liability. I can't help feeling that the odds are turning against us. The idea of reaching Canada at this point is almost laughable. We'd be lucky to make it the next mile.
We are getting farther and farther from any remnants of civilization, deep into the woods, and I'm starting to feel that our chances are grim. We're nearly out of supplies, there is no sign of shelter, it's getting dark out, colder, and soon we'll have to stop for the night. Even Ben's bow and arrow, left on the boat, is gone.
Hunger sets in, eating away at my stomach, stabbing me with sharp pains. I am feeling weaker with each step, especially with Logan's weight pressing down on me.
As we continue down the train tracks, I look out at the river and see it has frozen over - one big sheet of ice. It is incredible. Even if we were in our boat now, we couldn't get anywhere, anyway.
I can't go on much longer, and I sense that Ben and Logan can't, either. In the distance, I spot a particularly thick copse of trees, forming a wall from the elements. We head for them.
As we enter the patch of trees, I feel they provide some protection from the wind. I stop, and the others turn to me.
"I think we should rest here," I say. "It's almost dark. "
"Good idea," Ben says, slowly removing Logan's arm from around him.
Logan winces in pain as he does. I look down at his leg: it is already swollen. Luckily, it doesn't look quite as infected as Rose's had; maybe the cold weather has helped. But still, it is a very bad injury.
"Are you okay?" I ask Logan.
He nods quickly, wincing, and Ben and I lower him down to the ground. He sits heavily, his back against one of the thick trees, and breathes out sharply in pain as he does, his face bunching up into a million wrinkles. But he never cries, or complains. Not once. He is a real trooper.
"I'm starving," Bree says.
I kick myself for leaving our food on the boat; the only thing I had thought to take with me was a single jar of half-eaten jam. I pull it out of my pocket now. It is raspberry, Bree's favorite, and as I unscrew the lid, Penelope whines, too. I reach in, take a huge scoop out, and put it into Bree's open palm. She eats slowly, savoring it, then reaches over and gives some to Penelope.
I hold the jar out to Ben, then to Logan, and they each tape take a finger-full, savoring it. Finally, I do the same, taking the last scoop of our last jar. It melts in my mouth, and is the best raspberry jam I've had in my life. I close my eyes, trying to savor every second of it. What I would give right now for a dozen jars like this.
I look at the empty jar longingly. We are out of food. It is going to be a long, hard night.
*
Hours have passed since we've curled up here. Night has fallen, and the four of us sit in the snow, our backs to the trees, freezing. We all huddle against the wind and the cold, which seems to get worse with every minute.
Thank God, after hours of effort, I was able to start a fire. I used the last of the matches that I salvaged from dad's place, lit the last candle, and used the shelter from the wind, to light the kindling I'd found. I built a small pile, but even so, it took nearly all the matches to get something going.
Now there is a small fire before the four of us. We are all so cold, we literally hover over it, raising and rubbing our palms. Every passing gust of wind threatens to blow it out, and I get up every few minutes, and put more sticks on. The fire is fighting to stay alive. Just like the four of us.
It helps a lot, but provides little warmth in these awful conditions. I've never been so cold in my life. The cold seeps into my hands, my feet, my nose. It's hard to think straight. I have to keep opening and closing my limbs, trying to keep my whole body from freezing over. I feel if I fall asleep, I will never wake up.
I can't imagine how much worse it would be without the fire. I know that having a fire here is not the safest thing - it could attract the wrong kind of attention. But we are past the point of caring. If tomorrow's like this, I don't see how we could make it through another day. We will be frozen by the end of it - if we don't starve first.
I look over at Logan, and he looks delirious. He sleeps, wincing in pain, and his leg looks stiff, frozen solid. I don't know how we'll be able to drag him tomorrow.
I lay with one arm over Bree's shoulder, rubbing her as she leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder. I take some solace in the fact that, if we all die, at least we will die on our terms. Not as slaves, or prisoners. But together. Free.
Well, at least we had a nice run. I think of how far we came, how much we accomplished - escaping from the slaverunners, getting as far as we did. It is something, at least.
At least we have survived. And that is what I've learned. Every day of survival is a victory. That in itself is what we live for. And my hundreds of days of survival have been hundreds of small victories.
"Can you read me a story?" Bree asks.
I try to think, try once again to remember the words to The Giving Tree. This time, to my surprise, the words come back to me.
"Once, there was a tree, and she loved a little boy. And every day the boy would come, and he would gather her leaves, and make them into crowns and play king of the forest," I say.
I feel Bree relax in my arms as I continue to recite the book from memory. Amazingly, it all comes back to me, line after line, and I recite the whole thing to her. I reach the ending:
"'Well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting. Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest. ' And the boy did. And the tree was happy. "
I feel Bree fast asleep in my arms. It is a gift, falling asleep in this weather. I hope that she dreams of things, other worlds, other places, other times.
I look over at Logan, and see
he, too, is asleep, in a fitful, painful sleep. Then I look over at Ben. He is awake, his eyes open wide, staring into the flames. I wonder what he is thinking of. His brother? What he could have done differently?
I cannot help but think back to that moment, in Penn Station, before we parted ways. When he leaned in and kissed me. Why had he done it? Had he really meant it? I'm no longer sure how he feels.
"Ben?" I ask softly, my teeth chattering.
He turns and looks at me. His eyes are sunken, as if they've just been through a war.
A part of me thinks we might not all make it through this night. If we don't, I want to know how he really feels about me.
Now that he's looking at me, I don't know how to ask. I am nervous. But I force myself. After all, I have little left to lose.
"When you kissed me, back in the city," I say. "Why did you do that?"
I look at him, searching into his eyes, waiting for his reaction. I don't know why, but for some reason, now, here, of all places, it is suddenly important to me.
He opens his mouth and closes it several times. He looks flustered, as if he doesn't know how to respond.
"I. . . I. . . um. . . " He looks down, then up again. "I'm sorry," he says. "I wasn't in my right mind. "
His words hurt me.
"So you're saying you didn't mean to?" I ask.
My heart is sinking. He looks down, then back up at me.
"That's not what I'm saying," he says. "I did mean to do it. I meant to do it. I wanted to. "
"So then why are you sorry?" I ask.
He looks at me, confused.
"Aren't you upset that I kissed you?" he asks.
I think about that. I was surprised at the time. But not. . . upset. And now, as I think about. . . no, I'm not upset.
In fact, I want him to do it again.
But I'm nervous, and my words are starting to fail me. So instead, I shake my head.
Slowly, he gets up, snow crunching beneath him, and takes a few steps over to me.
He sits in the empty spot beside me, against the same tree, and looks into my eyes. He reaches up with one hand and places it on my cheek.
My heart is pounding.
And then slowly, Ben leans in and kisses me.
At first, I hesitate.
But then, I meet his kiss, kissing him back. My heart is pounding in my chest, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I'm no longer aware of my surroundings, of the cold, the hunger, of the million things that are wrong in the universe.
I think only of Ben. And of my wonder that he can transport me from this place, this time, with just a single, magical kiss.
