After the Ashes

by Sara K. Joiner

  I nodded.

  She stepped over to me. “We should bury her.”

  Grateful for a task to get the cold feeling of death off my hands, I thrust the baby into Brigitta’s arms. “I’ll dig.” I scrambled in the mud, the dirt caking my fingers as I dug, until I had a hole large enough for the baby. Brigitta placed her gently in the grave, and we both covered her. I moved to leave, but Brigitta stayed. She stood as still as the dead baby.

  “Brigitta? We need to keep going.” I touched her shoulder.

  She startled like a mouse and wiped her eyes. “Amen,” she whispered and crossed herself.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were praying. We can stay a bit longer.”

  She shook her head. “It’s fine.”

  We walked on. I couldn’t absorb all the loss. The fallen trees became thicker and more numerous. Like the bodies, they lay scattered everywhere. We climbed over the ones that crossed our path.

  “Oh, my,” Brigitta said.

  Ahead, a monstrous tamarind tree blocked our way. It stretched across the streambed and buried itself in the ground on the other side.

  I scrambled over it first, my feet slipping and one heel catching in the bark. I had to yank it free. Once I reached the top, I stretched down for Brigitta’s hand. She grabbed it, and I hauled her up. We caught our breath before sliding down the other side.

  She landed with a thud and tumbled into me. “Ooof. Sorry,” she said, righting herself.

  “That’s fi—”

  Brigitta screamed.

  I grabbed her. “What? What is it?”

  “It’s a—it’s a man!” She shuddered.

  “Good heavens, Brigitta. You just helped me bury a dead baby.”

  “Ja, but I’ve done that before.”

  I stopped. What was she talking about? I wanted to ask aloud, but now wasn’t the time. When I got a good look at the corpse, I understood why she screamed. He didn’t look peaceful like the others.

  The upper half of the man’s body lay across the path. His legs were wedged beneath the tree at a strange angle. His face was bloated—one eye shut, but the other wide open. Bright blue and staring.

  But then I noticed his clothes. One sleeve of his shirt was ripped off, but otherwise it appeared to be in good condition. And Brigitta needed a shirt since the tamarind tree shredded hers yesterday.

  Bending down and closing my eyes, I yanked the shirt off the body and held it out to Brigitta.

  She took a step back. “What do you expect me to do with that?” she asked in disgust.

  “I expect you to wear it. Your shirt is ripped. You need something to cover yourself.”

  She shook her head in short, quick movements like a vibrating string. “No. No. I cannot wear that shirt.”

  “Why not? There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just missing a sleeve. You don’t need the sleeves. But you do need something to cover your—” I made a vague gesture in the direction of her chest.

  “You can’t see anything! Can you?” She looked down at her torn blouse.

  “No, but you can’t go home and change clothes, Brigitta! You told me your house is gone!”

  “My room was still standing,” she said, her voice growing more shrill.

  “Brigitta, be sensible. I doubt your wardrobe full of blouses and dresses is still there.”

  “I cannot wear a dead person’s clothes, Katrien! I can’t!”

  Taking a calming breath, I tried to copy Tante Greet’s soothing voice for what felt like the millionth time. “Brigitta, it is very important that you put this on. You don’t want to shame your father by showing up in town in a state of undress.”

  She relaxed a little.

  I continued. “And what would your mother say? She would be appalled.”

  “But that is a dead man’s shirt,” she whimpered, reminding me of a frightened animal.

  “I know, Brigitta. But we don’t know what we’ll find when we get to Anjer. And right now, this”—I held the shirt out again—“is all we’ve got. Please put it on.”

  She took the shirt from me and shook the fabric with several violent flaps as if she were trying to force the stench of death out of it. Or maybe it was just to get the dirt off.

  She retched before she slid it over her shoulders, but she did manage to get it on and button it.

  As we left the man’s body behind us, I said a silent thanks to him.

  Chapter 39

  We slogged on. My thirst grew. The mud grew, too, and the deeper it was the more it tried to suck the shoes off my feet.

  “I don’t see any water, Katrien,” Brigitta panted. She sounded exhausted.

  “Neither do I.”

  “My mouth is too dry to even swallow.”

  I did not respond, because just then, my shoe stuck decisively in the muck. The lace on my boot broke, and my foot popped out. “Terra firma!”

  Brigitta gasped. “What’s the matter?”

  “My shoe’s stuck.”

  She yanked it out of the mud. “That’s no reason for such language, Katrien.”

  “I wasn’t even cursing. You sound like my aunt.” I took the boot from her. The heel had broken off, and the lace was frayed in two places. I couldn’t wear it. Sitting down, I removed my other shoe and tossed them both aside.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I can’t wear just one shoe,” I said, standing up. “I’ll have to go without.”

  “But—” She stopped.

  I spread my hands out. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  She fingered the hem of her new shirt. “Perhaps we can find another pair. Like . . .” She pointed to the dark fabric. “Like this.” Her voice trailed off. I had expected more of an argument from her, but the fact was, she hadn’t argued with me since I’d given her the shirt.

  “Are you well?” I asked. It was a ridiculous question. Of course she wasn’t. Neither of us was. And if we didn’t find water soon . . . I refused to dwell on the thought.

  She turned to me. Her eyes were unfocused, and her face as blank as an unpapered wall. Then she collapsed.

  “Homo sapiens.” I knelt over her and patted her hand. “Brigitta? Brigitta?” I raised my voice, remembering her damaged ear. “Brigitta?!”

  If only there were some water I could splash on her face. Where was the water?

  But no, I needed to focus on one problem at a time.

  Still patting her hand, I called again. “Brigitta? Brigitta?”

  No reaction.

  Her skin was as white as the feathers on a Brahminy kite’s head.

  “Brigitta? Brigitta?”

  She hadn’t died, had she? Not now. Not after we had survived volcanic eruptions, a monsoon of ash, enormous walls of water, and even a confrontation with Raharjo. “Please don’t let her be dead,” I prayed. I listened for a heartbeat or the sound of her breathing.

  I heard nothing, but then I felt the faint rise of her chest.

  “Oh, thank God.” I didn’t know I had been holding my breath until I spoke.

  “Brigitta?” I gave her a gentle slap. “Brigitta?”

  Still no reaction.

  I tried again.

  “Brigitta?” I swung my arm and this time gave her cheek a hard thwack. “Brigitta!”

  She stirred, and I clutched her shoulders, giving her tiny shakes to revive her.

  “Come on, Brigitta, wake up. Wake up. Wake up!”

  Her eyes stayed shut, but she spoke. “Mother?” She mumbled a bit after that.

  I shook her harder. “Brigitta. Brigitta. Wake up. You need to wake up now!”

  “Ja, Mother, I’m awake.” Her lids fluttered open, and her expression went from pleasant to puzzled to panicked. “What happened?”

  “You fainted.” I sat on the ground.

  “I did?” Her eyebrows rose in shock.

  Nodding, I said, “You just fell to the ground.”

  She struggled to sit up.

  “Don’t rush,” I warned her. “I don�
�t want to have to revive you again.”

  “Why did I faint? I don’t, normally.”

  “You don’t?” She was so feminine that I pictured her keeling over any time a ship passed through the strait.

  “Why do you sound so shocked?” she asked. She was definitely alert now.

  “I—I—”

  “I’m not half as delicate as you think I am, Katrien.”

  “I never said you were delicate!”

  “No, you didn’t,” she said. “But I can see it in your eyes. Admit it. You think I’m some weakling who needs nothing but help.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I think you’re feminine and frilly and far too concerned with appearances. You should be concentrating on improving your mind rather than your looks.”

  She glared at me. “Do you know something, Katrien?”

  “What?” I snapped.

  “You can be quite detestable when you want to be.” Then, she offered me a slight smile. “To be honest, I didn’t think you had it in you to say what you really felt about me. Although I don’t know why I didn’t. You’ve always been catty to me.”

  Wait. What?

  I must have misheard. Brigitta sounded . . . proud. Proud of me? I rubbed my forehead in confusion. Maybe it was the lack of food and water that was slowing my brain. “I don’t understand. Are you mad or not?”

  “I should be furious.” She sighed. “But I’m too tired.”

  So was I, and I didn’t want to argue. “I have an idea. Why don’t we stay here for the rest of the day? We’re probably halfway home. We can go the rest of the way tomorrow.”

  She dragged herself over to a downed tree and leaned against it. “That would be wonderful.”

  “You stay here.” I stood, steadying myself on the same tree. “I’m going to try to find food. Or at least some water.”

  She nodded, yawned in a most unladylike manner, and closed her eyes.

  I took in our surroundings. A gray blur was all I could see. Mud covered everything. Very few trees—perhaps one in fifty—still stood. The gloom from the ash that still hung in the air made everything more bleak and dreary.

  Not wanting to get lost, I headed south in a straight line, walking with great care so I wouldn’t injure my bare feet, and counted my steps. “One. Two. Three . . .”

  After eleven steps, I stumbled upon more bodies. Some were in the few trees that were still upright. Most were scattered throughout the forest as if some giant had tossed them in the air and let them fall, twisted and mangled like neglected dolls.

  At thirty-seven paces, I tripped and landed on my hands and knees. “Ow,” I muttered. I kneaded my wrists to make sure they weren’t hurt. “Whoever said mud is soft was lying.”

  I turned to see what caused my fall, and the familiar face of Sister Hilde greeted me. Still in her long habit, she lay half buried in the ground. I stared in disbelief and wiped my eyes even though no tears formed. A tingling sensation skittered under my skin. I knew Sister Hilde. I knew her. This was the first dead body of someone I knew that I had ever seen. Even at my mother’s funeral, Vader hadn’t allowed me to look at her in her coffin.

  Sister Hilde looked like she was sleeping. I had heard people say that of my mother, and I wondered how it could be true. My mother hadn’t been sleeping. She had no life left to need to sleep. But now, seeing Sister Hilde, I understood what they meant. The barest trace of a smile still graced my teacher’s face, and I was reminded, then, of her many kindnesses to me. Like the time at mass one Sunday when she had lent me a handkerchief to wipe my spectacles. When I tried to return it, she placed her hands over mine and said, “I believe you will have more need for this than I ever will. Keep it.”

  Even in school she never raised her voice to scold. She encouraged my interest in science and had told me, “Look to the Heavens, Katrien. You can see the face of God in the stars.”

  Why had she died? Why had someone kind and generous been taken in such a manner?

  Now, even in death, she wore a peaceful expression, as if she had accepted her fate.

  But I couldn’t.

  I screamed. I beat my fists against my legs. I kicked at the dirt.

  “Ow!” Some tree bark jammed into my big toe. Grimacing, I pulled the bark out in one swift motion. “Holy God, that hurt!” Clamping my hand over my bleeding foot, I rocked back and forth trying to stop the throbbing.

  I needed something to stanch the blood, but I didn’t have a handkerchief.

  “Sister, do you—”

  What was I doing, talking to a corpse? Except this wan’t any corpse. This was Sister Hilde. My favorite teacher. She always had a handkerchief.

  I dug around until I found her pocket. There! The thin piece of linen was just what I needed.

  I tied it around my toe and stared at Sister.

  She was still gone. Nothing was going to change that. With a wavering breath, I reached under her spectacles and closed her eyes.

  I needed to press on. What number of steps had I been on? I couldn’t remember. Maybe I should just turn around and head back to Brigitta. North would probably be a better direction anyway. Ja. That’s what I would do.

  Suddenly I froze.

  Spectacles!

  Sister Hilde was wearing her spectacles!

  How did they stay on her face during the wave? Perhaps her wimple held them in place?

  I stared back down at her. Should I take them? I took that man’s shirt for Brigitta. That hadn’t been difficult. I didn’t think of it as stealing since it was filling a need. Even taking Sister Hilde’s handkerchief didn’t seem odd since she lent one to me before.

  But taking spectacles from a nun? That seemed like stealing, even when the nun was dead.

  But . . . she was dead. She wouldn’t need them anymore. And I did. I was tired of straining to see through a hazy blur.

  Fine. I would try them.

  They might not work.

  If they didn’t, I would return them.

  “Forgive me,” I muttered, plucking the spectacles off Sister Hilde’s nose and sliding them onto mine. In an instant, my surroundings were clear and sharp.

  Trees, stripped bare of leaves and branches, pointed toward the sky like angry claws.

  Mud, drenching the ground, turned where I stood into an ocean of gray.

  Bodies, twisted and mangled, lay everywhere with their clothing ripped and even missing.

  Still I whimpered with relief, having forgotten how wonderful it was to see a clear world. Even if that world had become Hell.

  Glancing back down at my teacher, I hoped once more that she wouldn’t mind. “Dank u, Sister Hilde. I’ll never forget your last generosity.” I kissed my fingers and pressed them to her forehead.

  Limping back to Brigitta, I counted, “One. Two . . .”

  Chapter 40

  My heart pounded, and my breath came in short bursts. My thirst had nearly overwhelmed me by the time I reached Brigitta.

  She didn’t move when I plopped down beside her. Holding a hand under her nose, I was reassured by the cool breaths I felt on my fingers.

  I rested my head on my knees and waited for some of my strength to return. Walking exhausted me, but we still needed water and food.

  Staggering upright, I headed north. “One. Two. Three . . .” So tired. So hungry. So thirsty.

  Twigs and branches and debris cut further into my feet as I shuffled. I had no energy to lift them. I should have taken Sister Hilde’s shoes, too. Except they were buried in the muck.

  Crawling over another huge tree—this one a strangler fig—I stopped. In front of me was a small area that must have been a clearing at some point. Now, what was once a grassy field was covered in bodies. Men, women, children. They lay battered and broken, facing every direction.

  I collapsed against the fig. I had never seen such loss of life, like the end of a battle.

  Only these people had not been fighting. They had been living their lives. They didn’t deserve this!

 
; “Come on, Katrien,” I told myself. “You can’t help them. You need to find water.”

  But I also needed shoes.

  From the pile of bodies, a woman’s boot stuck up at an odd angle, about six or seven meters from me. It looked to be about my size. Three corpses lay between me and the shoe.

  I grimaced and shuddered as I made my way forward. My feet brushed the bodies and I felt their cold, waxy skin. Then a frisson passed over me, as if Death himself had run a finger down my spine.

  I reached for the boot. I was only close enough to grab the heel, but I clutched it anyway, intending to use it for balance as I pulled myself closer.

  Unfortunately, my weight was too much. The boot couldn’t hold me, and bodies tumbled as I tried to get nearer. I fell face-first onto the stomach of a dead man lying below me. When I landed, his stomach made a belching noise. I yelped and jumped backward, smashing into the face of a child. His teeth grazed my toes.

  Horrified, I fled back to the fig tree, and only when I got there did I realize I now had the entire boot in my hand.

  A leg, from the knee down, filled the shoe. It didn’t belong to any of the bodies I’d just seen. Somehow it had become separated from its owner. The jagged bits of flesh and bone reminded me of the guts Tante Greet and Indah ripped out of fish.

  The image made me retch. “Oh, my God!” I cast the boot aside.

  Heaving great gasping breaths, I firmly turned my back on the field of bodies.

  Again I sensed Death crawling all over me. My feet. My hands. My legs. My face. This feeling would never leave. Never. I shivered.

  My toes tingled. I rubbed them, and my hand came away bloody.

  I pushed Sister Hilde’s spectacles up. A thin red line stretched along three toes. “That can’t be good.”

  When had this happened? Now both my feet had injuries.

  When my breathing returned to normal, I left. I would find shoes elsewhere. I needed to let these poor people rest in peace.

  I walked on, cursing the lack of water, when I noticed a pile of strange green spheres wedged under a tree trunk. Reaching down, I pulled and yanked one out. The welcome scent of citrus greeted me as the sphere came free. I couldn’t believe it. It was five unripe oranges that sat resting there, nestled like a clutch of eggs.