and listen to the birds singing to each other. My fingers trace the patterns of the tree's bark, reading its history. It stands tall and straight, and there is very little warp in its bark. The birds sing openly, without concern of who might be listening to them.
It would be so easy to sit here all night. And the night after that. And the one after that. But I can't, because I don't have that kind of time anymore. My body is decaying.
My bullet wounds—a good half-dozen of them scattered across my chest and two more on my upper right arm—are still there, sullen and weeping holes in my flesh. They're infected, slick with a sickly yellow pus. My legs are trembling beneath the tattered remnants of my pants, and the skin is a tangled map of knotted flesh—half-melted, half-healed. The chemicals are in my bloodstream too and until I can flush it out, my immune system is compromised. The airborne toxins of the twenty-first century are going to gang up on me, and it's a battle I'm already losing. I'm rotting, slowly and surely.
If I could get back to Arcadia, Mother could heal me, but I'd have to convince the Grove to let me return to her embrace. I have no idea what has happened to the others. Did any of them survive? I've had more than a few nights to reflect on what happened during the last hours of the mission, and I'm not sure who fucked who. I can't be sure that Talus and Nigel haven't poisoned the Grove against me.
Even then, Mother might still reject me, even after I make the journey back home.
I get wearily to my feet, dust off the worst of the dirt stains, and go looking for something to eat.
One problem at a time. Start small; work your way up. An old soldier's rule.
* * *
The first house I break into doesn't have a landline. The second has an old rotary phone, and the resident is on an equally antique phone service plan. I can't even get an international operator. I settle for stealing a change of clothes from the master bedroom closet and a half-gallon jug of unfiltered organic apple juice that I find in a small refrigerator.
The next house I stumble across is a tiny cabin nestled in the vee-shaped clearing. The land to the north has been cleared and converted to a vineyard; on the east and west, the forest comes in close to the house. It's fairly isolated, and I know better, but it is too tempting. The apple juice has taken the edge off my hunger, but my skin still itches. I can almost feel the poisons swirling in my blood.
There's only one person in the house, an elderly caretaker, and he wakes up when I bite him, but it is easy to hold him still. Afterward, I close his eyes and pull the heavy covers up over his face.
I should burn the house down, but that is liable to draw unwanted attention more than cover my tracks. I'll just leave all the doors open when I leave. Maybe there are enough four-legged predators on the island that they'll find the dead body.
The phone works. I dial a memorized number and a computerized voice tells me the call is subject to international charges, and I quietly tell it to proceed. The line clicks, a surprisingly analog sound for a digital connection, and then I hear the ghostly echo of a harpsichord—just a few notes. One of Callis's original compositions. Just enough to let me know that I'm being recorded. I speak quickly, outlining my situation, and I end my request with the ritual words used by Arcadians. When I am done, I hear a series of clicks and then the line goes dead. No confirmation necessary; I know my message will be heard.
I hang up the phone and raid the refrigerator.
Ten minutes later, as I'm polishing off my third piece of honey-slathered sourdough toast, the phone rings. As it is the middle of the night and since I'm expecting the call, I answer the phone.
“Hello?” I say around the last bite of toast.
“Hello, Silas.”
I swallow, clearing my mouth. “Hello, Callis.”
“It's been a long time since you've needed rescuing,” he
It would be so easy to sit here all night. And the night after that. And the one after that. But I can't, because I don't have that kind of time anymore. My body is decaying.
My bullet wounds—a good half-dozen of them scattered across my chest and two more on my upper right arm—are still there, sullen and weeping holes in my flesh. They're infected, slick with a sickly yellow pus. My legs are trembling beneath the tattered remnants of my pants, and the skin is a tangled map of knotted flesh—half-melted, half-healed. The chemicals are in my bloodstream too and until I can flush it out, my immune system is compromised. The airborne toxins of the twenty-first century are going to gang up on me, and it's a battle I'm already losing. I'm rotting, slowly and surely.
If I could get back to Arcadia, Mother could heal me, but I'd have to convince the Grove to let me return to her embrace. I have no idea what has happened to the others. Did any of them survive? I've had more than a few nights to reflect on what happened during the last hours of the mission, and I'm not sure who fucked who. I can't be sure that Talus and Nigel haven't poisoned the Grove against me.
Even then, Mother might still reject me, even after I make the journey back home.
I get wearily to my feet, dust off the worst of the dirt stains, and go looking for something to eat.
One problem at a time. Start small; work your way up. An old soldier's rule.
* * *
The first house I break into doesn't have a landline. The second has an old rotary phone, and the resident is on an equally antique phone service plan. I can't even get an international operator. I settle for stealing a change of clothes from the master bedroom closet and a half-gallon jug of unfiltered organic apple juice that I find in a small refrigerator.
The next house I stumble across is a tiny cabin nestled in the vee-shaped clearing. The land to the north has been cleared and converted to a vineyard; on the east and west, the forest comes in close to the house. It's fairly isolated, and I know better, but it is too tempting. The apple juice has taken the edge off my hunger, but my skin still itches. I can almost feel the poisons swirling in my blood.
There's only one person in the house, an elderly caretaker, and he wakes up when I bite him, but it is easy to hold him still. Afterward, I close his eyes and pull the heavy covers up over his face.
I should burn the house down, but that is liable to draw unwanted attention more than cover my tracks. I'll just leave all the doors open when I leave. Maybe there are enough four-legged predators on the island that they'll find the dead body.
The phone works. I dial a memorized number and a computerized voice tells me the call is subject to international charges, and I quietly tell it to proceed. The line clicks, a surprisingly analog sound for a digital connection, and then I hear the ghostly echo of a harpsichord—just a few notes. One of Callis's original compositions. Just enough to let me know that I'm being recorded. I speak quickly, outlining my situation, and I end my request with the ritual words used by Arcadians. When I am done, I hear a series of clicks and then the line goes dead. No confirmation necessary; I know my message will be heard.
I hang up the phone and raid the refrigerator.
Ten minutes later, as I'm polishing off my third piece of honey-slathered sourdough toast, the phone rings. As it is the middle of the night and since I'm expecting the call, I answer the phone.
“Hello?” I say around the last bite of toast.
“Hello, Silas.”
I swallow, clearing my mouth. “Hello, Callis.”
“It's been a long time since you've needed rescuing,” he
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