starve, not if there are rabbits around,” she said as Evan crumbled sage into the meager rabbit stew.
“We won’t,” he agreed, longing for carrots and onions, for chicken broth, mustard, and sour cream. Why not go all the way, he thought, and wish for a Pinot or Chardonnay while I’m at it, and baba au rhum for dessert.
“That smells good,” Thea said a little later while the stew simmered.
Evan sniffed the air critically, thinking that it smelled dreadful. “Thanks,” he said, wondering what had become of his favorite smorgasbord place in Stockholm. It was gone, very likely. Certainly there was no more smorgasbord.
“I didn’t know that weeds helped cooking.”
“Not all weeds do,” he said, trying to remember if he might find rosemary at this altitude. “Just some weeds. They’re called herbs then, not weeds.”
“Herbs,” she said, startled. “My mother used herbs, sometimes. She grew them in a window-box. Oregano. Is that an herb?”
“Yes,” Evan said, going to the stove to sample the flavorless stew and to shut out the memories that had flooded his senses.
For a little while Thea watched him, knowing that he had gone deep into his mind, shutting her out as he stirred the pot. She wanted to speak to him, to say that she knew he had his hurt, too. But the words did not come and her mind locked the insight away, keeping it hidden.
“We eat now,” Evan announced somewhat later.
“Good. I’m hungry,” she said honestly. “Anyway, we won’t eat like this when we’re traveling.” She was angry again, challenging him to argue.
“We probably won’t,” he said steadily as he heaped their cracked plastic plates with the stew. “So enjoy this while you have the chance.”
Thea gave the meat long enough to cool, then she took morsels in her fingers. She chewed eagerly at the tough rabbit, and found it strange that Evan did not consider the meal delicious.
The strips of rabbit hide held the small pack to his back in fair comfort. Thea inspected the knots before tying her own pack on. “You’ll do,” she said as she made a last minor adjustment. In the week they had rested she had made pack frames for them, and was pleased to see how well she had done.
Evan shifted his pack so that it did not impede his mutilated arm. He wished that the stump would stop itching.
“Don’t do that,” Thea said sharply as she caught him scratching the orange band of skin. “Give it a chance to heal. Let it grow.”
3
Evan’s arm grew back as fall came on. It sprouted slowly as they left the contamination behind them, beginning as a tawny spatulate paddle below the angry cicatrix marking the path of the saw, and stretching out to bud fingers as flowers had once stretched toward the sun.
The cruel desolation above the Feather River canyon offered them scant shelter and less food, plaguing them with heat that made the rocks sing in the day, and insect-ridden nights—for here there were insects—that turned their sleep to torment. Occasionally they killed a rattlesnake, rationing its meat with desperate caution. There were no more rabbits. The granite soon made ruins of their shoes, so that the tracks that marked their passing were rusty with blood. Around them, clinging to rising mountains, pines brooded, poking forlorn fingers at the sky, needles shading to russet as they fought for life.
Gold Lake was a long way off.
Evan had made light of their danger at first, hut as hunger etched hard lines into his face and Thea’s eyes took on the haunted shadow of starvation, he admitted, at least to himself, that they had come a long way to die.
For Thea, hunger was a specter dogging her steps, hut an unreal one. Far more real, more threatening, was the possibility of Pirates or lepers, who would make their dying long and messy. Anxiously she watched the rocks around them, and the dark shadows under the trees.
As the river rose in the floor of the steep canyon, they climbed high on the ridge above
“We won’t,” he agreed, longing for carrots and onions, for chicken broth, mustard, and sour cream. Why not go all the way, he thought, and wish for a Pinot or Chardonnay while I’m at it, and baba au rhum for dessert.
“That smells good,” Thea said a little later while the stew simmered.
Evan sniffed the air critically, thinking that it smelled dreadful. “Thanks,” he said, wondering what had become of his favorite smorgasbord place in Stockholm. It was gone, very likely. Certainly there was no more smorgasbord.
“I didn’t know that weeds helped cooking.”
“Not all weeds do,” he said, trying to remember if he might find rosemary at this altitude. “Just some weeds. They’re called herbs then, not weeds.”
“Herbs,” she said, startled. “My mother used herbs, sometimes. She grew them in a window-box. Oregano. Is that an herb?”
“Yes,” Evan said, going to the stove to sample the flavorless stew and to shut out the memories that had flooded his senses.
For a little while Thea watched him, knowing that he had gone deep into his mind, shutting her out as he stirred the pot. She wanted to speak to him, to say that she knew he had his hurt, too. But the words did not come and her mind locked the insight away, keeping it hidden.
“We eat now,” Evan announced somewhat later.
“Good. I’m hungry,” she said honestly. “Anyway, we won’t eat like this when we’re traveling.” She was angry again, challenging him to argue.
“We probably won’t,” he said steadily as he heaped their cracked plastic plates with the stew. “So enjoy this while you have the chance.”
Thea gave the meat long enough to cool, then she took morsels in her fingers. She chewed eagerly at the tough rabbit, and found it strange that Evan did not consider the meal delicious.
The strips of rabbit hide held the small pack to his back in fair comfort. Thea inspected the knots before tying her own pack on. “You’ll do,” she said as she made a last minor adjustment. In the week they had rested she had made pack frames for them, and was pleased to see how well she had done.
Evan shifted his pack so that it did not impede his mutilated arm. He wished that the stump would stop itching.
“Don’t do that,” Thea said sharply as she caught him scratching the orange band of skin. “Give it a chance to heal. Let it grow.”
3
Evan’s arm grew back as fall came on. It sprouted slowly as they left the contamination behind them, beginning as a tawny spatulate paddle below the angry cicatrix marking the path of the saw, and stretching out to bud fingers as flowers had once stretched toward the sun.
The cruel desolation above the Feather River canyon offered them scant shelter and less food, plaguing them with heat that made the rocks sing in the day, and insect-ridden nights—for here there were insects—that turned their sleep to torment. Occasionally they killed a rattlesnake, rationing its meat with desperate caution. There were no more rabbits. The granite soon made ruins of their shoes, so that the tracks that marked their passing were rusty with blood. Around them, clinging to rising mountains, pines brooded, poking forlorn fingers at the sky, needles shading to russet as they fought for life.
Gold Lake was a long way off.
Evan had made light of their danger at first, hut as hunger etched hard lines into his face and Thea’s eyes took on the haunted shadow of starvation, he admitted, at least to himself, that they had come a long way to die.
For Thea, hunger was a specter dogging her steps, hut an unreal one. Far more real, more threatening, was the possibility of Pirates or lepers, who would make their dying long and messy. Anxiously she watched the rocks around them, and the dark shadows under the trees.
As the river rose in the floor of the steep canyon, they climbed high on the ridge above
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