Into the Wilderness
Page 158
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" ‘To you the sheltering spirit of healing,’“ he recited.
Elizabeth turned her face up to the sky.
"Amen," she said. "Godspeed."
Chapter 35
The morning was wet and cold and inhospitable, but there was no time to waste. Nathaniel dug the grave, the shovel rasping hard in the unwilling earth while Elizabeth packed their gear, tucking the newly dried and bundled meat in every available space. She worked in the wet because it did not seem right to be in the shelter where Joe lay, where they had sat with him through the night, sleeping fitfully.
She paused to warm her damp hands over the sputtering fire. Nathaniel was working hard, and she watched him for a moment, secretly. It seemed inappropriate, somehow, the joy she took in the sight of him—given the task at hand. But it was difficult to look away. There was such concentration in him, such focus. He would do what must be done and do it simply and well. It made her own dread and unease seem immature and silly. But still, it was almost inconceivable, the idea that they would lay Joe to rest in that simple hole with nothing to shelter him but the earth itself. There was no time to make him a box to lie in, even if there had been the tools to make such a thing as a coffin.
Nathaniel paused to wipe the misting rain from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He smiled at her, a grim smile but an encouraging one.
"I've got everything ready," she said. "Shall I—" She looked over her shoulder toward the shelter, and paused.
"I ain't quite that far yet," Nathaniel said. "If you feel like washing go on down to the lake, we can take care of him when you get back."
She nodded, unable to talk.
He hefted the shovel again. "Take your time," he said. "There's the pits to finish."
They were both anxious to be gone, but she couldn't help him with much of what he needed to do first. And so she left him there, nervously, but glad to be away from the clearing.
The forest sagged with the rain, each leaf dripping, rivulets running in to streams, streams running down to the lake. She followed them, and was surprised to find, when she came out from under the canopy of trees, that the rain had stopped. Later in the day the sun might manage to burn off the haze, but right now Elizabeth stood on the lakefront and felt as if she had stumbled on some fairyland: mists floated over the surface of the water so that the island disappeared and reappeared, in what seemed to be an almost willful manner. The sounds of the forest and the birds echoed and swelled and faded only to come again, and Elizabeth was reminded of early mornings at home in her girlhood bed, when she rose and fell on the tide of sleep, content to coast between the muted colors and sounds of her dreams and the day that coaxed her awake.
Cupping her face to her hands, she drank and then sat, strangely without energy. She thought of stripping down to wash. It seemed a foolhardy thing to do; she could not imagine simply walking into the lake and swimming, blinded in the mists with no sense of direction. But she was sticky with perspiration and meat drippings and she knew that they would be moving fast for two or perhaps three days, stopping only when it was no longer light, with little hope of time or opportunity to bathe. And so she settled down on the bank and washed herself systematically and as well as she could without stripping down. The sleeves and neckline of her shirt would dry soon enough.
As she watched, the mist cleared suddenly, revealing the curved end of the lake and the table of rock with its overhang. For the first time since the previous afternoon, Elizabeth thought of the red dog. It had been sitting just there, not twenty feet away from her, and it had remained there while Nathaniel swam toward her, walking off into the bush while they had been occupied with each other. On a sudden whim she wiped her wet hands on her leggings and stood, tossing her plait over her shoulder.
Elizabeth scrambled over the boulders, bumping her knee as she climbed onto the platform of rock. Then she stood, looking down at the smooth gray slab. There was evidence of their short stay in the ashes of their fire and a scattering of sweet flag, but nothing else that she could discern. Still, Elizabeth persisted, walking slowly with her gaze turned downward. If the dog would not show himself, a single print would be enough to point out to Nathaniel. She did not take the time to ask herself why it was so important to prove to him what she knew to be true.
The sheltered rock face was dry and clean, but at its edge where it turned downward and disappeared into the dirt, rain dripped from the overhang and pooled. There the earth had turned to an expanse of mud, crisscrossed with the delicate prints of small birds. She jumped off the slab and felt the clay like mud give slightly under her weight. It felt tacky underfoot, and she looked behind herself and saw her own prints, already filling with water at the outer edges of the heel. Intent now, she walked a little farther.
At first she didn't really believe what she saw. She had wanted this, yes, but it was hard to credit anyway: not one paw print, but a whole line headed into the underbrush. Not a cougar, or a deer or any of the others that Nathaniel had taught her to recognize, but a dog, and a large one. For a minute she stood staring into the shadows under the overhang, thinking about going back. Nathaniel would need help with Joe.
Later, she could not even say why she had gone on, what had been in her mind except the vague feeling that she had missed something important. Something that Nathaniel would not have missed.
There were puddles of water, here and there, among the dog's prints. Strangely shaped. Four of them, at an even interval. Elizabeth looked at them, and felt her pulse double even as her thoughts slowed down to a preternatural slowness; then she recognized them for what they were. Footprints. Human footprints.
Elizabeth turned her face up to the sky.
"Amen," she said. "Godspeed."
Chapter 35
The morning was wet and cold and inhospitable, but there was no time to waste. Nathaniel dug the grave, the shovel rasping hard in the unwilling earth while Elizabeth packed their gear, tucking the newly dried and bundled meat in every available space. She worked in the wet because it did not seem right to be in the shelter where Joe lay, where they had sat with him through the night, sleeping fitfully.
She paused to warm her damp hands over the sputtering fire. Nathaniel was working hard, and she watched him for a moment, secretly. It seemed inappropriate, somehow, the joy she took in the sight of him—given the task at hand. But it was difficult to look away. There was such concentration in him, such focus. He would do what must be done and do it simply and well. It made her own dread and unease seem immature and silly. But still, it was almost inconceivable, the idea that they would lay Joe to rest in that simple hole with nothing to shelter him but the earth itself. There was no time to make him a box to lie in, even if there had been the tools to make such a thing as a coffin.
Nathaniel paused to wipe the misting rain from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He smiled at her, a grim smile but an encouraging one.
"I've got everything ready," she said. "Shall I—" She looked over her shoulder toward the shelter, and paused.
"I ain't quite that far yet," Nathaniel said. "If you feel like washing go on down to the lake, we can take care of him when you get back."
She nodded, unable to talk.
He hefted the shovel again. "Take your time," he said. "There's the pits to finish."
They were both anxious to be gone, but she couldn't help him with much of what he needed to do first. And so she left him there, nervously, but glad to be away from the clearing.
The forest sagged with the rain, each leaf dripping, rivulets running in to streams, streams running down to the lake. She followed them, and was surprised to find, when she came out from under the canopy of trees, that the rain had stopped. Later in the day the sun might manage to burn off the haze, but right now Elizabeth stood on the lakefront and felt as if she had stumbled on some fairyland: mists floated over the surface of the water so that the island disappeared and reappeared, in what seemed to be an almost willful manner. The sounds of the forest and the birds echoed and swelled and faded only to come again, and Elizabeth was reminded of early mornings at home in her girlhood bed, when she rose and fell on the tide of sleep, content to coast between the muted colors and sounds of her dreams and the day that coaxed her awake.
Cupping her face to her hands, she drank and then sat, strangely without energy. She thought of stripping down to wash. It seemed a foolhardy thing to do; she could not imagine simply walking into the lake and swimming, blinded in the mists with no sense of direction. But she was sticky with perspiration and meat drippings and she knew that they would be moving fast for two or perhaps three days, stopping only when it was no longer light, with little hope of time or opportunity to bathe. And so she settled down on the bank and washed herself systematically and as well as she could without stripping down. The sleeves and neckline of her shirt would dry soon enough.
As she watched, the mist cleared suddenly, revealing the curved end of the lake and the table of rock with its overhang. For the first time since the previous afternoon, Elizabeth thought of the red dog. It had been sitting just there, not twenty feet away from her, and it had remained there while Nathaniel swam toward her, walking off into the bush while they had been occupied with each other. On a sudden whim she wiped her wet hands on her leggings and stood, tossing her plait over her shoulder.
Elizabeth scrambled over the boulders, bumping her knee as she climbed onto the platform of rock. Then she stood, looking down at the smooth gray slab. There was evidence of their short stay in the ashes of their fire and a scattering of sweet flag, but nothing else that she could discern. Still, Elizabeth persisted, walking slowly with her gaze turned downward. If the dog would not show himself, a single print would be enough to point out to Nathaniel. She did not take the time to ask herself why it was so important to prove to him what she knew to be true.
The sheltered rock face was dry and clean, but at its edge where it turned downward and disappeared into the dirt, rain dripped from the overhang and pooled. There the earth had turned to an expanse of mud, crisscrossed with the delicate prints of small birds. She jumped off the slab and felt the clay like mud give slightly under her weight. It felt tacky underfoot, and she looked behind herself and saw her own prints, already filling with water at the outer edges of the heel. Intent now, she walked a little farther.
At first she didn't really believe what she saw. She had wanted this, yes, but it was hard to credit anyway: not one paw print, but a whole line headed into the underbrush. Not a cougar, or a deer or any of the others that Nathaniel had taught her to recognize, but a dog, and a large one. For a minute she stood staring into the shadows under the overhang, thinking about going back. Nathaniel would need help with Joe.
Later, she could not even say why she had gone on, what had been in her mind except the vague feeling that she had missed something important. Something that Nathaniel would not have missed.
There were puddles of water, here and there, among the dog's prints. Strangely shaped. Four of them, at an even interval. Elizabeth looked at them, and felt her pulse double even as her thoughts slowed down to a preternatural slowness; then she recognized them for what they were. Footprints. Human footprints.
