Victor wastes no time getting us back onto the road. The ride is considerably smoother, but the tension inside the ambulance remains thick. We all need to vent, to come to terms with what is going on. But there is no time, no space to crawl into a corner and scream until your lungs are hoarse. We could snap. Go after each other, break apart what little community we have left. But that delicate flame, that shining hope in the darkness—that perhaps we can all get through this together—forces us to bottle up our frustrations, fears, doubts, grief, and pain into a knot in our chests. Even Georgette seems to fully appreciate the mood and the severity of the events around her. I’m not sure I would have been able to handle this when I was her age. I sat in front of the television and pictured myself up there alongside the cartoon characters and adults dressed as animals. I lost myself in that world, that twinkling fantasy. I wanted a different world, a better one, and it took me years to figure out that the only way I was going to get it was to go out and make it. But I think Georgette and I have lived different lives. My parents sheltered me from everything, yet she seems aware of so much. I guess that’s the difference between life in the basement versus the penthouse.

Hitting an unusually large pothole, the ambulance lurches. My head bobbles around breaking my staring contest with the vent above. I guess I lose.

“Everything alright Victor? Do you need me to take a turn driving?” says Cornelia.

“No. I’m okay. It was hit that one or the canyon on either side of it. I chose the path of least resistance.”

Without thought, laughter floods from my mouth. My eyes and cheeks red from the sudden burst.

Charles looks up from his morose trance.

“What could possibly be so funny?”

“Victor taking the path of least resistance? Yeah right!” I say, although just barely over the sound of my own laughter.

A moment of hesitation on Charles’s face breaks the mood, then in a flash, his eyes grow wide and a broad smile reveals his shining teeth. A great belly laugh bursts from his oaken trunk. The force of which is so great that he buckles over. His eyes are closed tight—each giggle pushes a small tear out of the corner of his eyes. The tension in the ambulance shatters, and we all erupt into uncontrollable fits of laughter. Victor jerks the wheel sharply to the left, then corrects himself. We pause for a moment and look around at each other then break into another fit of laughter.

“That’s rich kid! Least resistance! Ha!” Charles forces his words out through wheezing breaths.

“You’re one to talk, Charles! You even make your sandwiches the hard way.” Cornelia attempts to give Charles a grave look, but as soon as their eyes meet, she melts back into laughter.

Catharsis. Each laugh frees a snake from the Gordian knot of emotions strangling my heart. It lifts and elevates us, it pulls us from the present and into somewhere else, some other time when we didn’t have to worry about bombs and bullets, poison, and subversives—suffering and death. But reality, like gravity, will not be denied. You can push against it, fight it, but in the end, it always wins. There is no other way.

“Papa, Bernard would have liked this.”

Georgette’s innocent and sincere words cut us like a knife. It was lost on no one that Mr. Herrington lay dead in the narrow floor between us. How could we avoid it? His death swells inside the cabin threatening to force all the air out of the cramped space. My hand grasps at the invisible constrictor collapsing my lungs. All of us, in our own way, set events in motion that put him in that van and put those bullets in his heart. I can’t handle it. I slam my eyes shut.

Run! Bang! Arrest her! Bang! Is he breathing? Long live the Great Society! Cinnamon! I don’t know kid.

Tears run down my cheeks—red and chapped—in lines like rivers. At this rate, they will hollow out grooves. Charles sinks his head into his hands attempting to flee from the crumbling world around him. Victor stares straight ahead at the road. His sniffles fighting the unending tide of grief trying to pull him back into the depths. Cornelia reaches for Georgette.

She did the right thing. She pulled us back to the present—to escaping, surviving. I want to be upset, but I can’t. I can’t blame her. I wish I knew Mr. Herrington better. How can I judge her words from our few hours together? Every time I feel myself connecting with someone the world conspires to rip them from me. It’s as if my punishment for the truth is to remain—to linger on after everyone else has gone.

I close my eyes and witness a never-ending slideshow of my mistakes and disappointments. As horrible as these visions are, they’re better than anything I can look at in this ambulance.

                                                           ***

The drive feels like an eternity. Hours down the road the gas finally gives out to fumes. Victor pulls into a thick grove of trees growing around a leaking above-ground water main. The soot tries to stifle life, to cover everything in its gray embrace, but where even a drop of nourishment exists life has taken root to stand tall, vibrant, and defiant against the dying world.

Puttering to a stop, Charles pulls on his mask and jumps out the double doors. I unhook the gas can from the strap and pass it to him. The weight is immense—the effort is magnified by my growling hunger. He takes it from me, our eyes avoid the other’s. He closes the double doors and disappears. With the engine off, the silence crinkles like midnight static. It shouts and pulls at us to fill the void. Yet no words will fall from our lips. We’d rather suffer the raging silence than speak and crack it open.

A sudden burst of noise from the doors opening fills the void and saves us from saying anything. Charles passes me the now empty can. Anticipating its full weight, I nearly lose control and bang the container into the wall. A flash of red hot embarrassment shoots across my face. I look away from him and focus on the fuel can. Feed the strap through the handle, insert the buckle click. 

“That should get us the rest of the way there. How far now Victor?” His voice sounds alien and distant like speech imitating itself.

Victor lets out a profound sigh. Pointing to the glove box, he turns to Cornelia.

“The map is in there. I have a pretty good idea of where we are, but we should check.”

Cornelia nods and opens the glove box. The map was hastily shoved in there before and is now hopelessly crumbled. Cornelia takes a moment to unfold it, inspect its creases, then refold it to its proper shape. She hands it over to Victor, who takes it from her with a slow and deliberate motion. He lays it out over the steering wheel. His finger stabs at Einsam on the map and begins to trace our path.

“We followed this road west, then here, this is where we got the gas. I followed this ridgeline until here, and then I’ve followed the road north. We should be here.”

His finger stops just south of a small hamlet named Midland.

“It’s a little farm just north of here, right along Wolf Run Creek.”

Before any of us can jump in with a suggestion, Victor takes charge.

“If I take this road around to the east, we can circle back and around and avoid Midland altogether. It’ll take longer—we probably won’t get there until nightfall—but it should help us avoid any more,” he pauses to find the least inflammatory word, “complications.”

I know I’ve messed some things up, but what do they want from me? How are you expected to act when everything is blowing up around you? I want to scream—burst from this damned ambulance and tear across the hills until I run out of earth and keep going until I fall off the edge into oblivion. Strapping my frustration back down, I take a deep breath.

“That’s probably for the best. I vote the longer route,” I say.

“Agreed. We’re holding on by a string as it is. The long way, Victor.” Cornelia’s words resonate with Charles and Georgette, who nod their agreement in concert.   

Victor capitalizes on the silence. Passing the map back to Cornelia, he twists the keys and brings the engine roaring back to life.

We return to the roadway and pick up speed. The little patch of green fades into the distance and the landscape once again returns to a uniform yellow-gray.

                                                             ***

Away from the city, the night is too dark. Expanses of nothingness fill me with anxiety. Trapped my whole life in the tight confines of the mask, the city, the penthouse, the schoolroom—the openness feels unnatural, like an illusion ready to crumble around me at any minute.

To avoid being seen, we’re driving without lights which has slowed our pace to a crawl. We are near a creek now, and the dusty yellow fields have yielded to thick clumps of dark green. The hedges have encroached upon the road, and the clean-cut lines from saw blades show where they are beaten back in an endless struggle between civilization and the unstoppable march of nature and time.

Down dark and narrow driveways, dim yellow lights illuminate small rundown farmhouses. We continue to slowly curve and twist through this alien landscape. Each new bend revealing whole worlds I could never have imagined in the choking confines of Einsam. Abandoned, unidentifiable hulks of metal reflect a rusty red in the scant moonlight. Their corpses litter the byways as the world’s last reminders of some ancient robot war. Seeing the puzzlement on my face, Charles breaks our long silence.

“This whole area used to be farms. But about twenty years back, a little before you were born I think, the drought got real bad. The dust came in, and well,” he drifts off staring into the moonlit world framed in the front windshield, “the wrecks speak for themselves.”

“I’m surprised to see so many lights on at the farm houses. The way Bernard spoke it was as if everyone fled to the city,” Cornelia says.

“I did too. We may not be as safe as I thought we’d be. Last time I was here with him I was helping him gather up some family heirlooms before boarding up the place.”

“I guess people will do anything to survive, to regain what they’ve lost,” I say. The observation has been rattling around in my mind for days now and it only just found a reason to come out.

“That’s what we’re doing, so I can’t really blame these people for doing it too,” says Cornelia.

“Let’s just hope Glen Fois is still the refuge we need it to be.”

“Well, we’ll find out soon enough. I think it’s down here at the end of this driveway,” says Victor pointing off toward a vacuous darkness between two thick groves of vines.

“At least there are no lights down there. That’s a good sign. Should I go ahead and scout it out?” Charles says.

Cornelia pulls herself around in the seat to look directly at Charles.

“You can’t preach to me about losing people and then offer to cavalierly walk into the unknown,” she says. 

“Well someone has to go, and well, I’m the most familiar with the place.”

“At this point, Charles, if one of us gets caught then we all get caught. Plus, am I supposed to just sit here in the road idling while you go scope things out? That seems like an excellent way to draw attention to us.”

“You’re right, I just,” he lets out a deep sigh then inhales sharply, “I just want to be safe.”

“We’re safest together,” I say.

“I’m staying with Evelyn.” Georgette nods her head forward to add emphasis to her declaration.

Cornelia smiles then twists back into her seat, “Well, you heard the lady, Victor.”

Creeping forward, the ambulance quickly eats up the remaining few meters of road. The transition to gravel is loud and abrupt. Whereas the roads are semi-maintained, it’s clear no one has graded this road in a considerable length of time. Deep ruts and grooves jerk the cabin left and right while giant rocks send us all flying in our seats. With only the rays of moonlight peeking through the clouds to guide us, Victor is having a terrible time avoiding the hazards.

The farther we drive from the road the darker it gets. The distant lights of farmhouses appear as little yellow pricks of light. Soon even they grow dim, and only the moon lights our path.

The deep ruts start to even-out, and patches of grass begin to replace gravel. The claustrophobic driveway slicing through the vines finally ends, revealing a large clearing. The silver light of the moon highlights the edges of a small two-story house. A porch wraps all the way around the exterior, and a small round window on the second-floor shines like a beacon with reflected moonlight. Next to the house is a barn of typical shape. The roof is caved in at the corner, and even in the dark, it appears to be unstable. At the far end of the field, there is a tall windmill gently spinning in the wind. Next to it stands a series of dull, round containers barely visible in the darkness. But most breathtaking is the towering oak tree. It stands at least as tall as the windmill. Its branches spread wide and cover the side of the house in inky shadow. Its full leafage shimmers in the breeze—twinkling in the moonlight. It’s glorious. Transfixed as we approach, my eyes are unable to wonder from the dancing leaves. The sight of it brings a tear of disbelief to my eye.

When Victor stops in front of the barn, the sudden jolt forces me to gasp. I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath.

“It was quite the place back in the day. Bernard’s mother, Florence, she kept the place spotless. The house was always painted a soft shade of blue and trimmed out in white. It looked sharp.”

We all pause and soak in Charles’s words. The sight of Glen Fois, and the isolation and vastness around it, fills me with comfort and warmth. I wonder if this place will ever be back to the way it was? Or has too much time passed and the dust and decay found a permanent home here? It seems hopeless to believe in a bright future, but then the glistening leaves grab my attention. Even in such a barren and abandoned place, this mighty oak has stood the test of time and continues to thrive in spite of what the world throws at it. Even in the short time I knew him, Bernard seems to have a lot in common with this oak tree. Who’s copying who?

With the engine off, the sounds of night creep into the ambulance. Hisses and croaks bounce around in my ears. I’ve never heard real crickets or the droning dirge of the cicadas. Miles away from the city but a world apart.

“The house doesn’t have any air filters, and I doubt we need them here, but bring your mask along just in case. They could be releasing gas, and we should be ready.”

I grab my mask and squeeze it tight. It’s so strange to need it again.

“I’ll lead the way. I think I still remember where the bedrooms are. We should all try and get some rest, and then we can figure out our next move and give Bernard a proper burial in the morning.”

“Right then, lead the way, Charles. Gette, hold Evelyn’s hand and keep close.”

I reach my hand out to Georgette and smile. She smiles back and together we press open the double doors and hop out of the cabin.

My legs are stiff from the hours of sitting. It takes a moment for the blood and sensation to get back to normal. Georgette’s grip is solid, and she seems steady. The air is crisp. A gentle breeze blows—goose pimples crawl across my flesh. Charles hops out after us and turns on his flashlight. The beam cuts through the darkness. I shoot my free hand up to shield myself from its brilliance. He aims it at the porch. The light reveals fading and chipped paint that was probably once blue. Spidery shadows stretch out from the banister on the front porch casting the door in an eerie darkness.

“I’ll lead the way. Evelyn, Gette, stay close.”

In unison, Georgette and I nod to Charles and follow behind him. His bulk blocks most of the light, so we follow his silhouette into the abandoned house with careful footsteps. The wooden steps up the porch are warped and creaking. No matter how carefully we choose our footfalls, they shout a shrill cry into the darkness. Most likely there isn’t anyone inside, or even in earshot, but every moment, breath, and step tolls like a bell ringing in the silence. Charles’s outline freezes in front of the door; his large hand engulfing the small brass knob. The wind blows cold, and the sound of my heartbeat begins to crescendo into thunder. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The door creaks open. A swirl of dust billows enshrouding Charles in a beautiful aura of dancing sprites. He enters the house, and I press forward propelled by the thunder in my ears. Georgette keeps pace—her grip tightening as we pass the threshold.

“Anyone home?” Charles speaks into the dark and empty house.

We wait. The sound of settling dust and groaning joists unsettles the peace. Charles waves the light back and forth as if trying to hold back the endless tides of darkness and is as successful as holding back the waves. A long minute passes then Charles relaxes the frantic sweeping of his light and moves toward the kitchen. With Victor and Cornelia crammed into the foyer with us, I tug gently on Georgette’s hand and push us a little farther into the room. The sound of drawers rattling and cupboard doors creaking fills the house.

“What are you looking for Charles?” says Cornelia.

“Candles. Grandma Herrington never trusted the electricity here very much, so she used to keep the place stocked with candles and matches.”

“I wonder if that’s where Mr. Herrington got his aversion to computers from?” Victor asks. His voice tired, strained.

“I doubt it, she loved television. No, it’s just these rural power lines ‘progress you can see!’ they said when they put it in. Never did it right, though, or got around to fixing it up much.”

“Sounds about right,” I say. Brevity feels both comforting and wrong. It fights inside me like twisting, scratching wolves.

“Ah-ha! Here’s one.”

The match bursts to life and blossoms on the candle’s wick. The fire shares its dance and soon both candle and match rage against the darkness. Transfixed, Charles lets the fire burn a little too long—orange fire licks out at his pinched fingers.

“Ouch!”

Shaking the match out of his hand, Charles bites his tongue to keep from letting loose a string of obscenities.

“Here Charles, let me get the candles lit. There is some burn ointment in the ambulance. And Victor, why don’t you bring in anything we can use. Bottled water, food?”

“On it,” says Victor.

Charles nods to Cornelia, disappearing into the night with his flashlight.

Cornelia lights the candles, and soon the whole kitchen is ablaze.

“Can you both draw the curtains, or block the windows somehow? It’s probably best not to advertise that there is someone in the old Herrington place.”

“On it,” I say echoing Victor. I begin to move to the front windows. The yellow and red flower-patterned drapes are just barely visible in the candle-light. Only a step away, I feel something tug at my arm. Georgette’s hand constricts around mine. I turn to look at her. Fire writhing in her big eyes.

“It’s alright Georgette. You can come with me.” I flash her a smile. “Come on. It’ll be fun. I bet I can cover more windows than you!”

“Nu-uh, I can!” Her hand drops from mine, and she takes off toward the windows at the back of the house. I turn around and dash toward the windows as quick as I can. The drapes are thick and covered with an equally thick layer of dust. Pulling them closed, I unleash a plume of neglect. Covered, I dash to the living room windows. A curved bay window—flanked by two thin rectangular ones—shimmers in the tendrils of moonlight passing through. A long, wall-length curtain rod makes the task simple. With a single zhhwhip, I pull the curtain closed and cut off the shards of silver light. I turn back toward the kitchen. Behind Cornelia is a single square window over the sink. My hackles rise—alerting me to the other set of eyes staring down the kitchen window. In the entry to the hallway, Georgette stands poised to dash into the kitchen. As soon as my eyes meet hers, she takes off. I try to keep pace and follow, but my muscles ache, and my joints protest. If I really wanted to, I’m sure I could force myself to win. But letting her earn this victory, as small and trivial as it is, will help us both keep our spirits alive in this mess.

“I did it! I won. Told you I could get more than you!” Georgette’s words fight their way out through short breaths.

“Good job Gette! You’re so quick! Now you and Evelyn take these candles and do the same upstairs. Dad and I will see what we can scrounge up for dinner.”

“I’ll see what kind of sleeping arrangements there are while we’re up there.”

“Good idea Evelyn.” She extends two candles to Georgette. She grabs them, one in each hand, and then walks toward me with a slow and deliberate pace.

Taking one of the candles from her, I retake her hand and head up the stairs to the second floor.

Our rummage through the upstairs is quick. The curtains were already drawn on most of the windows, and there we find three single beds in two rooms. There is a small staircase that leads up to an attic, but it hardly seems worth exploring in the darkness. We return downstairs just as Victor and Charles return from the ambulance.

“Find anything useful?”

“Just some bottled water. No food, not even a morsel,” says Victor. The bottles of water glimmering in his hands.

Cornelia sighs, “Same here. Cupboards are bare save for a few cans of well-expired beans. I’m hungry, but I’ll take a growling stomach over food poisoning.”

“At least we’ll be able to sleep in relative comfort. There are three beds upstairs. You and Georgette can take the room with two beds and Charles, you the other. Victor can have the couch, and I’ll take the chair.”

“No, Evelyn, you and Victor should get a bed each. You’ve both had a rough time of it, you need to really rest up,” Charles says.

“Don’t you want to sleep in our room, Evelyn? It’ll be way more comfortable than that chair.” Georgette’s eyes dart to the faded burgundy wing-backed chair in the living room. Even with little light, it’s clear to see its most comfortable days are behind it.

“I think the arrangement I laid out will be best. That way you can stay close to Georgette, and everyone else can get some sleep.”

“Let me at least take the chair, you’ll sleep better in the bed.”

“No, I think—”

“Please Evelyn, you deserve the sleep. I may not have done the things you did, but we’d be trapped, stranded, or dead if you hadn’t of acted the way you did earlier. I’m not sure I like it, but I have to respect it. Please,” he gestures toward the staircase. I can feel my cheeks turn red. I hadn’t done any of those things for praise, and his words make it sound like I’m a selfless hero. I just did what I had to. I try to open my mouth to speak, but the words choke up in my throat. I can feel all their eyes on me. Little Georgette is looking up at me like I’m a superhero.

Charles claps his hands breaking the awkward tension. “Well then, let’s get to sleep. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow and a lot of things to figure out. We might not get a chance to rest like this for a while so let’s take full advantage of it.”

We agree in silence. I feel his words ring ominously true. The future now is cloudier and more obscure than ever. Where will we go? How will we find food? How will we stay safe? Is there a safe place? All questions that burn without answer—that gnaw without nourishment.

Cornelia takes Georgette’s hand and leads her up the stairs.

“Goodnight my darlings.”

“Goodnight Papa.”

I follow them up the stairs. Words freeze me as my foot hits the first step.

“Goodnight Evelyn,” says Victor.

The tone of his words stirs the world inside me. I can hardly process this. Was there longing in his voice? Or was that just concern? More questions and still fewer answers. I shake my head a little.

“Goodnight, Victor.”

I ascend the rest of the stairs and pause at the landing. Georgette runs from her room and embraces me in a hug. Her tiny arms wrap around me and squeeze tight. I hug her back and her head in my arms.

“Goodnight kiddo.”

She pulls back and smiles up at me then darts back into the room. Cornelia looks at me. Her eyes are kind though exhausted. Her mouth forms a silent good night. I return the courtesy and watch as she pulls the door shut.

With only a candle to light my path, I find my way to the second room. The door creaks open. A petite single bed fills most of the space. There is a small dresser with a mirror crusted over in cobwebs—dust fills the rest of it. I navigate the narrow path to the bed. The covers are coated with a layer of dust fine as powder. I grab at the corner and pull it back slowly to keep as much of it in place as I can. Hot wax drips down the candle and over my fingers. Startled, I wince blowing the candle out. Blackness rushes in. The ghost image of the candle lingers in an orange dancing outline. Moment by moment the darkness seizes more of it until it’s gone.

Run!

Alone in the darkness, mother’s words find me again. Eyes open or closed I’m unable to escape her face, her startled eyes, her panicked voice. I feel the tears come. I drop the candle letting it clatter on the floor. Next, I tear off my mask and let it fall. The mustiness of the room accosts me. I breathe in—daring my lungs to burst—and cry. I muffle the sobs with my hands. I’m so sorry mom, I love you. I say these words to myself over and over until they are the only words I can remember.

                                                               ***

With time in the darkness, I feel the room come back into focus. The bed and dresser come into view as gray outlines against gray walls. Illuminated by a single splinter of light through the window I’m reminded of the power light has over darkness; the dark may be ever ready to fill the void, but even a single candle, or beam of moonlight, holds it at bay. I move to the window, tracing the beam’s path through the room. I lean into it and press my eye to the window.

The yard is bright in the voluminous brilliance of the moon. The great oak tree stands magnificent. Silver dances on the shimmering leaves waving to the rhythms of the wind. No wonder you believe peace is possible if you lived in a place like this. For Mr. Herrington, Einsam was the anomaly. A dark sinkhole of oppression and sorrow. He knew that just outside the city’s boundaries, tall oak trees fought the acrid air and stood defiant against drought and hardship. With the moon and stars above, hope is almost tangible. If I had been born here, lived here, things would have been so different. But how can I even think that? I am who I am because of where I came from, because of the people who raised me. The people who loved me.

As if a tempest suddenly burst from pure stillness, my body is propelled to action. I cannot lay my mother to rest, but I can make sure Mr. Herrington receives the dignity he deserves.

Affixing my mask, I move like a clumsy ghost through the house. The floors creak and groan at my every step, but it seems exhaustion has everyone firmly asleep. The few remaining candles flicker on their last strand of wick—wax frozen in delicate waterfalls down their sides spills onto the table.

The front door opens with a sharp metal screech. I step into the cold. The wind greets me with icy fingers. Uncontrollable shivers rack my body, but I press forward through the night toward the barn. Under the silver moon, the world is ethereal. It’s a beauty I’ve never seen before. The best of the world illuminated in radiant, gentle light. The winds whisper, and the leaves rattle softly. I’m glad Mr. Herrington can be at rest here and not in the bowels of smoldering, choking Einsam.

The barn door is large and rotting. Chained shut, the long years of abandonment have rusted and warped its every surface. I push against the right door which stands ajar. The heavy chain bangs against the wood. Bang! Run! Arrest her! That moment burned forever into my mind. Just when I think I’ve seen it for the last time, it comes again, pulling me back there to watch over and over again as my life goes up in flames.

I breathe deeply. I listen to the symphony of the meadow and refocus on my grim task. I push against the door. Again, the chain bangs against the weathered boards. Braced for the sound, I keep the hot flashes of memory from engulfing me. I slip inside scraping against the splinters on the edge of the doors. Inside the barn is so dark my vision fails me. I’m forced to stand still and wait for it to recover. The wind pours through the gap in the door. Its whispers sound sinister now, and the images taking shape are twisted tall and cruel. My heart quickens, each breath is rapid and shallow. I fight the urge to run. To race back to the illusionary safety of the house. Head pulled under the dusty covers, I could pretend that this darkness doesn’t exist, that all is warm and safe in the world. But I know better, and I’ve plunged depths far deeper.

With patience, my sight returns enough for me to make out the rough outline of a shovel leaned against the near wall. I step toward it deliberately—each footstep slow and cautious. I reach out and grab the handle. It’s rough, and pulling it to me, it feels rickety. Unconvinced of its ability to help me complete the task, but unable to see an alternative, I turn back to the meadow bathed in silver.

In contrast to the barn, the field feels as bright as day. The finer details of the land start to come into focus. The wide twisting branches of the oak. Trees swaying in the distance under the watchful eye of the ever-spinning windmill. Thick hedges stand like ancient walls around the meadow. The dull yellow glow of farmer’s lights is the only reminder that beyond this hallowed glen the Great Society is embroiled in conflict.

Standing beneath the tall oak tree, I take a moment to remember the few moments I got to share with Mr. Herrington.

“We will build a better world. I will build a better world. I’m so glad to have known you.”

My words meld with the whispers of the night. Two faded and fraying strands of rope dance to the rhythms of the wind. I walk over to them. I run them through my hands. They are rough like burlap. Looking down, I see a piece of wood with the bottom half of the ropes tied to its ends. The grass and earth have grown over it, and within a few years, I’m sure it will disappear altogether into the soil. 

I plunge the shovel into the ground. Using my foot, I force the scoop deeper. I pull back the first load. The dirt is clumpy and dry—grass clings to it desperately for nutrients. I strike again. With the surface broken up, progress is marginally faster. Scoop after scoop the pile grows. Scoop after scoop my pace quickens. Sweat beads on my forehead. My hands grow raw—the rough handle blistering my palms. I pant as the exhaustion that now grips my friends catches up to me. I struggle against it—I keep at the grave.

Faster now, I thrust the shovel into the dirt with all the force my arms can muster. Tshoop. Tshoop. Tshoop. Tears fall as they will. My mind swirls with grief and anxious anticipation. Tshoop. Tshoop. Tshoop. With every inch added to the mounding pile of dirt, I feel the weight of reality press that much harder on my heart.

The wind’s whispers turn into a howl. In my focused frenzy, I hadn’t seen the storm approaching. Dark clouds rumble toward the glen. Behind a wall of storm, fast approaching, the gleaming of the moon disappears into the night. The pitter-patter of rain crescendos. I keep my head down. I must finish this. The wind picks up its pace. The bitter cold bites into me, and I cannot hold the shivers at bay. My aching hands begin to tremble. I lose control of the shovel. It falls to the ground—its impact silenced by the rush of coming rain. I crouch low to pick it back up. The momentary reprieve afforded to my hands is enough to keep them from taking the shovel up again. Pulling my hand back, my fingers are still curled up and seized together. I force them to retake the shovel, and they protest with angry shouts of white-hot pain. Standing up, my back too begins to cry. My body joins in adding a dozen more voices to the angry mob. Stop! Enough! Rest! Demands their collective cry.

I must finish this. Pulling the shovel back for another blow, the world conspires with my body to make me stop. The rain hits me in a sheet—gorged droplets drench me in an instant. The world turns black under the storm clouds looming presence. I wince away from the stinging droplets.

“I have to finish this!” I scream at the clouds. I brandish the shovel like a sword against a dragon.

A thunderous roar deafens me, and a blinding flash overwhelms my dark-adjusted eyes. A lightning bolt strikes the windmill—a violent shower of sparks explodes in a burst of red and orange leaving their ghostly trails dancing in my eyes long after the rain snuffs them out. An instant later a massive invisible force whacks into my chest. The energy of it rattles through my bones and echoes in my lungs.

Dazed, I stand quaking. The shovel falls away from my aching hands. I crumble to my knees; the soft, muddy earth easing my fall. I hang my head and add my tears to the downpour.

The ground hastily drinks in the water far past the point of bursting. The hole quickly turns into a muddy pool.

Rising to my feet, I head back to the house. Each tread is labored and slowed by the deepening mud. A second bolt of lightning strikes nearby straightening my spine and keeping me moving. The solid steps of the porch fill me with relief.

Beyond the point of breaking, I stumble up the stairs and fall into my room.

                                                                  ***

Pulling myself together, I climb up off the floor. I’m wrecked—physically and emotionally. The morning sun is coming through the window in shafts of orange reflecting in the cracks. Its path distorted by the dust encrusted on the panes. It warms my skin—sweat beads on my face. Condensation clouds the eyelets of my mask. I move to the window and peer through. It’s such a natural motion, something I’ve done a thousand times before, but it’s all different now. A different landscape, a different me. Through the window, all I see is dust and grass. This world is more than foreign, it’s alien compared to the one I left behind. I know I have to keep moving, to finish what I started last night. Yet the thought of one more step into the unknown, of stumbling into some new nightmare, weighs on me like heavy chains anchored to my neck. This is becoming a familiar feeling. Driven forward to survive, I must balance my foolhardy obsession with the truth while fighting to free myself before the mire of fear, doubt, and anxiety ensnares me. I wish I were a hero. Bold and brave. Confident that what I’m doing is the right thing. But I have no armor. No noble quest but the selfish one I find myself on. I know what I’m going to do—just as I always know what I’m going to do—I will keep moving forward.

Each step down to the first floor creaks at the slightest touch. The old house seems to shudder in the presence of people; having been abandoned for so long, it’s as if it forgot how to be a house. I can hear voices coming from outside, but in here it’s still silent. Apart from the activity in the kitchen last night, it still looks as if no one has lived here in ages. Muddy trails disturb the dust and wind paths leading up to the bedrooms and make swirls around the kitchen and living room. Looking closer, more paths emerge. The fantastical whimsy of wind has carved small dunes into the layers of dust. Intricate lines snake around the house. Thousands of tiny little mouse prints paint a desperate trail seeking out the last bits of edible food. Crossing over it all, I stand at the threshold. Prepared to go outside, I check the seals on my mask. I press my hand over filter and vent. I trace my fingers around the rubber edge around my face. I vent again just to be sure. I haven’t felt this way about my mask—the anxiety of simply being outside—since I was a child. But I never got rid of it—it has a home in my heart and no matter how long the absence, it can retake residence there in an instant.

I grab the handle to the front door. With a twist and push, I step out into the light. The wooden beams groan under foot. The door’s hinges squeal in desperate need of oil. When I was in the city, choked by fumes and the endless skyscrapers blotting out the sky, I had dreamed of pastoral lands—bright days and green fields far in the distance from the city. I dreamed of the crunch of real earth under my feet. Now that I’m here, I feel strange, uneasy. It feels so exposed in every direction. Underneath the skyscrapers—and their tens of thousands of hidden eyes—I felt invisible and yet here, with trees, grass, and gentle wind I feel utterly exposed. As if my every move is being watched by a thousand eyes lingering just beyond the horizon or in the skulls of murderous birds lurking in the trees.

Cornelia and Georgette are holding shovels and punching them into the earth where I was digging last night. The mound of dirt is twice as high as it was before—the earth muddy and yielding from last night’s tempest. Charles and Victor are out of sight, but I hear the telltale signs of them working in the barn. It sounds as though they are cutting wood and hammering nails. I suppose they’re making a coffin. How to you bring up the subject of death? How do we talk about this? I don’t think any of us know, so we just work and let our silence speak for us.

None of us are ready for this. I was not at all ready to see him go. I’d only just met him. I had just begun to learn things from him—to see a different world and a different way of being. And now he’s gone. Ripped away in an instant. This must be just as difficult for them—no, more so. I had just met him, and he left a permanent mark on my life. Although he wasn’t his birth father, Mr. Herrington raised Charles—shaped him into the man he is. It must be devastating for him and Cornelia to have to raise Gette without him. They lost a father and grandfather, and I wouldn’t know anything about that—I never had a real father, only the shell of one.

I know nothing about woodworking or making coffins, but I can dig a hole. I cross the grassy field. The soil doesn’t crunch as it did last night it’s soft, squishy. But I can tell it will be back to crunching soon—so desperate for water it’s drinking deep, saving the precious liquid in secret chasms far beneath the surface. I approach them slowly. Cornelia looks exhausted—her eyes webbed with burst blood vessels. I stop in front of her, and we share our grief without words. Neither of us can think of the right words. Thank you, I want to say to her. Thank you for continuing what I started. But it feels wrong to say thanks in a time like this.

Gette continues to dig. Given up on the full-size shovel, her little trowel takes small mounds of dirt and adds them to the growing pile. The wind blows between us. Distant cicadas and rhythmic sounds of saws slicing into wood fill the air.

“Mr. Herrington always loved the rain. ‘It’s the Earth’s way of starting anew’ he’d say,” Cornelia says. Her eyes are clenched tight holding back tears.

“Rain makes the flowers grow. That’s what I remember pappa Herrington saying.”

A tear swells in my right eye and falls in the seal of my mask. I wish I knew him better. I wish I knew how he could see beauty in the soot. How he could see a future through the darkness. We need someone with his vision and optimism now more than ever.

Cornelia grasps my shoulder. Her hands are rough with blisters, but her touch is soothing.

“He was like a father to me and Charles. He was a good man. He had his faults, we all do.”

“I know I do.”

Cornelia reaches out her other arm. Grabbing me by both shoulders, she pulls herself in line with me. Her deep gray-blue eyes stare into me.

“That’s not what I meant. I don’t blame you for this. From what Charles tells me, Bernard really liked you. I think given more time you two would have grown to be fast friends.”

“It doesn’t feel that way. It feels like I dragged him—and now all of you—into my mess.”

“It’s our mess, Evelyn. The bombs would have gone off anyway. Fowler would have unleashed her chaos anyway. Domhnall would be ruthless anyway. Bernard died in pursuit of a better tomorrow. He couldn’t have asked for more, and he couldn’t have asked for a better champion of that tomorrow.”

Her words stab at my heart. What do others see me as? A champion? I am anything but. I’m a wreck, I’m stumbling around breaking everything I grasp. The sobs come back. The pain, the guilt, the anguish.

“I’m no champion.” Spittle and tears spray with every pained word.

She pulls me into a hug swaddling me with her arms. Tangled together, time slinks forward—our shadows shift beneath our feet as the sun creeps toward its zenith.

The soft squeeze of little arms around my leg alerts me to Georgette’s presence. She looks up at me. Her face smeared with dirt. Her hair is ragged and dark circles cloud her young eyes. But through it all, optimism shines through. It’s as if she’s seeing a different world than the one we’re standing in.

“You got us out of the city and got us here safe too. I don’t really know what a champion is, but you’re my hero.”

Uplifting and overwhelming. It’s exactly what I need to hear and exactly what I don’t. Everything has been a frenzy of action and hasty decisions, it’s encouraging to know that not all of them have been wrong. Yet I can’t shake that I’m in free fall; reacting to everything but unable to really control or change anything. Maybe none of us can.

Fresh tears swell, but these have the tinge of joy, and I feel a smile crack on my face for the first time in what seems like an eternity. I swoop Georgette up into my arms and squeeze her tight. She nuzzles her head in the crook of my neck. I’m so unaccustomed to this kind of intimate contact that it catches me off guard. Nervous shudders emerge then quickly fade into a comfortable warmth I can’t ever recall feeling. I think this is what Mother always wanted to give me but couldn’t. 

We hold onto each other for a solid minute. The wind passes around us—the soft soil pulls us down.

                                                                ***

The sun had finished its climb and was dipping toward the horizon before the grave was ready. Taking turns, Cornelia, Georgette, and I dug it deep and wide. We took great care to keep the edges straight, to do it properly. Blisters, red and oozing, cover our hands. Our stomachs growl together in a somber choir. Sticking the shovels into the mound of freshly disturbed earth, we lean against the tall oak tree and rest. Getting the weight off my feet feels incredible. I sink into the small nook in the roots and close my eyes. The bark of the tree is warm from the midday sun, and it radiates relief to my aching back. Sleep tugs on heavy eyes pulling me under. Like plunging into water and bursting again from the surface, my mind fights and embraces sleep until I take a final plunge down and stay beneath.

Half lucid, I wake sore and starving. My face is flush and dripping under the mask and the deep rumbling in my stomach threatens to shake my teeth loose. The weight of this reality takes hold and sits on my chest. I let out a deep sigh then rise. Standing over the empty grave, I turn to the barn. The sounds of hammering and sawing have ceased. The only sound is the shivering of the green oak leaves in the evening wind now biting and quickly turning cold. I cross the field to the barn and feel the anxiety of the openness bombard my senses. My ears perk up and pull back startled and alert. The hair on my neck stands on end, and I feel my breaths grow shallow and quick. We’re alone here, we’re alone here I tell myself over and over in the hope to take control of my nerves and shake the sickening feeling coursing through my veins. Placing a hand on the half-open door of the barn, I breathe deep then push my way inside.

Victor and Charles stand over an open wooden box. One-meter-wide by two-meters-long, it’s unmistakably a coffin. Crafted from the fallen and abandoned timbers of the barn it looks rough except in the small areas of exposed cuts that appear a few tones lighter than the mottled-gray everywhere else. The pungent smell of mildew seeps into my mask. It’s an unfamiliar and not entirely unpleasant smell, but looking down at coffin, and the linen-wrapped body inside, I know I’ll never be able to associate it with anything else.

“We used the linens from the house. We couldn’t find anything else that seemed fit to bury him in. All his old clothes were moth-eaten and mildewed. These were the best we could find,” says Charles. Somber and sounding exhausted, he turns to look at me. We meet eyes then look back down at Mr. Herrington. Wrapped up in the white floral linen he looks peaceful and dignified.

“He deserves better,” Victor says without looking away from the coffin.

“I think you’ve both done him proud. He looks at peace, and he’ll be buried at home surrounded by people who love him. What more can we give him?” I say.

“Some justice, some proof that this isn’t all for nothing,” Victor’s words are full of frustration and rage. He shakes, stepping from foot to foot he seems ready to burst from his skin.

“I don’t know,” Victor sighs, “I don’t know. I wish he were here. I wish Damien were here. They’d know what to do.”

Charles steps behind Victor and clasps his hands on his shoulders.

“I want that too. I miss them, and I want their guidance too. But we got to keep our heads screwed on tight. We can make it through this. Lean on us, we’ll get through this together.”

Victor nods his head slightly.

Charles turns back to me pointing behind me.

“Let’s let Bernard rest.”

I turn to look where Charles is pointing. Two hammers lay next to a pile of thin, rusted nails. I pass a hammer to Charles, pick up my own, then take a handful of nails for us both. Victor sets the lid onto the coffin. Methodically, Charles and I hammer the nails into place. I’ve never swung a hammer before and the first few nails go in crooked and bent. But halfway down my side I get the hang of it and drive the rest home neatly.

Setting the hammer down I look at my rust covered hands. I can’t escape being reminded that there is blood on my hands and that I’m to blame for so much of it. If I hadn’t gone back for my parents, he’d still be alive. But then, Georgette and Cornelia could be dead. I hate these choices. Even with hindsight, I feel unable to pick a path that I can live with.

Cornelia and Gette peak through the barn doors, the setting sun silhouetting them in an orange-yellow glow.

“It’s time,” says Charles.

                                                                 ***

Using rope from the barn, we lower Mr. Herrington into the ground. We each grab a shovel, and before long the grave is covered. A large black stain in a sea of yellow-green grass. We stand in silence. Death hangs heavy on us all. With a black paint-pen found in the ambulance and a scrap piece of wood, Cornelia writes a headstone. Bernard Herrington. Scholar, Activist, Father. He is loved and dearly missed.

Next Chapter: Chapter Three